Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3)

by Talia Maxwell

  “Benson Douglass,” the young man said and he reached across the table to shake her hand. It wasn’t clammy and he took a firm grip and Annie liked the way he made room for himself at the table, motioning for the waiter to get her another glass. Annie was temporarily disappointed that she’d have to give up flirting with the attentive waiter, but not that disappointed since Benson was an upgrade. She wanted to reach over and run her hands through his perfect coif, ruffle it a bit, but she refrained.

  “Annie,” she said, not giving her last name. At least The Date was vetted and registered with the company. Wasn’t that the appeal? Safety and concern, no need to feel worried about what a blind date could turn into.

  But this guy? She was going to be cautious until she figured out if Benson had any intention to Bundy her into his Volkswagen, or something. Letting young, attractive men have impromptu dinners was how people ended up murdered.

  Still, she didn’t want to view the failure of a connection with The Date as a defeat. After all, the lack of chemistry would provide her matchmaker Rylan with good data for next time. She made a mental note to try to excuse herself to the bathroom to transcribe as much of the former conversation as possible.

  Not that it would matter.

  Rylan was patiently waiting to hear that the date didn’t go as planned—after all, hadn’t her matchmaker told her that picking directly from the available catalogue was good, but personalized care was better? And the price wasn’t too much more. Annie didn’t mind too much, she didn’t pay for the matchmaking service. After this date, her parents would gladly pay the upgrade.

  “Was that as awkward to participate in that conversation as it sounded?” Benson asked.

  “You were eavesdropping,” she said.

  “It’s a habit of mine,” he shrugged.

  “Oh really?” she questioned further, wondering if she should probe into just how much he’d ascertained about her evening—how much he wanted to sit around and unpack with her.

  “Brutal,” he winced. And she was certain he was feeling quite proud of himself for swooping in after an apparent failure and benefiting from someone already prepared for a date and was now dateless. Men could be such predictable, beautiful, invigorating, assholes.

  “You don’t have any bad date stories to share? Wanna commiserate?”

  The man shifted in his head and leaned forward a bit, moving the candle out of the way and to the side so he could have more room.

  “Bad dates? Sure. Who doesn’t? But…” he trailed off, thinking. “Yeah, it’s hard to explain maybe why they were bad. How would you describe that one?”

  “I’d say I was on a date with a narcissistic asshole.”

  “Simply stated. I like it. And you won’t entertain fools.”

  “Exactly. Since you’re so interested in discussing this failure of mine… I’m going to recount it anyway for the woman who set me up on the date. So…why don’t we make a note of it together. Shall we?” Annie asked and she pulled out her phone and opened up her Notes app. She set the blank screen in front of them and said, “It wasn’t awkward. Not for me. It was just sad and a waste of time. What should I remember from that exchange? His tardiness? His disinterest in my work? The little aggressive comments?”

  She started to list the transgressions and Benson leaned over and nodded.

  “Emotionally distant. Didn’t want to elaborate on any questions I asked,” she added. Then she looked up at Benson and raised her eyebrows in expectation. “You listened to the whole thing. Go ahead. What’d you notice?”

  “I’m a writer,” he said, almost as an excuse, and Annie stifled a laugh. She wanted to roll her eyes. Who wasn’t a fucking writer, she thought, and her mind wandered to half a dozen people she knew working on a novel or something. “So, I suppose I noticed body language first,” he continued.

  She sat up a bit and tilted her head. Okay. That was something of substance.

  “Oh?” Annie questioned. “And what did my body language say?” Her voice was teasing, warring; she didn’t expect much but garbage from the intruder anyway.

  “You were pissed he was late but honestly willing to give him another chance. And then when he did his little lawyer joke, you were done. Whole body language changed. You sat up and picked up your glass. You went lawyer on him—immediate lockdown. It was impressive. He should’ve known then he was toast. I think he did and so, he didn’t try. Either that or he really didn’t believe you because he drank that beer hella fast for sitting across from you, giving him another chance. Also, good catch that he was already a few beers deep. That guy is trouble.”

