It seemed like the perfect setup, in theory. It was late, getting to about ten o' clock, and Steven Landis found himself in the kitchen of this steaming hot redhead he'd come across on Tinder. The two of them had just come back to her place after a night at the movies, watching some dopey supernatural romance with a name he couldn't be bothered to remember, and now it seemed like they were getting to the good part of the evening. She'd made him some dinner - barely edible lasagna, but hey, free food, he'd give her an A for the effort. He'd smiled, joked, complimented her, checked all the little boxes that always put him on the path to the bedroom, dropped all the hints...
...and nothing. This was turning into one of the most boring nights of Steven's life.
He sat across from her on the kitchen table, forcing half-baked lasagna down his throat, while she droned on about this and that. Some show she was a fan of, something new on Netflix. He paid her half attention, just enough to respond with the occasional 'Uh-huh', 'Yeah', and 'Keep Going'. Steven's mind was focused on far more important things than whatever flavor-of-the-month show she was bent on bingewatching.
Namely, he was spending his time appreciating her dress and the way it hung off her body. This hot little black one-piece with the thinnest straps over the shoulders, low cut to show off her breast, a skirt that put those toned thighs of her on full display. She'd said she was some kind of fitness instructor, and as much as he knew women liked to bullshit on these dates to impress him, he believed her. She had muscle and definition in all the right places, but the precise amount of fat covering it all kept her from looking like those freaky bodybuilder types you saw on the magazine covers. When you add in the stream of flaming hair traveling down her back and those open-toed sandals with the black nail polish over her dainty toes and that light skin with a tinge of tan to it...
You had all the right ingredients. She might not have been much around the kitchen, but damn, she knew how to prepare herself. Now, if he could just get her to shut the fuck up and use that mouth for something much more satisfying, they'd be in business.
"What about you? Watch anything good lately?"
Steven perked up at the sound of a question and sat up, tearing his eyes away from her legs. She'd had them out and to the side of the table, making them far too easy to stare at. A playful trap, and he'd been taking the bait, keeping his eyelids closed enough to mask his sly glances. But now that she was expecting him to get a word in he was ready, staring back at those glowing green eyes of hers.
"Me?" He forced more of the lasagna down his throat and ran a napkin over her lips, buying some time to speak. "I've never been all that big on streaming, you know? I watch sports on TV more than anything, Diane." Fuck, her name was Diane, right? She didn't have much of a reaction when he blurted the name out, so he was half sure he hadn't screwed it up.
"Oh, really?" Diane canted her head to the side with a slim smile. "What kind?"
God, this woman loved her chit-chat. As if she gave a single fuck. "Oh, you know, combat stuff. Big into boxing, MMA, sometimes wrestling-"
"MMA? You're kidding, stop." She had a short burst of a laugh, not unlike the ones he'd been forcing all night. "I used to do some of that, believe it or not."
That was enough to earn Steven's genuine surprise - he leaned back, blinked, furrowed his brow as he glanced over her body once more. Her figure was great, sure, but MMA? Most of the women he'd seen doing that sort of thing looked like they'd run face first into a wall. "What, like some classes, stuff like that? Tae Bo?"
She shook her head and spoke up after a sip of wine. "Oh, no. I competed. Full time." Steven was throwing out heavy bullshit flags, and he couldn't keep some of that from slipping out onto his face. He started to speak up, opened his mouth for it, but she cut him off with a laugh, this one louder, fuller, darker, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "You think I'm lying?"
Yes. "No, no, never." He brought his hands up, defensive. "I'm just skeptical, is all. Healthy skepticism. Need to see it to believe it, put it to the test." He placed his elbow on the table and leaned forward with narrowed eyes. "I did some wrestling in high school, some boxing here and there. Gifted hands." He held them up and flexed his fingers. "Maybe we could..."
"What do you mean, Stevie?" He threw out the line and she caught it. "A spar?"
"A spar. Work up a sweat, show me your moves. And, uh, don't call me Stevie. Just Steve." God, he hated that nickname. "Please."
Diana sat back, taking a moment to think and tease him out. Considering things. Steve had been here before and he knew where it was going. She was contemplating how her night would go and if she'd be going to bed alone, and he had a pretty good idea what she would pick. It was a quiet, intimate evening. He'd seen a dog bowl under the table, but the animal wasn't around for whatever reason, so there'd be no interruptions.
