Kind of a Dirty Talker (The McGuire Brothers Book 6)

Chapter 1

A woman having the worst second date ever.

And maybe…her last second date ever?

Eighteen months earlier…

I’m freaking out over nothing.

I’ve listened to too many true crime podcasts at work while chopping vegetables.

That’s all this is—my morbid imagination running away with me.

Carl isn’t a bad guy! He’s an accountant and accountants are never bad. People who get turned on by spreadsheets and tax codes aren’t built for murder and mayhem. That would be way too much excitement for such an orderly brain.

To be frank, Carl is, well…

Carl is boring.

Dull as rocks. About as much fun as watching paint dry. If televised golf and the line at the DMV had a baby, it would still be more exciting than Carl.

But Carl is also a forty-year-old man looking for a woman close to his own age—a rare creature in my current dating ecosystem. He’s in great shape, owns his own home a few towns over, and thinks it’s “cute” that I’ve skipped Botox and let the smile lines around my eyes run wild. He doesn’t mind that I’m fifteen pounds overweight, even though I jog four days a week after work, and best of all?

He loves hiking as much as I do.

That’s how we came to be here, nearly eight miles into a national forest on a lovely, crisp fall afternoon, all alone, without another soul in sight. The trails closer to the parking area are always busy, but out here, in the backwoods, the vibe is different. The words I would usually use to describe it are “peaceful” and “uplifting.”

There’s nothing I love more than being on a trail with the breeze in my hair and the sun on my face. Out in nature, all my problems feel smaller. I feel small, but in the best way.

But the usual peace isn’t with me today. There’s been something…off with Carl since we reached the ridge overlooking the valley. His tepid attempts at conversation have grown stone cold, he’s stopped looking over his shoulder to nod or smile, and when I asked him if he thought we’d taken a wrong turn, he ignored me completely.

Even though I repeated myself.

Twice.

Run, the inner voice hisses between my ears. Turn around and run and don’t look back until you reach the ranger’s station.

I chew my bottom lip, pulse thready as I glance down at the map again. But the slick brochure from the trail entrance hasn’t magically rearranged itself in the past five minutes. It still says we should have turned left, not right, at Walrus Rock, a hunk of granite that looks just like a Walrus, right down to the spiky “teeth” formations on its front.

When we stopped to take in the view by the landmark, I caught Carl running his fingers over the sharp, stone “tusks” in a way that set my stomach to churning. And that was before he insisted the smaller trail was a shortcut that would lead us back to the parking lot before it gets dark and took off into the woods, refusing to stop and look at the map.

Run!The inner voice screeches again.

But I can’t run.

That would be bizarre! Carl would think I was insane. He hasn’t done anything to threaten me. He’s been perfectly polite, if a bit…mute.

But maybe he’s practicing for ghosting me as soon as we’re off the trail. Men on dating apps love to ghost people. It’s probably one of the top three things they enjoy after cradling fish for pictures and talking about how ready they are to start a family now that they’re forty-two.

And that will be fine! I don’t care if Carl ghosts me.

I’ve been ghosted by far superior men, including Nate, my stone-cold fox of an ex, who slept in my bed for the better part of six months before abruptly ending things after I dared to ask where the relationship was headed. Now, he pretends his eyes no longer function when fixed in my direction. When our paths cross downtown near his bar, he breezes past me with no sign of recognition, ignoring my friendly “hello, Nathaniel,” every damned time.

Ditto with my texts asking for a reason for the break-up and my email offering to let bygones be bygones if we can just be civil in public.

If I didn’t have friends and family members who acknowledge my existence on a regular basis, I might think I really was a ghost. Just a specter haunting the Bad Dog dating scene, only visible a few days a month, when the moon is full.

It’s going to be full tonight.

I mentioned that to Carl when we started our hike, joking that if we got lost, at least we’d be able to see the trail after sundown.

He’d huffed in response—the closest I’ve gotten to a laugh from the man—and replied, “Don’t worry. I don’t get lost. You can leave that map for someone else.”

But I didn’t leave the map. I’ve never been this deep into the reserve and wanted to be prepared in case Carl and I became separated. Or if his sense of direction turned out not to be as fantastic as he believed.

In my experience, men believe a lot of things about themselves that don’t turn out to be true.

My ex-fiancé, Xavier, believed he was the most talented guitar player (and lover) of all time, and that the music industry would eventually come running to rural Minnesota if he posted enough stoned strum-sessions to social media. (Spoiler alert: No one came running and Xavier could rarely maintain an erection or hold down a job, leading to my breakup with the “most talented guitarist/lover of all time.”)

Once I ended our six-year relationship, I dove into serial monogamy with a long line of similarly deluded men.

Christoph was a tattoo artist whose “world famous” pet portraits looked like zombie puppies from hell. Pete was a chef with a drinking problem who yelled at his customers from the kitchen. Farley was another guitarist, this time in a wedding band. He refused to play mainstream music at his gigs. So, the gigs eventually dried up, leading him to relocate to Detroit, where he was certain people would appreciate death metal as wedding reception fare.

And then, there was Nate, a sculptor turned bar owner who swore he was a settle-down-with-one-woman kind of a man.

He was perhaps the most deluded of all, I realized after our breakup, when I heard through the grapevine that he’d been sleeping with one of his art students, a girl young enough to be his daughter, the entire time we were together.