  It was true.

  “So. How did this date,” Benson moved his finger around the table, motioning between Annie and the door, “happen? Like, how’d you two meet?”

  Annie sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. She squinted her eyes at him and settled into a pointed gaze.

  “Okay, body language, guru,” she taunted. “What are you picking up on now?”

  “You like things on your own terms, apparently, and you want to take over the questions,” Benson said and he sat back as well and matched her gaze and stance. They squared off for a time until the waiter brought drinks and they were forced to order dinner, breaking the silence, officially moving forward.

  They handed the menus back and leaned in, each one curious about the other.

  “Okay, full disclosure,” Benson said, breaking first. “I am here, at the coast, eating alone on a mandatory vacation from my work-self. Cheers.”

  Annie lifted her glass and clinked it to his.

  “And you’re a writer?” she asked.

  “A journalist,” he clarified.

  “Oooof,” Annie let out a little noise of dissatisfaction. “Freelance or does someone own you?” she asked.

  “I write for Front Street,” he said and nodded as if she should have heard of it. Annie hadn’t. She’d relocated to the coast three years ago to put some distance between her and her parents’ expectations regarding paying back her school loan. In that time, she’d stopped paying attention to Portland trends or news events. The coast was a different type of pace, different type of people. Everyone moved to the end of the country, to the shore, to escape—even those who’d been there their whole lives. Escape was in their roots, in their bones—in their culture.

  Some people were just grit and waves.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Annie said, nodding.

  “Oh,” she could tell he was trying not to sound surprised. “It’s fairly new, I guess. Maybe five years old. The number one Portland-based investigative magazine. If you’re lucky enough to stay at a Portland boutique hotel you can grab one when you wake up and drink your gourmet coffee. Yeah, but…our online blogging community is the heart of it though. Maybe you heard of that famous show a few years ago…” he cleared his throat, she geared up to admit she hadn’t heard of it, “…with the guy interviewing all the men on death row in Oregon. Waiting for Death?”

  Annie shook her head. She didn’t have time to indulge in pop culture quite like other people. She occasionally tried to read a book, but she was not going to know podcasts and Netflix shows.

  “Right. Okay. Well, that was me,” he said with a sad little sigh, his big reveal ruined by her lack of knowledge. She nodded with appreciation even though she had no idea what he was talking about. “It was brutal. Thirty-four interviews. Some of them weren’t granted, but I exchanged letters with additional inmates. It was the first piece of journalism that felt like I was doing something with purpose. For me.”

  “That sounds emotional. I’m not sure it would be a good escape for me,” she answered and put her wine glass down. She could sense she had not been impressed enough for him, but Annie didn’t pander to what people wanted from her emotions. “You do podcasts and articles and…”

  “Front Street is trying to reach its audience online and in print and through audio, but our content is solid,” he said with more defensiveness th
an she expected. “I do need to go back with a pitch tomorrow, part of my exile, but hey…”

  “What are you writing about now?” Annie asked.

  “Nothing,” Benson answered and he leaned back into a shadow, his face obscured. “I’m here on vacation—”

  “From your work-self, right,” Annie repeated. “I was listening. So, here’s what I would guess you mean by that…”

  “Oh, by all means,” Benson motioned for her to take a stab at guessing his situation. She cleared her throat.

  “You are a dedicated and type-A writer who prides himself on access, but work life has been difficult and you might have had a temper tantrum, so your mandatory break is really paid-leave to calm yourself. Or something like that.”

  Benson nodded with deep appreciation. “Or something like that,” he repeated.

  “Was I at least close?” Annie asked.

  “Followed a story for a year and my sources closed the whole thing down. Went off the record, pulled people, got scared, went underground, and I’ve got nothing. Bosses are fine, co-workers fine, the money is fine. I’m not fine. I’m angry and I feel let down. I don’t like wasting my time either,” he admitted. “So, there you have it. You’ll have to define temper tantrum later.”

  “You can’t beat yourself up for that,” Annie said summoning an empathetic frown.

