Page 13 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

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.

I like having something beautiful to look at when I commit homicide.

Derik’s house doesn’t surprise me. It’s not technically a trailer, no wheels, but it’s doing everything in its power to cosplay as one.

I think they call them “modular homes” when they’re parked just outside the trailer court and tarted up with some decorative skirting to hide the axles, like a mullet wearing Spanx.

Curb appeal? Negative six.

He opens the front door before I’ve even killed the engine. Shirtless. And not in a “paint me like one of your French girls” kind of way. More like... “this guy’s been sweating Fireball and vape juice since 3pm.”

I’ve never wanted to put a shirt on someone so badly in my life. Like, aggressively. Preferably made of burlap and regret.

He’s got that party-starter stagger going, already drunk, already cocky, already assuming the night ends with him inside something. The only thing he’s getting inside of is a biodegradable contractor bag if he plays his cards wrong.

I glance in the rearview. No tail. No cruiser. No broody detective to make sure I don’t bury a body before dessert.

Then my eyes drop to the rose in the cupholder. Sorry, Carson. Looks like tonight might be... messy.

I take a breath. “Alright, Jennifer,” I say to myself, swiping the crumbs off my thighs. “Smile like a senator’s wife. Lie like a lifestyle influencer. Kill like you’re folding laundry.”

Derik greets me with a leer and breath that smells like beer, body spray, and possibly the ghost of expired shrimp.

He holds the door open like it’s a romantic gesture and not just because he’s hoping I’ll trip on the warped threshold and I’ll faceplant tits-first onto his couch that smells like despair and Hot Pockets.

“Daaaamn, girl,” he slurs. “You look edible.”

Cute. If I had a nickel for every time a man tried to compliment me like he was ordering a combo meal, I could fund my own forensic cleanup service.

“Funny,” I say, stepping inside. “I was just thinking you look digestible. You know. With enough lime juice.”

He laughs as my humor sails right over his head like a drone headed for restricted airspace.

The place reeks of cheap weed and cheaper ambition.

There’s a mattress in the living room, a video game paused on the screen, and three different fast-food bags competing for dominance on the coffee table.

Romance is alive and well, it just rents by the week and smells like gym socks and old McNuggets.

“I got drinks,” he says, gesturing toward a kitchen that looks like it’s survived one small fire and several bad decisions.

“I brought my own,” I say, sipping air from my flask like it’s vintage Scotch, because I don’t trust anything he’s touched since puberty, including himself.

He grins, not catching the vibe at all.

The date goes downhill quickly. One minute we’re sitting on his lumpy excuse for a couch, and the next his hand is creeping up my thigh like it’s got squatters’ rights.

“I’ve been thinking about you since our last date,” he says, slurring. “Couldn’t stop picturing that mouth.” His hand grips my wrist a little too tightly.

“I know,” I say sweetly. “That’s why I brought something special.”

His eyes light up like a ninja turtle spotting an unattended pizza and he loosens his hold.

“Close your eyes,” I coo.

He obeys. Because men like Derik always assume the girl who plays coy is about to blow them instead of blow up their life.

I reach into my purse. Past the lipstick, the mints, the tiny vial of blood-stain remover. My fingers close around the box cutter. It’s pink. Bedazzled. Gifted to me by a woman I met in therapy, who left her fiancé after he insulted her cat.

“Okay,” I say, smiling wide. “Now hold still.”

The sound of the blade snapping out is subtle. But the aftermath isn’t.

It’s over fast. A neat slice, a soft thud, and the sound of Derik gurgling his final dumbass thought into a throw pillow that died of shame years ago. I’m very good at this now.

I step back, exhale, and brush a smear of something off my blouse. Still wearable. Bless you, polyester.

The room falls quiet, aside from the soft buzz of a fruit fly circling the open beer can on the table.

“God,” I mutter, checking my reflection in his dark TV screen. “My hair looks amazing tonight.”

I pop open my purse, pull out the gloves, and get to work.

I sigh, staring at the mess. “This is what I get for rushing. Four dates, Jennifer. That was the rule. Four. Like a gentleman’s agreement between me and my last functioning impulse control.

First date’s for the read, second confirms the red flags, third is for proof, and the fourth is where we get flirty with felonies. ”

I look down at Derik. Slumped. Bleeding.

In his living room. I should’ve waited. Taken him to my place.

Done it properly, in the basement, with the plastic and the drain and the Clorox wipes I keep in cute little wicker baskets.

But no. I just had to let him talk about my mouth like it was an appetizer.

I shuffle around the room, grabbing anything blood-touched. The pillow goes in a trash bag. Then I look at him.

The body. The rug underneath.

I groan. “Why do I do this to myself?”

He’s heavy. Not ‘gym rat’ heavy, no, this is pure beer-and-bad-choices weight. Dead weight and not even a six-pack to ogle on the way out? You absolute burden.

I grab the edges of the rug and start rolling him like I’m prepping for an impromptu moving day, except the U-Haul is my SUV and the cargo may or may not leak.

“Come on, you sweaty slab of Taco Bell,” I grunt, trying to flip him. “You could’ve at least died tidily.”

I finally get him halfway rolled when he slumps sideways and flops an arm out like a dramatic Victorian widow.

“Nope. You already touched my thigh uninvited. You don’t get a sequel.” I shove it back in. “Keep your hands to yourself, Derik.”

He mostly stays rolled this time. I secure the ends with duct tape because I am, at heart, a problem solver.

I shuffle backward, dragging the rug toward the door, swearing with each step. It’s like a workout video from hell. MurderFit: tone your glutes and your moral ambiguity.