Just the two of them.
"I might like that." She broke the silence after ten seconds that felt ten times longer than that. "Next time. Maybe."
That was not the answer he was hoping to get. He played it off, had a cocky laugh, and went back to chewing away at the lasagna, but the frustration was real. All the money he'd spent tonight, all the time he'd sacrificed for this date, and he was going to end the day dry? "Sure," He smacked his lips. "Next time."
She was still smiling for a few moments before she stood up, taking the time to straighten her dress as she rose. She wagged a finger towards his glass, which had gone empty far earlier than he'd planned. He'd needed all he could to wash this junk down. "More wine?"
He nodded and watched her walk off towards the fridge, enjoying the show as she went. Amazing ass, ten out of ten, and the sight alone was having the typical reactions below the waist. It was enough to make him contemplate his options for the night. In particular, he was thinking about his 'Plan B'.
Steven made his move just as Diana was coming to the fridge, slipping a sly hand into his pocket while he stayed on the lookout, making sure she didn't catch on. Out came the single green pill with practiced ease, step one. He leaned over the table and held it over her glass, still nearly full with dark wine, step two. He cracked it open, let the contents dissolve into the liquid, step three. Done, in less than three seconds, the sort of skilled execution that he'd honed over the past ten years. Now, all she had to do was come back, take a few sips, and the night was guaranteed to get much more entertaining.
Steven sat back, innocent and unassuming, when she came back with the bottle. Smile, but don't smile too much. Relax. Don't look at the drinks more than you need to. It was all about the follow through when it came to these things. If you didn't play it cool enough, the girl might suspect you were up to something and get nervous. Everybody knew about roofies these days, so it was getting harder to catch them off guard.
In the back of his head, a small side note on the periphery, he noticed that she'd come back quieter than she'd left. He saw the reason why when she rounded the counter: She'd gone barefoot, letting her soft soles pad along the tiles. Getting comfortable, not that it mattered anymore.
"What's wrong?" He winked, then nodded down while she came over to his side and sat the bottle down. "Those heels getting the better of you?"
Diane answered him with a kick in the face.
At least, Steven thought it was a kick. Her leg came up, there was a flash of movement over the table, and he saw a blur in the vague shape of a foot heading towards his face. He only had time to widen his eyes before it connected and sent him falling back off the chair, nearly knocking over the table as he went ass over teakettle. He crashed hard on his back, rolled over from the momentum, and ended up with a heavy flop on his chest.
"What..." Steven pushed his way up after a few stunned seconds, before all the pain in his face hit him in one go. His palm came to his nose, felt around, and came on something wet. Blood. His nose was busted. Blinking, he looked up as reality set in and the situation came together. She'd kicked him in the face. She'd kicked him in the face. "Why the fuck did you-"
Steven had a lengthy list of expletives to throw Diane's way, but he wasn't able to utter any of them before she came rushing up and hit a penalty kick on his chin. The blow landed square and sent him flopping to his back once more. That was where he stayed this time, reeling from his aching jaw. His ears rang, his vision was turning into a blurry haze, and he could feel the subpar lasagna threatening to rise out of his guts.
Diane didn't kick him again, thank fucking god. Instead, she paced around in front of his fallen body, stalking him, her streaming red curls bouncing about with every step. The little bit of her face he could see through his fog wasn't pleasant, but scowling, staring at him like a roach that had the audacity to scurry its way into her home. Something in need of squishing.
After a few rounds, she stopped her circling and stood right at his feet, glaring his way with the hint of a sneer, with her hands on hips. "Get up. On your feet." All of the warmth was gone from her voice now, replaced with this acidic, biting tone, like there was a soft hiss under every word. And was there a slight hick accent underneath her voice, where he'd pegged her as a Yank, before. "Ten seconds, or I'll make sure you stay down. Ten. Nine..."
Steve wasn't sure what she was planning to do when that count ended and he didn't want to know. Frantic, scrambling, he rolled over to his stomach and scrambled to his feet, using the sofa for support. He wounded up stumbling into her living room, a wide open space surrounded by far too many plants, before he turned her way. "Jesus Christ, the hell is your problem?" He wiped his nose again, cutting off the growing stream of blood. "Are you crazy? You're fucking crazy!"
