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

by Talia Maxwell

  Annie looked at the table and scratched her temple with her free hand. “At a wedding,” she said, feeling emboldened. “A success story wedding. Only, they didn’t say that’s how they met, but the parents told people…my parents were,” sigh, “intrigued.”

  “Interesting,” Benson repeated. “I’m sorry. But, let me get this straight. You were on a date from Twoly, an elite matchmaking service ran by a woman with a single name, and it matched you with that guy? Sorry….I mean…for sounding dismissive,” he hesitated. “I guess I’d want to know how she was trying to find my match…”

  They paused.

  During the measured break, the waiter brought over the food and they each took bites and gushed about their meals before returning to their conversation at hand.

  “Look,” Annie said, picking up where they left off, “I trust Rylan. She let me pick this match myself from the pool of matches. A test, I think. That was my pick. She says that sometimes the issues in relationships are because we only think we know what we want.”

  “Sounds a bit,” Benson wobbled his head and spun his fork in a small circle, and she stared at him, forcing him to finish his sentence, “weak.”

  “Weak?”

  “Tenuous,” he amended. “Her logic.”

  “How so?”

  He busied himself with eating and talking and Annie’s fork hovered near her seafood pasta while she watched him. “She’s selling a product,” she hated the way he retreated to formalities like she was a child. “She gets paid if you get married. The people who are coming to her are there because they need her, presumably, right?”

  She flashed him a careful look, hoping he wasn’t about to imply she was a dating fiasco. He didn’t know anything about her or the clients at Twoly, and while she’d had her own initial reservations, she was over that and entrenched. She was deep into the process and eager.

  Annie had been sold a promise of true, perfectly matched love, and she was hungry for it. Her parents bought her the matchmaking service not because she was bad at finding dates or even finding boyfriends, but because she had grown accustomed to a particularly noxious type of boy that didn’t seem like marriage material. She worked more hours than God, and it was hard not to just date lawyers. Or prison guards. But Annie had made up her mind at the age of six—in an adamant note her mother kept—that she would NEVER MARRY A LAWYER.

  Some six-year-old creeds held true.

  The online dating was fine.

  But no one looked like their picture and nothing prevented lies on bios and stretches of the imagination on talents. Twoly, her parents promised, handed you a vetted package, tailored for you. It was world renown, the men were successful and made their own incomes.

  “They didn’t promise every date ended with a wedding,” Annie said and she took a bite of the seafood pasta, leaning over the bowl slightly, and watched Benson’s face in the low light of the restaurant. The conversations around them were quiet and intimate; dinner music played through the speakers and the kitchen noises seemed syncopated with the beat. “She encouraged me to pick this date based on my own criteria and then she said she’d build on hers…”

  “Doesn’t that seem to be,” the writer said, without missing a beat, “a total lie?” He laughed. “Look…they can say that and encourage failure and then take all the credit for natural chemistry. But isn’t partnership a crapshoot?”

  “Is that your dating stance? It’s all just a crapshoot?” Annie tried not to sound antagonistic. Sometimes when she flirted, she sounded angry and mean. Sometimes when she was angry she sounded angry and mean. Sometimes when she was tired or nervous or surprised. Most of her online dates supplied her with that feedback. Annie laughed it off at first and then cried to her mom.

  So, again, she came across like a bitch. She hated it.

  “What’s your dating motto?” Benson threw back at her.

  “Trust the process,” she said without thinking.

  “Trust the process?” he asked with a laugh on his voice. He apologized, putting out his hand and rewording. “Okay…I suppose I should ask, whose process?”

  She slumped her shoulders. “Look, I just think that everyone expects magic and it’s not magic. It’s work and no one trusts that these things take time.”

  “What things? You’re speaking so vaguely.”

  “Ugh,” Annie groaned and angrily shoved her mouth with a piece of shrimp. She regretted letting the beautiful man interrogate her as though she owed him an explanation for agreeing to date via matchmaker. “Let’s wrap up the expose’ on my dating philosophies after this, okay? I don’t expect to find a husband wrapped up with a bow on the first date, but I am committed to date and find the person. My person. And there’s a guy, who signed up to the service, who is waiting for his person. And he trusts the process because that’s why he signed up and…”

  “And giving your date tonight ten minutes to prove himself after a bad introduction is trusting the process?”

  She could sense the winning grin hovering as he paused and waited for her to answer.

  “You’re absolutely right. I trusted my gut and I trusted my own value system. I didn’t sit around awkward, uncomfortable, and I’m clearly not interested in trying to bumble my way through something that wasn’t going to work out. Maybe we’d waste less time in meaningless and awful relationships if we cut the cord early, allow ourselves to walk away without trying to save face. And…sure… maybe that guy is the person. He made a cringy first impression because…he was nervous and he made some bad jokes and left me waiting without an explanation. A bad date isn’t a bad person, so don’t think you can negate my entire process because it wouldn’t align with yours. Also… if he felt a connection and wants to try again, then we know where to find each other.”

  She drank her wine and crossed a single arm over her body, settling back with an empty dish in front of her. She motioned for him to make the comment perching on the edge of his lips.