I figured an accountant might be a nice change of pace from deluded artists with egos the size of Walrus Rock. And yes, a part of me thought seeing me on the arm of a tall, fit man with a nicely trimmed beard might make it clear to Nate that I’m over him, and he can stop pretending that I don’t exist.

I didn’t intend to use Carl, exactly, I just…

Okay, fine, I planned to use Carl!

But not in a mean way! He seems to enjoy my company. There’s no harm in going for a few public downtown dates where my ex would be likely to spot us together. I even offered to buy a Sunday beer bucket and pizza special at Riff’s tonight after our hike.

Which gives me a brilliant idea!

“Hey, Carl,” I say, keeping my voice as breezy as possible. “How far do you think we are from the parking lot? If we want to grab the special at Riff’s we need to get there before six o’clock.”

But he only continues to trudge, slowly, methodically forward, moving deeper down the narrowing trail.

Run, run, run! the inner voice warbles, her fear intense enough to make my footsteps slow.

“Carl?” I repeat, louder this time. I stop dead, gripping the straps of my daypack tight as I add, “I need you to stop and talk to me. I’m not going another step until I’m sure we’re on the right trail.”

Finally, Carl slows, stops, and begins to turn. But he moves so slowly, it’s like he’s moving through honey. I suppose his sudden snail impression should make me feel better—I’ll surely be able to outrun him, if I have to—but it doesn’t.

It’s terrifying, and by the time he’s lurched around to fully face me, my heart is in my throat and my inner voice is running in frantic circles in my head.

Because this isn’t Carl, at least not the Carl I met at the bar last week or hugged in the parking lot in front of the ranger’s station. He has the same neatly trimmed beard and broad shoulders, but his dark brown eyes are…dead inside.

“Carl?” I croak, telling myself he’s had a stroke or something. There has to be a logical, non-terrifying explanation for why he looks like he’s been body-snatched by a hostile alien.

But he doesn’t clutch his head or pass out in the fall leaves. He takes a step forward that I mirror with a quick step back.

“Carl?” I squeak again, but there isn’t a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

It’s like he can’t hear me.

Or like he’s listening to a voice that isn’t mine, a voice deep in his head telling him it’s okay to let his real personality out for show-and-tell now that he’s lured me so far out into the woods, no one will hear me scream.

He may be right about that, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to holler for all I’m worth.

I pull in a breath, calling on all those singing lessons from junior high to engage my diaphragm as I bellow, “Help! Someone, help me! Help! Please!”

Before I’m halfway through the second “help” Carl is on the move, running impressively fast for a man his size. He isn’t chubby per se, but he’s a thick human, from his wide shoulders to the muscled thighs that strain the seams of his jeans, the kind of guy who ambles or lumbers.

But he isn’t lumbering now. He’s sprinting toward me so fast that by the time I turn to run, I barely make it five steps before his big arm locks around my shoulders, dragging me back against his chest.

“No! Let me go! Help!” I scream before his wide hand closes over my lips. His palm is warm and dry and smells pleasantly of evergreen needles, but that does nothing to ease my terror as he rumbles softly in my ear, “Quiet.”

I scream into his palm, sucking in air through my nose and crying out until my eyes start to ache and water. I kick and thrash, but Carl doesn’t seem to feel the heels of my hiking boots slamming into his shins.

He doesn’t seem bothered by my screaming, either.

He doesn’t tell me to be quiet again. He simply shuffles slowly backward on the trail, bound for…I have no idea what.

I only know it’s nowhere I want to be.

I scream and whimper and thrash even harder, clawing at his arm with my nails, but his denim jacket is thick and my nails are barely a centimeter long. I work with my hands, preparing food all day. I can’t afford to have long nails in the way when I pull on my latex gloves or need to chop vegetables at the speed of light.

My thoughts race, trying to remember if I have anything I can use as a weapon in my daypack. I brought a flashlight, but it’s a tiny thing, tossed in on the off chance I got turned around on a trail and needed help staying on course after dark.

Otherwise, all I brought is lunch, snacks, gum, water, and—

Water! Since we were aiming for close to fifteen miles round trip, I brought my extra-large Hydro Flask. It’s as long as my forearm and heavy enough to do damage if I aim it at a vulnerable area.

If I can just get away from Carl, I can grab it and swing it at his head like a baseball bat.

I stomp down hard on his instep, but his hiking boots are as sturdy as mine, and again, he doesn’t even seem to notice my attempts at self-defense. Gritting my teeth and calling on all my strength, I ball my hand into a fist and slam it back behind me, aiming for Carl’s balls.

This time, I get the reaction I’ve been hoping for.

He groans and doubles over, his arm loosening around my shoulders just enough for me to wiggle free and start running again.

I hurl my body down the trail, screaming as I run faster than I’ve run in years, “Help me, I’m being attacked! Help me, someone, please! He—”

My words end in a choking sound as Carl’s arm goes around my throat this time, gagging me as he drags me back against him. His hand returns to my mouth as he says in that same, chillingly calm voice, “Be quiet or I’ll gag you. Just be good and play nice, and I won’t hurt you.”

My scream turns to a sob, tears slipping down my face as he begins pulling me backward again.

Because I know this story.

I’ve listened to a hundred variations of this tale on a dozen different true crime podcasts. When the bad guy says he “isn’t going to hurt you,” he almost always hurts you.

And most of the time?

Most of the time, he does a lot worse than hurt…