  “Thank you, but, you know,” Benson tipped an invisible hat and sat back. “Okay, and so, I know you’re a public defender. Of course. First off, thank you for your service.”

  “Ha!” Annie appreciated the sentiment. “Cheap and easy to blame. But clearly we’re the superheroes, right?”

  “Tell me about yourself,” the date-intruder asked and Annie looked at him askance. It was such a broad, ridiculous question. It required not creativity, no real invitation to share. She was annoyed, but not interested in ending the date quite yet.

  “No, that’s a boring question. You’re supposed to be a journalist. You want to know about when I was born, where I grew up? You want to know that I’m the youngest of five and the only girl. That kind of stuff?”

  “Sure,” Benson shrugged and then he changed his mind as she thought of more mindless things to tell him. “No, I’ve got it. It’s perfect and here’s my question. Tell me your parents’ love story.” He settled back as if it were long, as if he were settling into an epic tale. Annie sighed. He was a writer, so he wanted a story, and she was a lawyer so she knew all stories were total bullshit. Family fantasy and hogwash, nothing but faulty memories with a broken camera lens. She wasn’t bitter or anything.

  “You want to know how my mom and dad met?” Annie clarified and cleared her throat.

  “Yes,” Benson motioned for her to launch into the tale and he settled into his seat, giving up the conversation entirely to her and waiting.

  “And it won’t, like, appear in some blog or something?” Annie asked warily.

  Benson considered her fear. “No, I’m on vacation, remember? Keep going. Off the record, every piece. Jane and John Doe Annie’s Parents never have to know you told me.”

  “Sure, sure,” she waved her hand, three glasses of wine deep and confident enough that Benson would be true to his word. “My dad…believe it or not…is also a lawyer. And he met my mom…wait for it…in law school.”

  “That’s boring,” Benson said with a quick laugh. “And short!” He didn’t move and squinted his eyes. “There’s more. I can tell. Tell me more. What class did they meet in? Did he see her across the hall or in a study group?”

  Annie sighed. He wasn’t giving up until he’d examined every dusty inch of the Gerwitz romance. Annie’s four older brothers were a bit of a his and hers situation—Annie the only product of a union formed over one long summer during a murder trial where her parents were the hired defense attorneys and did their best thinking while screwing each other everywhere.

  Her mother told her that part on her twenty-first birthday when she drunkenly divulged, “I think you were conceived at the law library up against a microfiche storage cabinet.”

  So romantic.

  “It’s a bit of a sob story to start,” Annie said, knowing the beats by heart. “My dad’s first wife passed giving birth to her second son. Died in childbirth. A hemorrhage. And he was raising two young sons, going to school, attractive and…you know…good with his kids. And this beautiful woman he met in law school ends up working at the same firm and she’s divorced her douche bag husband, also a lawyer, and has two young sons…and the next thing you know…they work this murder. My dad basically tells it like…it was hot, she took off her shirt to cool down while they were working late, and were, together, um, by morning. In all senses.”

  “You were holding out on me. That is a beautiful story,” Benson hummed and he seemed genuine. Annie nodded and crinkled her nose a bit, agreeing in the reserved way she’d earned as their daughter and keeper of the facts as they told them. “Yeah. They got a second chance of sorts. Universe brought them back around to each other.”

  “That’s a beautiful way to talk about it. They also created five lawyers,” she continued, “so it’s kinda like they produced their own hell.” Annie and Her Brothers was a wasted law firm name, but each of them took a different approach to the family business. They all knew only one thing by growing up Gerwitz and it was the law, so perhaps their paths had been chosen for them, as their parents never gave them options to pursue anything else.

  Some parents drilled their children with multiplication tables, music facts, Bible verses, but her father quizzed them all with Supreme Court Trials and landmark verdicts.

  “That sounds petrifying,” Benson said with great honesty on his face. When he smiled, gently, the skin around his eyes tugged upward, betraying his age. Mid-thirties, she guessed. That sounded right. A few years older and maybe more seasoned than the men she was used to dating.

