Lock & Key

One Disrespectfully

Sienna

I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.

Sighing, I hold the rim of my glass of Malbec against my chin and ask myself how I got here. Once upon a time I was young, fun, and pulling all-nighters like it was my job. Now I’m sitting on my couch in my pajamas on a Friday night, glaring at the sorry beginnings of an online dating profile.

I thought by the time I was thirty-two, I’d have it all figured out. A house, a husband, maybe a kid to follow me around. Instead, my one bedroom home mocks me and my fear of becoming a homeowner who actually has to fix things by herself. I haven’t dated anyone in almost six years and I’ve gotten so comfortable with my own company that I’m not even sure I want to.

But I’m bored.

So, so fucking bored.

The other half of my couch is occupied by my best friend, but other than her, I feel like I haven’t had any human interaction since our office went remote. All I want is a little conversation, maybe a little teasing, and a story to tell.

Lydia nudges my leg with her fuzzy-socked foot. “What’s in your head?”

“Zombies,” I deadpan. “What’s in yours?”

“Dicks,” she says with a sigh. “I need to get laid.”

Her eyes meet mine, and somehow I know exactly what her judgy ass face is saying. If it’s been too long even for me, then we both know it’s been even longer for you.

She’s not wrong.

I just can’t bring myself to care about someone’s favorite color or what they do for a living. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but I’m... exhausted. People are exhausting.

“Any new prospects on the horizon?” I ask. “What happened to Brady?”

“God, he was so boring,” she groans. “And you know what else? He told me I embarrassed him in a restaurant because I danced to a song. Fucking lame, right?”

“I’ve seen your dancing,” I laugh. “But yeah. He sucks. Men suck. And you wonder why I don’t want to do this shit anymore.”

“I get it, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun. Did you ever give Tinder a shot?”

My eyes drop to my phone screen. “The last time I went on Tinder, some dickhead blew my phone up for two days, railed the life out of me, then said the words ‘Look who’s begging for my attention’ when I texted him hi on the third day. That was enough for me.”

“Fucking Roman. Sorry I made you relive that.” She looks genuinely guilty for reminding me of my shipwreck of a dating life, but the wine helps her bounce out of it. “I have an idea. It’s crazy, but I honestly think it would be good for you seeing as what you really want is someone to hold a conversation with, right?”

Her ideas usually end up with us sleeping in an alley by a dumpster, but I’m willing to try almost anything. “Yep.”

“Please hold.” She holds up a manicured finger as she snatches my laptop, and immediately begins typing. Her smile grows when she finds what she’s looking for, and before I know it she’s moving for me to see the screen. “Hear me out...”

Immediately, I know it’s a terrible idea. Scrawled across the top of the webpage are the words “Lock & Key” which wouldn’t be so bad on their own, but she’s showing me a picture of a man in prison orange. “Is that a criminal?” I mumble. “Do I even want to know where you’re going with this?”

“Yes, and yes. Look, you can be his pen pal.” She scrolls down to show me others, and I see they all have a little bio underneath not far off from the ones you see on Tinder. “They’re lonely. You won’t be tempted to meet them in a hotel, or have to stress about them being a stalker. It’s a win/win for both of you.”

“You’re right, I won’t have to stress about whether or not they’re a stalker. I already know they are.” I’m definitely not drunk enough to even entertain this conversation, let alone face the fact that my best friend thinks I’m so hopeless that only criminal pen pals will have me. “How the hell did you find out about this? Have you done it?”

“TikTok.” She shrugs. “Come on, we can just look up their crimes and make sure they’re not stalkers, duh.”

I stare at her with my eyebrows raised and watch her eyes bug out of their sockets as she sees something she obviously likes. “Fuck me.”

Skeptical, I follow her gaze and nearly drop my Malbec all over my light grey carpet.

Holy hell.

I’ve seen a lot of attractive men in my life from white collar to blue collar to no collar at all, but this guy? I’m not sure I care what his crime is. The jawline he has could cut glass, and the fact that it’s accented by a deep dimple in his right cheek and a contagiously flirty grin is just evil. I can’t tell what nationality he is but his dark eyes and olive-brown skin make him look like a god. A heavily tattooed god. “What the hell is he in for? Illegal use of good looks?”

“Um... murder.”

“Oh, that’s all.” My stomach drops, reminding me how god awful of an idea this is. “Just a little light murder.”

“A wee bit of murder,” she whispers dreamily. “You can’t find that on Tinder. Hell, you can’t find that in Colorado. Jesus, I’d let this one murder me if I got a taste first. His bio is great. ‘I’m a Scorpio. I hear girls like that astrology stuff.’ What a charmer.”

I don’t know about charming, but he is cute though. Devilishly, unfairly attractive. For just a moment, I let myself picture what it would be like to talk to him — sending letters back and forth, waiting by the mailbox like my grandmother used to do when my grandpa was overseas. I can almost feel the butterflies, the adrenaline rush that comes with a guy like that paying attention to you.

And then I remember he’d probably kill me right after.

Shaking my head fast enough to make me dizzy, I push the keyboard away from me. “Oh no. No, no, no way. He’s a murderer, Lydia. Do you know what murder is?”

Pursing her lips, my best friend tilts her head like she’s contemplating her argument, but how is there even one? This is stupid. “I mean... obviously, but what harm can it really do? He’s not getting out any time soon, and look at that fucking smile, Sienna. Look. At. It.”

She slides her finger down his photo longingly as my stomach squirms. She’s right, he’s not due to get out for another decade and he’s two states away even if he did. He won’t ever be able to find me.

Yet... years of conditioning have me wary. Men, especially violent ones, are cunning and creative little demons who should never be underestimated.

He’s hot. Very, very hot. Maybe one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. But this is a bad idea. “So you message him then,” I offer. “I need more wine.”

“I refuse to edge myself with this pretty felon. I’m looking to meet men I can actually fuck. You, on the other hand, refuse to use Tinder, because you just want to have good conversations. This is your opportunity to have that. I bet he has plenty of... entertaining stories. You love murder podcasts.”

She holds out her glass for me to fill her up as well, but I ignore her. I think I’m gonna need the rest of this bottle.

Swallowing a slightly-too-large mouthful, I point the bottle at her. “Murder podcasts are survival manuals, not porn.”

“Eh, speak for yourself.” Snorting, she snatches the bottle to do it herself. “Come on. Stop being so cookie-cutter and live a little, bitch.”

I swear the wine is making my head spin. The heat in my cheeks only seems to get worse as I stare at Osiris Soto’s picture once more — the curve of his dimple, the playfulness of his grin, the tattoos creeping up his neck. He doesn’t look like a cold-blooded killer to me... but isn’t that what makes them so dangerous?

Shuddering, I slam the laptop shut and exhale hard.

There has to be a better way to meet people.