The Game of Deception

Chapter 1-2

I let her drive the damn thing everywhere we went for that whole week. She even stayed sober to drive us home the night it happened, just so she could be seen leaving the club in it. Trading it in now would feel like I"m betraying her in some way. So, I just deal with its troubles, and try to convince myself that Beth would be right at my side telling me how hot we look in it.

Kam stands in the driveway as I pull out, holding a hand on a popped-out hip with attitude. She glares at the front grill of my car. It wouldn"t take a rocket scientist to tell what"s on her irritated, concerned mind. Shaking off an eerie feeling, I swallow the bile rising in my throat, and then drive away. What does Kam know, anyway? The Jones" are good people. They would never send me on a date with a weirdo.

What does Kam know, anyway?It doesn"t matter that my first impression wasn"t perfect. That had to have been at least four or five years ago. Who knows what was going on with him that day, or even myself, come to think of it. I"ve always considered Beth"s dad to be a very down to earth kind of man. Surely, he would know if there was anything wrong with this Vincent guy. It doesn"t matter now, I"m going on this damn date whether I want to or not. I continue to convince myself that everything is fine for the remainder of the drive.

The first thought on my mind as I pull into the place is lower middle class. The name Frenchie"s is plastered on the front of the building in bold red paint. Its also printed on all of the windows and doors. It was clearly decorated with care and intention, as if the owners had put their entire life savings into it. Cars are lined in perfectly slanted spaces next to mine. I can"t help but notice that not one of them looks to be any newer than five or six years old. The people coming in and out are dressed in the kind of clothing that screams "desperate date".

Frenchie"sWives are wearing worn out dresses and forced smiles. Husbands in button up tops, opening doors with their heads down and mouths shut. I imagine these people have boring, average lives, and boring, average jobs. They probably need to get out of their everyday routine so badly they ache, yet they can"t afford anything more than two hours with a high school babysitter and a $10 plate of spaghetti. What better place than a small local restaurant named Frenchie"s? A pang of guilt hits me for the way I am judging these people. Just because I don"t want to be here, it doesn"t give me the right to break down strangers.

Frenchie"sKilling time and spacing out in pointless observation, isn"t doing anything but prolonging the inevitable. My chest rises and falls in a deep effort to de-stress. Of course, it doesn"t work. I"m so nervous my bowels are churning. Perfect, just perfect, not only am I actually allowing myself to go on a blind date with a possible creep, but I may s**t myself while I"m at it.

I whisper lightly under my breath, “Dammit Beth, why the hell did you have to leave me? Next time I"m definitely putting my foot down and telling your mom no.”

Finally, I shut down the engine to the hog. I roll down the windows, as usual, secretly hoping it will be stolen. I leave it behind in the surprisingly full parking lot. My shoes make a light tapping sound, as my feet slowly drag my unwilling body up the narrow sidewalk. The hinges squeak on the door as I pull it open. The bell hanging above the door sounds. I"ve always hated that.

Bells, honestly, what purpose do they serve except to draw unnecessary and unwanted attention? I"ve always felt bad for employees that work at facilities with these ridiculous bells. I think if I had to listen to that noise all day long, it would likely wind me up so tight that I"d snap.

I search the inside of the diner, looking in every direction. I was told he would be wearing a black button up top and holding a small bouquet of daisies. Trish must have told him that it"s my favorite flower; how convenient. I spot him quickly. He"s sitting two tables away from the door, with the bouquet in hand. He is much more handsome than I remember. Maybe he"s just one of those freaks who"s actually aged well. Trish told me that he"s pushing thirty five, – which is only two years older than myself, but I"d never guess that now seeing him in person. He could easily pass for a good ten years younger.

how convenientA grin spreads across his cheeks as he waves me in his direction with confidence. The smile I return to him is as forced as the women I observed from the parking lot. Take a breath, here we go, I can manage an hour. Kam better pull through on her promise, or there will be some serious sabotage in order. It"s not like I"ve never put flaming hot peppers in her drink when she wasn"t looking. I may even go a step further and put food dye in her shampoo and conditioner. I"ve been waiting on an excuse to try that one out anyway.

Take a breath, here we go, I can manage an hour“You look as beautiful as I remember, Markie.”

“Thank you, Vincent, that"s very kind.”

If he only knew the smile on my face is in response to my silent plotting against my sister, and not him.

“Please have a seat.” He gestures. “Your necklace is very pretty.”

“Wow, thank you.” Strange compliment, I think. Though it caught me off guard, I still somehow appreciate the sentiment. “It"s a locket my mom gave me a few years back.”