  “Okay, then,” Annie said and she sat straight up and cleared her throat. “You married?”

  “Nope,” Benson answered.

  “Dating?” she questioned. She didn’t want to take it as a given that a handsome man who swooped into her space was available, although she wondered if she could smell the excitement of the game on him. That didn’t necessarily mean single. Although, it would immediately signal time for the check.

  “Nope,” he answered with the same intonation, unmoving.

  “Okay, so then, same question. How did your parents meet?” Annie asked, feeling bolder.

  “No, no, no. They’re boring. They met at school. Like yours.” He finished his drink. Set it down. “Did I pass the test?”

  “What?”

  “The one drink test.”

  She stared at the empty with the foam sliding down. “We’re not on a date,” Annie said firmly. “You just came over and sat down and are having a nice debriefing dinner with me. By the way…I should send that on to my matchmaker. Did you have any other feedback I should give?”

  “Your matchmaker, huh?” Benson hummed, amused. “Well, well, well. That is how you ended up on a date with Tardy McAsshole M.D.?”

  Annie knew how it looked—she’d paid mega-bucks (her parents, grossly) to be matched with a dude who might have appeared in the same genre of young professional but was not suited for her in any other way.

  And everyone always told her the most annoying thing when they found out she was untethered to a man. “Oh, but you’re so pretty!” Which meant, in Annie’s mind, that there must have been something wrong with her personality, instead. Yay.

  “Okay, okay, Benson the writer. Here’s a little story for you. Yes, I have a matchmaker. Her name is Rylan. No last name. Rylan. Yes, I’m serious. A single-named life coach and matchmaker who is sending me on dates because my parents purchased her as a Christmas present.”

  “Wait. Your parents bought you…to clarify,” Benson said, “a matchmaking service for Christmas.”

  “Yes. And my brothers got a trip to Cancun with their entire families,” she said.<
br />
  “Ouch,” Benson said and then flinched. “Sorry. I should refrain from judgment.”

  “Don’t judge, but I know how it sounds.”

  He stared at the table, engrossed in a fork, and she knew his focus was off. Annie could tell the moment he decided he was done flirting and settled into his journalist role. She could feel the storm of questions building.

  “Please, tell me more about matchmaking,” he said, delighted.

  “It’s kinda incredible and strange and right out of Fiddler on the Roof, and, no, you don’t get to write about it.”

  Benson looked up and stared, thinking. Lawyers weren’t just good at arguing and engaging in mental gymnastics, offering comfort and doling out hard truths. They were also good at reading people. Annie was always trying to understand what an eyebrow twitch meant or a finger tapping on a table.

  “What’s it called?” he asked.

  “Twoly,” she said with a grimace. “It’s so awful. I don’t know. A play on truly, maybe? It needs different branding, but it seems to be doing okay for itself regardless.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “I can tell,” she deadpanned. “So, here’s what I’ll tell you…all easily available with a Google search, but hey, I’m feeling buzzed and generous.” She raised the last bit of her third glass of wine and held it against her chest, waiting to drink it. “Twoly is a private, elite, ridiculously expensive matchmaking service to the ultra-rich and very rich. Most of my friends hadn’t even heard of it when I mentioned the gift and it’s not like you can just find a list of people to date. You choose between two different services. When you pay, you get a code, only then do you get access to the matchmakers and a chance to set up a meeting. There’s no bullshitting and wasting time—they have a single goal.”

  “Marriage. Between rich people.”

  “I’m not rich,” Annie said again with a disdainful look as if she’d been through that already.

  “No, no, but you’re not paying, are you?” he said as Annie tucked a piece of blonde hair behind her ear and stayed silent. No, she wasn’t. “And so this is more about you finding someone rich…Oh,” Benson’s eyes got wide as if he’d just figured out how fucked up the whole dichotomy was. “They want you marrying up? Interesting. This present is insurance?” he asked. She appreciated his pity and interest, but Annie had already come to terms with the potential in the gift despite its solid contribution to the patriarchy. “How did they hear about it?”