Chapter 3
Scarletta
The early August evening is still warm when I walk through downtown Idaho Falls toward the pizza place.
My sundress is light yellow—pretty, feminine, carefully chosen to signal available but not desperate.
The fabric swishes against my thighs with each step.
I've got my hair down, curled at the ends.
Makeup applied with actual effort instead of the bare minimum I usually manage.
I look normal.
Like someone who goes on dates.
Like someone who hasn't spent six months unable to come without thinking about a man murdering someone.
Marty is waiting inside Provisions Pizza when I push through the door. He waves immediately, standing up from the booth with this eager-puppy energy that should be endearing but mostly just makes me tired.
He's tall. Blond. Clean-shaven. His yoga-instructor body is obvious even under his casual button-down. We met yesterday during the post-class cool-down when he asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime. I said yes because I'm supposed to. Because normal girls say yes when normal guys ask them out.
Because I need to prove I'm not completely ruined.
"Scarletta! Hey, you look amazing." He gestures to the booth seat across from him.
"Thanks." I slide in, setting my purse beside me. "Sorry if I'm a little late."
"No, you're perfect. Right on time, actually."
I'm starving. Like actually hungry for the first time in weeks. When the waitress comes over, I order the specialty—a pizza pie with extra cheese and pepperoni. Marty gets a salad because of course he does.
"So I was thinking after dinner, maybe we could grab drinks at that new place on the river?" He's leaning forward, hands folded on the table. Engaged. Present.
"Oh, I can't stay out late tonight." The lie comes automatically. "Early morning tomorrow."
"No problem! We can keep it casual."
I smile and nod, already knowing I won't be going anywhere after this meal. I never stay out after dark. Ever. The rule is absolute. Daylight only. Public places only. Home before the streetlights come on.
Because I'm not ready to confront what happens when the sun goes down and I'm alone with someone.
Marty starts talking about his business—some kind of paint-your-own-pottery studio in the neighborhood next to mine. A place where couples go on date nights to make ugly mugs and pretend they're being creative together.
"—and we're expanding to offer wine and painting classes on Friday nights. You know, like those viral videos where everyone gets a little tipsy and paints the same sunset?"
"Mm-hmm." I nod along, watching his mouth move.
Could I fuck this guy?
The thought appears unbidden. Clinical. I study him while he talks—his strong jawline, the definition in his forearms where he's rolled up his sleeves, the way his hands move when he gestures. He's objectively attractive. Fit. Successful enough to own his own business at twenty-two.
I try to picture it. His body over mine. His hands sliding up my thighs. His fingers pushing inside me—
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
My pussy doesn't respond. My pulse doesn't quicken. It's like watching paint dry while someone describes sex to me in medical terminology.
"So what do you do?" Marty asks, pulling me back.
I blink. Scramble for the prepared answer. "I'm a freelance writer. Mostly marketing copy, some blog content. Working from home."
All lies.
I haven't written a single word in six months. Haven't taken a freelance gig. Haven't earned a dollar beyond what's sitting in my bank account from—
No. Not thinking about that.
"That's cool! What kind of stuff do you write about?"
"Boring corporate things." I wave my hand dismissively. "Product descriptions. SEO optimization. Nothing exciting."
The pizza arrives and I'm grateful for the interruption. I take a massive bite, barely tasting it, just needing something to do with my mouth besides construct more elaborate fictions about who I am.
Marty keeps talking. Something about expansion plans. Something about hiring part-time staff. Something about his lease negotiations.
I nod. Smile. Laugh when his tone suggests I should.
But inside, I'm spiraling.
What if I asked him outright? Hey Marty, do you have a freak side? Because I need someone who can make me come and apparently regular sex isn't going to cut it anymore.
Yoga guys don't. They're too... gentle. Too balanced. Too fucking mindful.
They want to make love slowly while maintaining eye contact and asking if you're comfortable every thirty seconds.
I can already picture Marty naked. His cut abs. His careful hands. The way he'd probably ask permission before touching my breast. The way he'd be so considerate about my pleasure while completely failing to understand what I actually need.
My mind shifts unbidden.
What if I flipped the script entirely?
What if I became the dominant one? What if I made Marty bend over a bench in his stupid pottery studio, made him wait there with his cock hard and exposed while I decided whether to touch him—
The image crystallizes. Marty's perfect ass in the air. His dick hanging between his legs. Waiting for me to spank him. Waiting for me to use him.
