“Can I give you some advice, Curtis?”
“N—”
“If you find yourself in a situation where it seems like you are surrounded by an unusually high number of bitches, there’s a really good chance you are probably being anasshole.”
He looks like he wants to say something cutting in return, but I lean in, jump-cut quick, and he flinches in his seat instead.The movement garners a few looks from neighboring tables.Even John’s date—the same woman who may or may not have given me the stink eye—glances over his shoulder from where she sits near the entrance.I shift my gaze back to Curtis, taking a page from her book and giving him a definitive stink eye.
“When a woman doesn’t appreciate your ‘compliment,’?” I continue, “don’t blame her for your inability to read the room.”I make my voice softer, lighter, and enjoy his confusion at the contrast when I add, “Shut yourfuckingmouth andstop talking.”
He stares across at me, his mouth opening and closing around arguments he hasn’t formed yet as I lean back in my seat and revel in the satisfaction that comes from putting a man in his place.I swear, I’m not usuallythisconfrontational.Not unless I’m calling Laurie a piece of shit, which is just one of our mutual terms of endearment.But I do have a floral Take No Shit sticker on my laptop, and the two types of films I have decided to dedicate my life to feature women who go up against odds scarier than this two in a suit could ever hope to be.
I see the moment he figures out his rebuttal, but the soft tinkling of the bell cuts off whatever unwelcome comment his underdeveloped brain could create.The other men around the room are already standing and moving on to their final dates as I direct an “eat shit” smile across the table.Before I can verbalize that he should follow their lead and leave, the lights cut off.The red velvet room is plunged into darkness.
“What the fu—” Curtis cries out among the confused rabble while I blink my eyes into adjusting to the pitch-black surrounding us.There are sounds of movement, muttered apologies, glasses accidentally clinking, and then I catch the slick, wet sound of… I don’t even know.I’ve never heard anything like it before.A thick, bubbling noise takes its place, and the only thing I can likenthatto is someone gargling mouthwash, but even that’s too far removed.The lights come back on before I can think about it too much, and after a few seconds of blinding brightness, I catch Curtis’s wide-eyed gaze staring, unblinking, at me.
God, some guys need a map to know where to fuck off to.I nod in Laurie’s direction, trying to catch her eye to give her the universal facial expression for “this guy is a psycho” when he still doesn’t move.
“It wassonice mee—”
Color catches my eye.A scarlet line cutting across the thick, pale column of his neck.At first I think he’s used the darkness to tie a scarf around his throat—which is puzzling all by itself—but then it grows.It spreads.Dark red pouring down into the open collar of his shirt, the extra button he left undone even more obvious now.
My hand starts trembling around the stem of my martini glass before I can fully comprehendwhyhis throat is slashed open in a wide curve, a crude imitation of the smirk that was cemented on his face for the entirety of our date.He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out except that gargling sound.He can’t talk, and a weird part of my brain has the audacity to think at least some of what I said has had an impact.
But when he hiccups and blood starts flowing from his mouth, I scream.
CHAPTER 6
“I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that blood actually is all around.”
—NotLove Actually
It’s chaos.Like the beginning of a flash mob before everyone moves in synchronicity.
Curtis is bleeding out in front of me, and behind him is a blurred background of running bodies as different flight responses kick in.
The smell of fear hits me as I gape at the body slumping in the chair.It’s a bespoke cocktail of sweat and spilled alcohol, a mix of too many incompatible colognes and something else so innately primal that it pulls me out of my shock.
I’ve seen scenes like this before.I’ve watched terror play out on a screen and I’ve examined each shot and analyzed every plot point.I know all the possible endings to a story that starts with bloodshed.So I stay in my seat instead of heeding a more reactive impulse and heading for the stairs, because the panicked hive mind has taken over and too many bodies start to head for the archway we all walked through at the beginning of the night.
That’s a bad idea.
It’s not wide enough to fit so many people at once, and watching the horde try to squeeze through the frame is like watching Bridget Jones pull on a pair of Spanx.Men and women jostle shoulder to shoulder to get away from danger, and all that polite conversation and active listening and reciprocal flirting means nothing now.
This isn’t theTitanic.
There’s no “ladies first” code of conduct when another man’s neck is gaping open.
Chivalry died in that chair with Curtis.
Somewhere in the fray, over the screams, I hear the ding of the date bell—someone must have stepped on it in the rush—and the room descends into darkness again.
The screaming seems to hit a new level, a consistent piercing tone, and I drop to the ground to avoid being at throat-slitting height.Pulling myself under the table, I hit my forehead against Curtis’s splayed knees as mine burn against the carpet.He would’ve loved for our date to end like this.
My palms shake where they’re planted on either side of his shoes, and I try to ignore the warm, wet patch slowly creeping underneath my fingertips.
All I can hear is glass crunching under heavy footsteps, body parts hitting furniture, so many voices, and so many different screams mixing until it sounds like we’re in the middle of a hurricane.It’s a communal howl that builds and dips and then that sound from before, the one I couldn’t place, cuts through it all.I know now what that sound means.I’ve seen the effect of it draped across Curtis’s neck.
It’s the sound of flesh being slashed open like the ribbon on a Tiffany & Co.box.
