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

by Talia Maxwell

  Whatever Twoly was about, Benson was ready.

  Linda Remington—master of the match—might be a murderer, too.

  As he walked into the coastal offices, minimalist and serene—like a day spa—he could already hear his brain forming the story he would tell. He made notes on how the office looked. Pictures of beautiful and, most importantly, happy couples adorned the walls and next to each couple was a framed testimonial.

  Soon, a woman came in and took the seat across from him. She had long hair, parted down the middle, the ends dyed pink.

  “I’m Polly,” a woman said to him, settling back in her chair, ankles crossed, a notebook on her lap. Her voice was pleasant and soft, with a little Southern lilt to it. “Benson Douglass, I’ve so enjoyed reading your essays and files and test results. Are you ready to hear my analysis on what kind of woman I believe we’re looking for?”

  He looked up and jolted back a bit.

  He didn’t think they’d hop right into business. He expected pleasantries, talking about past dating experiences—he imagined it a bit like therapy; he divulged, she listened. Except, Polly the matchmaker was dead-set on moving straight to talks about ideal girlfriends. She poised a pen with the cap on above the clipboard and waited, smooth as silk.

  Rankled by her pursed lips, penetrating stare, and eagerness, Benson shifted in a seat and resorted to his best personality—the jokey one.

  “I mean…if you think a computer file tells you everything you need to know about me,” he answered with a supercilious sniff, crossing his arms in front of him.

  “I think our tests are what make us different and what give us a nearly one-hundred percent success rate.”

  “One-hundred percent? I didn’t see that stat. You’ve matched everyone.” It was hard not to make the statement with incredulity.

  “Nearly. And we have the highest marriage rate.”

  “I’m looking at marriage success rates.”

  “That’ll take more time than you have. Most, many, nearly all of our couples are still married,” Polly said with a wink. “Our rates are higher than any other matchmaking service in the Northwest or the nation. So, would you like to hear what the tests say?”

  “Sure. What do they say about my sexual compatibility?” he asked, thinking back to the ten-page questionnaire he filled out about bedroom proclivities. It had been an optional test, but he was in for the whole thing and didn’t hesitate to tell the forty-something woman in front of him with her pink hair and high cheekbones his most comfortable ways for initiating sex.

  Polly kept her tone even and polite, never wavering from the sweetness she’d started with. “The scores,” she flipped through a chart, “show a sexual repression combined with a string of non-intimate partners. This is a connection issue. You fail to connect with your dates on both a sexual level and an intimate level.”

  “I have plenty of sex,” Benson replied with a macho scoff that he recognized immediately but was unable to stop. He gave her a sad, empathetic stare and repeated it softer and without the defensiveness. “Like, my sex life is healthy.”

  Polly blinked. “I didn’t say you were celibate, Benson. I said you were sexually repressed and tended to develop friendships or sexual relationships with women but can’t seem to find the right balance between the two…”

  He thought back to his last serious relationships and supposed he had to admit there was truth buried in the broad strokes of her assessment. Like a sideshow fortuneteller, she could wiggle her way into rightness. “Okay,” Benson said, forcing himself to accept the insight. “How, may I ask, did you determine this sexual repression?”

  “Our tests are undisclosed. The way we measure compatibility, the way we see you.”

  “Of course.”

  It was a non-answer and he was certain it meant she had no intention of providing him with sources for any of her conclusions. He straightened up a bit, feeling more confident that the whole thing was a sham, and the bigger the sham, the better the story. Benson could picture the story unraveling perfectly and he was only momentarily shamed by the idea of doing exactly what Annie had hoped he’d stay away from—outing her ticket to romance as a bust.

  The thought, however, was fleeting.

  “Here’s how the first few dates work,” Polly explained. “You choose some women from our dating database. I choose some women. If any matchup, we do those dates first. We debrief, get a feel, hear both sides, and from there commit to a dating plan.”

  “Okay,” Benson said, nodding. “How do I choose?”

  “I’ll send you the online login and you can tell me in the morning. Search for someone similar to whom you’d usually date or someone you’d usually choose. I want to see who you gravitate to, who you connect with.”

  Benson liked the idea and nodded along, growing in excitement at the prospect of hunting through a list of dates.

  “So, we’re paying these women to date me.”

  Polly’s smile grew tighter.

  “No,” she replied and she dipped her head. “They’re part of a dating database. We’ll present you with women who have also selected you. How did you hear about this service, again, Benson?” Polly’s Southern came on even stronger and her smile got even wider.

  “Referred. By a friend’s parents.”

  “Are you cynical of the process? I had assumed you’d be…”

  “You started right off the bat with the sexual repression,” Benson said and laughed as charmingly as he could. He leaned forward, eye-to-eye with Polly. “You can question my motives and my cynicism, but I’m open. I want to see what Twoly has to offer. I’m paying for that.”

  “You’re paying for my guidance to help you make a love connection. And if you give yourself to what I have to offer, by the end of this, you’ll have found a mate. Someone who truly works well with your soul, who fills your needs and desires with equal measure.”