  “That was intense and beautiful,” Benson said with a nod that made her think he was being serious.

  “I defend for a living.” She shrugged. But she also knew she was fired up. In court, she was composed, running through her process like a machine, a legal robot with a commanding presence, but with Benson, she felt eager to convince him of her authenticity, a little wound up.

  “I’m upset that I can’t quote you in a story, Annie, because you’re quotable as hell. Are all lawyers word machines or this something that is a special gift you and a few others have?”

  “I feel like that’s an insult,” she stated, mouth starting to slack. “I’m not parceling the truth.”

  “Not in the least. You’re a gift to a journalist because I know you’re speaking the truth and you’re just…I can feel the emotion behind the words. You’d be a powerful addition to any story is all I’m saying. Too bad I don’t have a story to fit you into. A shame,” he said with an exaggerated, playful, pout.

  “Never,” Annie replied and shook her head. “I don’t trust…sorry…journalists.”

  “I’ll try not to take it personally,” Benson said.

  “Okay. Let’s say you were writing a story on dating. And I give you that whole spiel and you’re listening and you’re rapt. And you go home and you have my words, sure, but now you get to choose how to interpret them, where to put them, how to bookend someone else’s story with my narrative, and it might be real, but it’s not true.”

  “Is that how you view journalists?”

  “Spinners of true lies and real untruths? I mean, I think humans are probably on the hook for that. I guess it comes down to this. I’m not letting some stranger interpret my dating life for their article on matchmaking. You may have some of my words, but it takes more than that to understand someone,” Annie said to punctuate the point and Benson kept his eye contact, firm and strong. He didn’t say anything in return. “Hypothetically,” she answered with a nod.

  “No. No. I think that’s a fair criticism. You d
on’t know me and you’re right to be wary of writers. But do you know what I’d say? If I was writing the article and I could write about you. You know what I’d write?” Benson said and he pushed his plate toward the middle of the table and crouched his elbows down to close the space between them. The candle danced on his face and Annie had to look away for a moment, too overcome with powerful physical attraction that she couldn’t quite control, and she didn’t want it to show. She was still ready to spar.

  “I don’t need to know,” Annie answered flatly.

  “I would say…”

  “Oh, okay, you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “… I witnessed power and self-confidence. I witnessed a woman with agency and a voice in her dating choices. And that if matchmaking allows us to drop our insecurities and speak our needs and wants freely, then it’s exactly what we should all be doing. I’d write that I was jealous,” he whispered and Annie felt a little queasy and warm. She took a breath. Was her chest tight? Was her blood-pressure spiking? “What I wouldn’t give to have a date like that? Where a girl is honest and firm…”

  Annie had enough. “Oy,” she sighed.

  She leaned forward and put her own elbows on the table, matching his pose and adopting his own little facetious expression.

  “That’s how you think it would come across?” She rolled her eyes, truly amused by his ignorance. “You think you write that I had great agency and firmness and your readers are going to be begging for my number? Let me date that girl who will kick you out at the end of your beer if you don’t measure up. Look, I get that you’re trying to be all flirty, but it sucks to be someone like me in today’s dating world. And I doubt you get it,” Annie said.

  He tried to interject, but she raised her hand and stopped him.

  “You are saying all of this because I’m sure you’re a pretty reasonable dude when you go on dates with people. But, look, Benson, no. Guys get mad when you’re honest. End a date early and they key your car or call your work and tell your boss you’re a bitch. Or spread a lie about you. And, yes, those are all things that have happened. Rejection hurts, but I’m not fragile like a little boy.” She lowered her gaze, knowing that she was aiming to kill now and she didn’t even know why. Maybe it was the failed date, sure, maybe it was because she’d felt her heart stop while he confessed those fake things and she didn’t want to feel that way.

  “That’s probably a fair criticism in today’s world,” Benson said with a nod. Learning, he leaned back.

  “I grew up with four brothers…” Annie said holding up her fingers. Benson’s eyes wandered up for a moment and she could tell he was imagining what the four brothers Gerwitz would look like, “…and I was the one who just got back up without crying. They wouldn’t let me cry. I don’t know who I’d be without them, but I spend all day in the trenches with men and women and girls and boys who need me…they need so much of me that I need a partner who is content with my ruts and what I need.”

  “You want someone along for the ride?”

  “That’s an interpretation,” Annie said as if it proved her point. She added sharply, “Content with ruts doesn’t mean I need to make all the decisions…”

  Benson laughed and sighed. He tapped the table, once and twice. “That wasn’t an interpretation, it was a question,” he leveled. “What does that mean…to want someone content with your ruts?”

  She wondered if that was really what she meant. Did that mean she wanted a boyfriend who followed her to Bella Espresso every morning as she purchased her latte and then across the street for her quiche pie at the Cannon Beach Bakery. She needed someone who understood she needed to come home and take a bath and she needed to fall asleep in a book. There were things that never changed, had been the same way since she was a kid, and she wanted someone to learn them and respect them.

  But she didn’t say that to Benson.

