My whole life I’ve wanted nothing more than to fit in.
Only, my whole life I’ve done anything but.
That’s probably because I’m anything but average. After all—female serial killers seem to be a minority in today’s society.
And that’s ok—because I’ve longed for a change for quite some time now.
Which brings me back around to fitting in.
You know what one has to do to fit in?
I do.
One has to blend.
Which is great news!
Because I realize my clock is ticking, so to speak, and now I want a family. Luckily, I’ve always been good at getting what I want.
So I figure what better place to blend than suburbia?
All that stuff I did before—it’s water under the bridge now. I just hope it’s not too late to change my ways. Here’s to hoping for suburbia’s sake, too.
I mean, what are the odds I could be the girl next door?
Apparently, they’re better than you might think.
==============================
Your whole life you’ve wanted to fit in.
Only your whole life you’ve done anything but.
That’s probably because you’re anything but average— you’re a killer— but, then so am I.
You say you’ve longed for a change for quite some time now.
This is good because, well, me too.
Your clock is ticking, you want a family, but you waste so much time.
I know because I’m watching, waiting, blending.
What you don’t realize is if you want me, and I think you do, then you'll have to change your ways because sometimes hunters become hunted.
But what are the odds of that happening in suburbia?
Apparently, they’re better than you might think.
You told me by candlelight last night that your real name is not Ryan as it said on the dating site, as you said at dinner. It’s Jude. I wasn’t surprised. We all become someone different online. As you ran the tips of your fingers across my cheek, you promised you were sorry for lying, and then you showed me when you touched my scars with your lips. You asked for the truth about them, but I didn’t give it to you. You don’t get to be the only one who lies. Which is why I haven’t told you exactly who or what I am.
It isn’t time for whole truths about anything.
Speaking of names, it took a lot to pry Amy’s last name from your lips, and you see… you do still keep her close to your heart. You’re protecting her. This is how I know. It’s dangerous, Jude. She is dangerous, and you need closure, you really do. It’s too much to go around carrying the weight of her, believe me, I know. Morris was the answer you gave when you finally relented—but you lied. Your jaw did this twitchy thing, and that’s how I knew. We all have our tells, and apparently, that’s yours.
“No doubt, she’s married now,” you add, to cover your tracks, to conceal your lies, and you are still in denial, still protecting her, and it’s okay because, luckily, I know how to hunt people.
Later, I withdrew in your lies, and you sensed me pull away.
I started slowly at first, retreating into myself and then I left and didn’t speak to you for four days. You let me have my space, at first. I’ll give you that. But the thing you need to know about women is that it isn’t space we want, not really. We want a fight. We want a man willing to burn for us—someone willing to put it all on the line. We want to go to war.
I know you have it in you, I do. This is why I don’t return your calls. This is why I play hard to get when the truth is I miss you. I miss the way your arms feel around me, the way your eyes bore holes into my soul—all the ways you seem to know me even though you don’t. So on the fourth day, when you show up at my door, this is why I practically leap into your arms. You aren’t confused like most men would be. Not you. You come bearing gifts that aren’t flowers. You come bearing breakfast and plane tickets, and you are a warrior, Jude, you are.
Britney King writes modern love stories for mature audiences. She also enjoys suspense and often finds her sweet spot penning a good mixture of the two.
Britney is the author of seven novels and is currently at work on number eight.
She lives in Austin, Texas with her husband, children, two dogs, one ridiculous cat and a partridge in a pear tree.
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