And I feel... nothing.
Worse than nothing.
I feel repulsed.
The thought of controlling someone, of being the one in charge, of wielding power over another person's body—it makes my stomach turn. It's so fundamentally wrong that I physically recoil, closing my eyes and shaking my head to dislodge the vision.
"Hey, you okay?" Marty's voice cuts through.
I open my eyes. He's staring at me with concern, his salad fork frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Yeah, sorry. Just—" I force a laugh. "Brain fog. Low blood sugar probably."
"You should eat." He gestures to my pizza. "Seriously, take your time."
I take another bite, chewing mechanically while Marty watches me with those kind, worried eyes.
Normal girls would be charmed by this.
Normal girls would appreciate a guy who checks in, who notices when something's off.
But I'm not normal.
I haven't been normal in a very long time.
And sitting here with Marty, pretending I could ever be satisfied by someone this safe, this vanilla, feels like the cruelest joke I've played on myself yet.
Marty leans forward across the table, his whole posture shifting. The casual yoga instructor energy drains away. His eyes lock onto mine—not the polite, friendly gaze from before. Something sharper. More focused.
"Can I ask you a question?"
His voice is different. Deeper. The careful brightness stripped out of it.
A tiny buzz sparks low in my belly. So faint I almost miss it.
"Sure," I say, setting down my pizza slice.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers drum against the table edge—once, twice—then stop. His jaw works like he's chewing words he can't quite swallow.
I smile despite myself. "What's the problem?"
"I just—" He stops again. Looks down at his salad, then back up at me. "There are different kinds of guys, right? Like, there's the… the sensitive type. The ones who do couples yoga and talk about their feelings and want to build emotional intimacy before—before anything physical."
I nod slowly, watching him struggle.
"And then there's the… the dominant guys. The ones who take charge. Who make decisions. Who—" He clears his throat. "Who want control. But not in a toxic way. In like, a—a structured way."
The buzz intensifies. Just barely.
"And then there's—there's somewhere in the middle, I guess. Guys who adapt. Who can be whatever their partner needs." His fingers resume drumming. Stop again. "Or guys who pretend to be one thing because they think that's what women want, but they're actually—"
He cuts himself off, breathing harder.
I wait.
"What's your type?" he finally asks.
The question hangs between us.
I tilt my head. "Are you asking if you're my type?"
Marty shrugs. "Well, I'm not sure if that's what I'm asking. Actually, no. That's not what I'm asking because you don't know me, so how could you possibly know I'm your type?"
I let out a breath and lean back in the booth. OK. I guess this guy wants to have some real talk. Unexpected, but not entirely unwanted. "So… what are you asking?"
"Well…" he looks me straight in the eyes. I'm talking, locked the fuck on. "I'm asking which one you prefer. Do you like soft guys?"
"Like you?"
He laughs. "Am I soft?"
I shrug. "You look a little soft."
"Why? Because I take yoga?"
"Yes. Mostly. But also… I dunno. You've got that golden-retriever energy."
He smiles. "Golden what?"
"Golden retriever. You know, in romance books—" But I stop. Because I'm not a romance writer anymore and I don't want to explain these things to him.
"Oh, right," he says. "Yeah. I've heard of that."
"Heard of what?" I scoff.
"Tropes. Dark romance."
"What?" My mouth is hanging open.
"What? Why are you looking at me that way? I stumbled into Booktok one day last year and…" he blows out a breath. "Never quite recovered from what I saw."
Now… I'm intrigued. My voice lowers too. "What did you see?"
Marty shifts in his seat. His fingers drum the table again, then stop. He looks down at his salad like it might save him from this conversation.
"I mean—" He clears his throat. "I saw... videos. Of women talking about books. Dark romance books. Really dark ones."
I just stare at him.
"Like, not the billionaire CEO kind of dark. Not the 'he's brooding but secretly has a heart of gold' dark." His voice drops lower. "The... the actually dark kind."
My mouth falls open.
Marty's face is flushing now. Red creeping up his neck. "The kidnapping kind. The—the Stockholm syndrome kind. The—" He stops. Swallows hard. "The kind where the guy is legitimately fucked up and does fucked up things and the woman—"
He can't finish the sentence.
I lean forward. "And the woman what?"
"Wants it anyway." The words come out strangled. "Even though she shouldn't. Even though it's wrong. Even though every part of her knows it's wrong but she—she still—"