  “Maybe I’ll say it like this,” Annie tried. “Dating is easy. It’s compatibility that has a price. I don’t need fireworks. I just need someone whose life works with mine.”

  “God,” Benson breathed. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of her. “That’s really romantic.”

  “You’re teasing,” she replied. Her heart skipped a touch as he held on to eye contact, transfixed by her spiel. She quickly looked down to break the spell.

  Benson said and kept his body pushed inward. “I apologize on behalf of toxic masculinity which caused men to take your honesty and become hideous little assholes, but….”

  “No, that’s not how apologies work. No but.” She leaned across the table and tried to cover his mouth with her hands in a playful manner, but he gingerly took her wrists and moved her hands to the side, smiling as he continued his sentence.

  “…but someday I hope,” Benson lowered his voice, “you can see the benefit of having someone whose life works with yours and gives you fireworks. So, there’s a third option, I think. I hope. For your sake.”

  Annie slid her wrists out of his grip and returned her hands to her side of the table. She didn’t want him to see the goosebumps dotting her arms.

  “Well, that’s why I’m doing this. We’ll see.” Annie looked down at the table at her empty plate and empty wine glass and empty bread container and soon the waiter was over at the table, clearing plates, placing down dessert menus, and asking if she’d like one more. She agreed to another knowing it would be the nail in her coffin; she’d fall asleep at the table, buzzed and exhausted, with a journalist there to capture it all.

  She’d defended a mom on a drug charge earlier that day. Kids had been removed to foster care and she was unlikely to get them back, but…it was the ex who got her addicted and selling and then pushed her out. She’d be on a year probation to get her kids back and Annie would help as much as she could, but those were the stories Annie carried in her bones while she tried to justify her parents spending retirement savings to help her find a man.

  The waiter brought Annie her wine and the check.

  “I’ve got this,” Benson said and he pulled out his wallet and Annie laughed. She hit the table and refused to let him pay, but he said, “I can expense it. Working meal.”

  “I’m not a source,” Annie repeated a bit more sternly than she intended.

  “You don’t have to be for me to expense the dinner,” Benson said and he whisked up the bill in one big swoop and handed it to the waiter as he walked by, bypassing her entirely.

  She rolled her eyes and raised her new glass and held it there until he got the hint and picked up his own water glass and clinked it against hers.

  “You can expense things when you’re on leave?” she asked and tilted her head a bit.

  “No one checks that closely.”

  “Well, then, for what it’s worth….you didn’t have to do that. But it’s very nice. Thank you.”

  “For what it’s worth, you’re welcome,” Benson nodded deeply, putting his hands together in front of him. “I’m also happy to have my boss pay for our dinner. I accept your gratitude.”

  Her eyes wandered out to the darkened windows of the Wayfarer where the sea waves rolled, now illuminated by a bright, cloudless night. A near-full moon wasn’t visible from her table, but the white glow it cast upon the ocean was mesmerizing.

  She couldn’t imagine a morning without waves.

  Benson didn’t give off a beach-life vibe—he oozed urban elite even down to his on-brand cologne. She took a peek at his shoes and noticed they were shiny and leather, neatly tied. His cuffs were rolled up. He didn’t live at the beach, she hadn’t seen him before, and she’d have noticed.

  “If I wanted to see you—” Benson said, shifting.

  Annie stopped him from finishing his sentence.

  She stood, grabbed her purse and coat, leaving her nearly full wine glass on the table, and cleared her throat while Benson fumbled upward, calmly watching her muddle through her exit. It was clear he thought was going to make a break for it like Cinderella at midnight.

/>   “Alright, get up,” she commanded. She stuck out her hand, a bit loopy, a bit giddy at the excitement of leading him on a bit. Taking him through her world. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Why? And where?” Benson asked as he grabbed his coat and let her lead him out of the restaurant and into the windy parking lot.

  “Why? Because I have something to show you. Where? Come on, journalist, we’re going down to the shore.”

  Chapter Two

  Benson couldn’t think of a time when he’d been so immediately smitten with someone. Smitten wasn’t quite the right word. Although, it fit in style and nuance: he was smitten with the way she seemed to stare straight into him, weaving her arguments seamlessly, tuned-in at all times to the rhythm of their conversation, going toe-to-toe with him without fear.

  She was fearless.

  It was amazing. It might have been the alcohol, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t changed at all from first sip to last—she was just as full of scowls and perturbed facial expressions, a knit brow and a frown. But there was something there, something thoughtful and mysterious, something deep. A twinkle of understanding.

  He knew.

  It was his job to know and he knew.

  Benson Douglass was great with women, all women, and all women loved him. He had a side-dimple that he knew how to work when he needed to increase the charm factor, and he unequivocally knew his boyish charm and good looks—a flip of the hair, a tilt of the chin—could get him into places, get him stories, get people to open up.

  He was in Cannon Beach, staying at his family’s beachfront property, to quiet his mind. He’d thrown a phone at work. Both his cell phone and then an office phone that had been, at the time, plugged into the wall, and after that his editor gave him a mandatory week of rest. Tomorrow, he’d drive back home and needed a new killer idea to replace his wasted year and the magazine’s wasted issue.