  “You can’t promise a one-hundred percent success rate with human beings. That’s…”

  “Do you feel unlovable, Mr. Douglass?”

  “You can call me Benson and what?”

  “Do you find yourself to be unlovable? Unworthy. Not deserving of love and passion and support and romance? Usually when people are skeptical, it’s a way to protect against, what they feel, is an inevitable failure.”

  Yes, he expected to fail. No, it wasn’t because he thought he was unlovable.

  Polly smiled and scooted forward in her chair, she tapped the pen against her chin. “You are a cynic, Mr. Douglass. Look. Let me lay it all out so you will know your precious dollars are hard at work because here’s what makes us good,” Polly cooed so quietly that Benson was forced to stay paused and silent to listen. “We are amazing at knowing people. We can read them and get to know them and assess how they’ll come across to others and what their strengths are. We look at everything someone who is interested in you is going to see. Your public social media, your public record. And we examine your life with care and love. We’re like older sibling except we have nothing but your best interests at heart.”

  “For profit.”

  Polly’s smile disappeared. She sat back and resumed her initial position, all business, long and lean. She flipped a page and read, “Benson wants to feel in charge of situations and when he’s insecure, he’ll lash out with intensity and anger. He struggles a bit with boundaries,” she read off a statement on the first page. Without explanation, she let the paper drop and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, only part of the analysis we have on you. But more about you in a second. Let me answer your profit statement directly. Yes. I make money off you falling in love and whether you think that’s grotesque or beautiful doesn’t matter to me. You’ve paid me to find you a partner and I will do that for you. The skills required in matchmaking are tailored for me. And now after twenty years of matchmaking, I’m an expert. You’re paying for our knowledge, our force, our wisdom and our guidance. If you want to be married on the other side of this…which…” she flipped th
ree more pages, “…you said is your long-term goal…then, it starts here, today, right now. And I’ll need full honesty to do my job. Women smell cynicism and it’s unbecoming.”

  “I’ve never found that to be true,” Benson answered. “If you’re going about changing everyone’s fundamental personalities to get the job done, then I don’t think you should be so self-congratulatory about that success rate.”

  She brushed aside her hair and adjusted her body on the chair, the clipboard still resting on her knee.

  “Cynicism is born from not always getting what you want,” she said, keeping her gaze level and her focus clear. “I don’t want to change your personality, but I do want you to mature. Stay Benson, by all means, but don’t undermine the process and expect it to work for you.”

  “But won’t that be the magic in it?” he asked, somewhat genuinely. “I walk in a total cynic, but I find the woman of my dreams. And I mature in the process. That’s the best testimonial out there.”

  “That’s every testimonial out there,” Polly smiled. She wiped her brow with her wrist. He was tiring her out, making her sweat. He backed off.

  “Okay. I get it. Trust the process,” Benson said. If she’d been pitching him a time-share in the middle of an island about to be flooded, he might’ve said okay, too. Polly’s southern grace and nimble word-smithing, sliding from her points without pause, made him forget for just a second that he did not expect to end up married at the end of this.

  “Honesty is the first step,” Polly reminded him.

  He was going to be richer and more famous—with a charming podcast and a book deal. Benson wasn’t playing around; he knew what he wanted.

  He was glad Polly and all her pink perk helped with his opening image of Twoly. Everything about her would pop on paper from her Southerness to her seriousness.

  “How honest can I be with you, Polly?” he said and his matchmaker’s ears perked up a bit. She tilted her head and pondered.

  “That’s a loaded question,” she answered. “What are you asking? If you tell me where you buried a body…would I snitch?” He thought that was an apropos comparison, considering. “Yeah, I would. And there isn’t any privilege; I’m not your doctor. But…am I loyal to you?” she asked in a way that made Benson wonder if she knew what he meant anyway. “I’m loyal to you. I’m loyal to my company. And I’m loyal to love. I’m loyal to getting you a storybook ending and a woman who knows you. I’m loyal to you as my client, as a person, as a human.”

  Benson exhaled. It was still a pitch. But it was glorious and quotable. She seemed to revel in all her short speeches, aware of their impact.

  At the heart of it, all she knew how to do what stand there and say vapid things about her company that sounded amazing but carried no weight or purpose. So, he realized, no—he couldn’t be honest with Polly.

  Not that he was planning on it anyway.

  I don’t want a girl. I want stories. I want to know how Linda Remington knew Bill Schubert and how she knew Missy Price. I want a beginning, a middle, and an end. I want humor, I want intrigue. I want people invested.

  “Loyal to me as a human. Wow. Well, as a human,” he said with practiced neutrality that people both loved and hated about him, “of course, I’m here for love. I want to give myself into this process with full intention,” he answered and he clapped at the end to punctuate his enthusiasm. But he didn’t smile or charm her, he was instantly wary instead.

  Polly nodded. “Great. Then here you go.” She opened up the chart again. “Let’s dissect. Let me tell you about who I think you’ve dated in the past and why. Things to look out for, tune into, as you go through the database.”

