Chapter 1
Juliet
No. You can’t be my Romeo.
I’ve heard the line enough to consider changing my name. Problem is, I don’t have the funds to do so.
It sucks that I can’t even escape my own name.
What’s in a name?
In my experience, disaster, mayhem, and unrequited declarations of devotion. But that’s just tonight.
“I’m sorry.” I blink, then consider taking off my glasses to clean them on my sleeve. “What were we talking about?” Everything is a little hazy after my date ran me into a beam while dancing about ten minutes ago. Or has it been longer than that?
“I said I could be your Romeo if you let down your hair for me,” he says. I haven’t bothered to remember his name. I’m sure it was a pleasant name, but in my head, all I can think of is the Three Stooges. His hair is cut short on the side, but the top is a floppy mess of curls. I’m almost positive he permed it. Therefore, his name is Curly.
“Let down… myhair?”
“Yeah.” He swipes one hand through his curls, and I’m surprised it doesn’t get stuck in them. “You know, like the fairytale. You’re Juliet and all.”
Huh. That’s a new one. “That’s Rapunzel.”
He flips around in his chair. “What? Where?”
And… check, please.
On the food we never ordered and dating in general. I’m calling it. Time of death on my dating life: Seven p.m.
This is why I don’t date. Well, that, and the fact that I don’t buy into the outrageous scam known as love. Don’t even get me started on fate. It’s not real. The only thing “love” did for my parents was teach them how to split everything in half. Including me.
Never mind that I don’t know how to flirt or be sexy, and I only ever find guys like this.
I’m sure there are some wonderful men in the world, but I have yet to find them. They must be hiding, probably like my curves and other womanly features I’ve been waiting for years to show up.
At least now I know I’m better off without them. The men, anyway. I’d still accept the curves if they decided to make an appearance… any day now.
“So…” How do I excuse myself in the nicest and most painless way possible?
Fake an emergency or terrible case of indigestion? I’ve never been too fond of my dignity, anyway.
“We can get out of here if you want.” Curly leans over the table. “Gobackto my castle, if you know what I mean?”
Yuck.I seem to be experiencing some indigestion issues after all.
“Umm, I don’t think that’s going to work for me,” I say, ready to dive into the list of afflictions my intestines are facing, but he cuts me off.
“Do you want another drink before we go?”
I eye my club soda. It would take something much stronger than this to dull my senses enough to consider taking him up on his offer.
“Actually, I’m not feeling so well. I think I’m getting sick.”
He scowls, and his blue eyes turn to ice. “You looked fine when you got here.”
Now we are at Defcon five. Or one. Maybe ten? Whichever one gets me out of here and away from this creep ASAP.
I listen to true crime podcasts. I know what happens next. One word: bodybag. Or is it two words?
