Page 33 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
Most women know pre-date chaos. The outfit panic. The contouring crisis. The soul-deep spiral over whether “fun and flirty” means lip gloss and false lashes, or industrial-strength nipple tape. It’s practically a sacred rite. A universal female experience.
Mine just comes with… add-ons.
Some girls carry lip balm and pepper spray. I pack bleach and plausible deniability.
I still triple-check that my lipstick matches my shirt, or my bra, or, hell, the crime scene. Gotta stay coordinated, even if the night ends with blood on the windshield and a trunk full of regrets. And yes, I’m wearing the ass-floss panties. Not because Derik’s earned the right to see them, he absolutely has not. It’s a ritual. Like painting war stripes. Shaving your legs before a car crash. It’s not for him. It’s for the vibe. The aesthetic of menace.
Then there’s the logistics checklist:
—Is there enough tarp in the SUV?
—Is the box cutter still in the glove compartment?
—Am I wearing something that says “I tried” but not something I’ll sob over when I have to set it on fire at 3 a.m.?
Fire. Edgar. Dressing for Edgar requires an entirely different game. That man sees through layers like a psychic striptease. He peels with his eyes. That requires strategy. Lingerie. Maybe a sacrificial blouse.
But tonight... tonight is for Derik.
Focus, Jennifer. Focus on the target.
Date-night multitasking is for the emotionally stable. Not for romantically unhinged reapers with dirt under their nails and backup gloves in their purse.
This isn’t ethical non-monogamy. This is ethical asshole-slaying. And, if Derik is Derik again tonight, we’ve got a hole to dig.
I lock the front door with the kind of quiet finality that says, “I might not come back, but the throw pillows will still match if I do” and head down the walkway, murder playlist queued, vibe impeccable, tits symmetrical. Ready.
I stop at the mailbox. Not because I’m expecting anything. Just... ritual. A tick. A little superstition between me and the universe.
And wouldn’t you know it? A little brown paper bag is tucked inside like a love letter from a criminally repressed boy scout. What in the Dollar Store Valentine is this?
I tug it out, heart already doing that inconvenient stutter.
Edgar? No. His would be wrapped in silk. Black silk.
Blake? Maybe, I glance toward the house next door. His truck is gone. Must be working late.
No note.
Inside: a single red rose, half-wilted like it knows better than to hope. A burner phone, still in its packaging. And a snack cake. Strawberry. The kind with enough preservatives to survive the apocalypse.
Carson?
Of course it’s Carson. No one else I know weaponizes tenderness with that much restraint. This isn’t just a care package, it’s preparation. It says: I know what you’re doing. I won’t stop you. But maybe you’ll call me before the body count hits double digits.
My heart does something ugly and traitorous. Not swooning, just twitching in recognition. A flare of affection wrapped in suspicion.
I don’t have time for emotions. I unwrap the snack cake with one hand as I climb into the SUV.
I bite into the snack cake as I drive. First bite hits like betrayal. Sweet, artificial, nostalgic as hell. I chew with military precision, letting the chemical strawberry filling numb the part of me that wants softness. Wants someone who sees the blood on my hands and brings me flowers anyway.
He doesn’t say it. But this is consent in pastry form.
The sugar sticks to my lips. The sweetness hits like caffeine.
By the time I hit Derik’s driveway, I’ve eaten the whole damn thing and tucked the burner phone into my glovebox.
The rose stays in the cupholder.