  Benson nodded, ready. Before she could describe anyone, the thought of Annie crossed his mind. She didn’t back down and she had that single dimple in her cheek and the way she met him at every line, toe-to-toe. As Polly tried to peel apart the layers, Benson kept digging in his heels deeper: there had been something there with that girl. That was the girl he wanted.

  And now it was way too late to do anything about it?

  Benson didn’t think that way—he never took “too late” to mean “never” and as he listened to Polly’s assessment, it was only Annie on his mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Annie floated into Fultano’s for a single slice of cheese pizza as she made her way home. She almost didn’t recognize him as he was huddled over a laptop, studying something with great intention, a notebook by his side, copious scribbles lining the page. He had half of a medium pepperoni pizza devoured and he was holding a pint, a table for four completely covered by the detritus of his work.

  At first, she was shocked to see him there, so comfortable and established, and so she thought it must be a Benson look-alike. But then she tilted her head and he looked up, wide-eyed to see her there, although clearly not as surprised as she was.

  Swiftly, Benson closed his laptop and put his notebook facedown on top of it. Whatever had been the focus of his study was hidden from her as she smiled and waved and made her way forward through the tiny pizza parlor.

  She stood and he stood and they embraced awkwardly, expressing excitement and hellos.

  “Eat your slice here,” he offered and she pulled out a chair and joined him, shedding her jacket, and putting her purse on the table.

  Benson seemed pleased to see her, but he kept his arms folded over the notebook and the laptop in a protective stance, and Annie couldn’t help but wonder what work he’d been writing about. She wondered if it was about her.

  “So, you came into town and didn’t call me?” Annie asked while unwrapping her pizza and folding it in half before taking a bite out of the crust.

  “Oh no. What was that? You’re a crust-firster? That’s shameful.”

  Annie finished her bite and stared at him, “Are you crazy? It’s the best part. You eat it first.”

  “It is the best part, so you eat it last, every bite leading up to the perfect last bite, so you can savor the crust. It leads right into needing another one.”

  She took another bite of her crust and smiled, taunting him with the sweet act of rebellion against his eye-rolls and fake chest pains. They laughed, bantering, until she licked her fingers and finished the tip of the slice last.

  “Grotesque,” he replied. He slid one of his leftovers toward her, but Annie waved him away.

  “So we can go through this whole dance again? No, thank you. I’ll eat my next slice in peace.” She wiped a napkin over her mouth and folded her hands, feeling brave. “What are you working on?” she asked. “I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you.”

  “Just some research for the story,” he replied. “I just got in. Anything come through on your end?”

  “Oh, so I have to share first?” she laughed and clicked her tongue, wagging a finger back and forth. “Fine. Fine. Erin, our PI, my friend, has a whole file on Robin now. Pretty interesting stuff. I have a zip file of it. I can share it with you, but here’s the lowdown.”

  She told him everything as she watched his face, wondering if he already knew, wondering if he was just humoring her.

  “Erin followed Robin for two days. Nothing unusual at the house and then in the early morning, an unmarked car picked her up and took her to the airport. We recorded a bit of a public conversation in the market on the way. Lots to infer. Then she was taken to a private jet and all Erin could grab were pictures of Robin being loaded on to a small white plane with two small suitcases. No one’s been to the house since.”

  “You think she fled?”

  “We don’t know.”

  He’d told her about Linda Remington and he remembered the look on her face; the pure shock and anger of the moment. He knew there was no way he could ever confide the misstep to Annie.

  “I think she fled,” Benson said.

  “Why? Talk it out.” Annie bounced her foot and waited to see if he could piece together what they couldn’t. Why was Robin involved? Bill had been a will and probate lawye
r—did he stumble upon something he shouldn’t have?

  “It’s what she does when she feels pressure to respond. She never did an interview, Annie, and she’d rather run away than face the truth.”

  “Why though? What innocent person runs away from…”

  “The media?” Benson shrugged, finishing her sentence. She snapped her eyes to his and he glanced quickly, embarrassed, caught.

  Annie froze. Of course.

  “Shit. You tried to talk to her, didn’t you?” she asked. She could see the picture as clear as day—Benson arriving on her porch, asking for the elusive, the rare, and expecting it to happen. He wanted everything on a golden platter. And she didn’t need to know him any better to see the guilt in his eyes.

  “Fuck,” he mumbled and rubbed his eyes.

  “And here you are…my neck of the woods. Alright. So, explain?”

  He pulled his arms above his head and stretched. “Explain what?”

  “How did you lose Robin?”

  “I just wanted an interview—”

  “You know,” Annie said again, unable to hide her disappointment. “Here’s the difference,” she said, her eyes down, “between a lawyer and a journalist. I know when to keep my mouth shut and you apparently are really opposed to keeping your mouth shut.”

  “You’re angry.”

  She didn’t blink. The tiny dining room of the pizza parlor felt suffocating and she was certain the people next to them were listening to the conversation. This was her home, her place—and she knew the owners here. Even if the faces of the other customers didn’t look familiar, she knew it wouldn’t be long before someone recognized her and the journalist together.

  She wondered if that got back to Rylan.

  Sometimes she wondered if the team used investigators to make sure their customers stayed true to the process. No dating apps. No surreptitious lovers.