Strange complimentI"m not about to go into detail on how Beth had one exactly like it, or about her picture that"s inside it. I"m especially not going to tell him the reason my mother bought us a matching set. Her words of insult regarding my lack of better accessories flash through my mind. Beth and I actually wore them as a joke at first, thinking it was funny to act out against my mother"s uppity attitude.

After a while, the lockets kind of became an ironic symbol of our friendship, go figure. I rub the small golden heart shape between my thumb and forefinger. It dangles elegantly from my neck. It"s no lie, the necklace truly is an exquisite piece. Crazy she may be, but my mother sure can accessorize.

I lower myself into the open chair that he so graciously slid out for me. At first the conversation is light. We talk about the weather, and the drink choice on the menu, which is very limited might I add. Vincent has a low, quiet, irresistibly sultry voice. The scent of his cologne is divine. Filling my nostrils every time he moves, I breathe it in deep. Leaning forward, I let the smell consume me. I don"t remember him being this desirable.

He speaks with confidence and holds his head high. I even find myself checking out the toned muscular shape of his chest and arms. I wonder if he would look as good with his shirt off as he does with it on. I stare into his soft grey eyes and listen to him explain the ins and outs of his mundane office job. Vincent spends the majority of his time processing paperwork at a large law firm downtown. Apparently, he finds small, family owned restaurants like Frenchie"s to be comforting, like a home away from home. As he explains the reason for his choice in diner, I kick myself inside for being so arrogant and judgmental when I first arrived.

Frenchie"sTime is flying, our conversation flows easily. I tell him about my time-consuming career at the Mix That Movie Multiplex. I"ve managed the four-theater movie house for several years, and I"ve loved every single one of them. I started working there when I was nineteen as a regular clerk, selling movie tickets and popcorn. At the time there was only one big screen with a c***k down the middle, along with rundown used seats.

I kept at it for a few years until I completed my degree. It just so happened that the very week of my graduation the manager up and left, she quit very unexpectedly. I was instantly promoted into the position, and I"ve held it ever since. Vincent seems genuinely impressed, and is interested in the details of my theater. He even asks questions about the changes and upgrades that I"ve overseen along the way.

I"m in the middle of explaining our second expansion when the ringtone of my phone nearly sends me through the roof. I jump an inch off my seat, and Vincent chuckles. His short-lived humor comes out as a choppy high-pitched snort. Cute, and he is even cuter when he laughs. Has it been an hour already? A half consumed, surprisingly delicious French dip sits on a square dinner plate in front of me. The roast beef is fresh, and the bread is melt in your mouth perfection. At this very moment, I want nothing more than to finish this delicious meal.

I"m tempted to ignore the call altogether. Knowing Kam, she"d probably show up with guns blazing, ready to “cap a b***h” – or so she"d say as she storms through the door. After running the likely scenario through my head, I decide it"s best to pick up.

“Hello?” I answer as cheerfully as possible, hoping she"ll catch the tone.

“Markie, you have to come home right now!”

Panic radiates in her voice. I must admit, I"m slightly impressed with her acting skills.

“I"m sure everything is fine, Kam. I"m actually having a really good time. Is there any way you can handle things on your own?”

I don"t want to give myself away. I try to sound as normal as anyone would with a random, panicked sister phone call.

“No really! It"s not a fire, or a stair incident, it"s our neighbors. The Snyder family, across the street. Something scary is going on. Cops and ambulances are swarming the block, Markie! Get your ass home now, you have to be here with me!”

“Is this for real?”

Adrenaline thumps in my chest. I can feel my face bunch and tighten. Images of Beth"s bloody face flash through my memory. Last time I saw a group of police officers with ambulances present, I watched them drive away with my best friend in a body bag. Her murder was too recent not to panic every time I see flashing lights.

“If you"re making this s**t up Kam, I"m… I"m… I"ll…” My voice cracks, and my eyes water.

Fear, panic, and raw memory paw at the pit of my stomach.

“I swear, Markie, just come home now, okay?”

“I"m on my way.”

The phone clicks off in my palm, and I shove it into my purse. The look on Vincent"s face instantly strikes me as odd. As I search for words to explain my sister"s phone call, he seems strangely amused. The corner of his lip curls upward. The wrinkles above his eyes smooth away, and a flat forehead reveals a pleased little twinkle. Is he happy I am leaving, or excited about my concern? I can"t tell. This is awkward. What is his deal? I kind of want to smack him right now. Not a hard smack. Just a little backhand to the mouth. Enough to knock that smug little grin off his handsome face.

This is awkward.