For more seconds than she could count, Marissa felt herself yanked blindly through the darkness. She wanted to cry out, to draw some attention to her dilemma, but if the clientele in the front of the bar had frightened her, she didn't want to imagine who haunted the back halls. Finally, Sam pulled her into a small, cozy kitchen that had a tiny window on one side. Though she couldn't see much through it, Marissa did see light from a streetlamp, for which she felt grateful. Beyond that, she thought that she saw the clock tower at the university, but the twilight toyed with her vision, and she couldn't say for sure what lay outside the confines of the walls.

On the way to her destination, Marissa imagined all sorts of horrors which Sam might have held in store for her, and the warmth of the little kitchen, even without light, confounded her predictions. She felt incredibly grateful that the only furnishings in the room were a small table and two chairs along with a refrigerator and a sink. A small stove stood along an adjacent wall.

Sam walked over to the cabinet above the sink and pulled something down to the countertop. Though she strained her eyes, she could make out nothing until a sudden flare burned her eyes with its intensity. She for some reason couldn't see the candle that she knew contained the wick on which the fire burned.

When Sam spoke, he seemed all sincerity. "I apologize for the Spartan setting. This part of the house doesn't have electricity, but I didn't know anywhere else where we could be alone. At least," he bared his teeth at her, and her heart danced against her ribs, "not anywhere you would be willing to go."

"Is this your house?" Marissa forced her words through clenched teeth, fear and shock sending her into shivers.

Sam turned to look at her, the flame floating before him toward the table where she now sat.

"You're cold," he peered at her through the inky air.

She answered too quickly, "I'm fine."

Regardless, Sam pulled a jacket from a hat tree that she had not seen standing in one corner, and he walked over to her to place it around her shoulders. Despite her discomfort, the jacket brought a welcome warmth to her chilling skin.

"What do you want to talk to me about, anyway?" Marissa chattered. "This seems like a lot of trouble to talk to someone you hardly know."

"But, Marissa, I know enough about you to find you very interesting," he simpered. He left her at the table and retrieved something from the refrigerator. Even with the candle, Marissa had no idea what he held in his hands. Sam's words agitated her, and she began to chew her bottom lip nervously.

"I don't drink!" she insisted firmly.

"Of course not," he agreed, though in the dark, Marissa couldn't tell if he spoke sincerely or sarcastically.

"I'd much rather just have some tea." Her voice sounded mousy in her own ears, and Marissa hated her insecurity at that moment more than ever. She knew that she always seemed vulnerable, but she usually held more confidence than she portrayed. Now, she definitely held less.

Within minutes, however, Sam had kindled a flame in the stove, and Marissa could make out the silhouette of a teapot against the red flames. She asked her question again. "What do you want me to talk about?" Marissa literally begged.

Sam sat down next to her and looked into her face, "You're in such a hurry. Don't you find this room incredibly comfy?"

"Well, yes, actually," Marissa acquiesced weakly.

"Mr. Moran, the building's owner, used to live here. When the neighborhood started to go down, he bought a nicer place just outside of town, but he's kept this property for years."

The thought stoked Marissa from her timidity. "He just moved? He didn't try to renovate the neighborhood or invest some of his money in the community?" As soon as she spoke, she recoiled from the sound of her own voice.

Sam set a glass down in front of her and shot her a crooked grin. "You really are something," he snickered.

When she peered down at the cup, her eyes grew huge. She had seen clearly what type of drink the establishment served, and she had no desire to partake of them.

"It's orange juice," Sam said reassuringly. "Do you think I would bring you back here, ply you with drink, and have my way with you? The tea will be ready in a minute."

Though his words implied irony, his eyes seemed to say that he considered the plan a very real possibility. She hesitated, unwilling to take the chance of taking a drink.

"Have it your way," he shrugged. "You've smelled that stuff out there. I could hardly cover the odor with orange juice."

She still didn't drink.

"Why did you bring me here? Why did you ask me on a date at all?" Marissa tended to take people at face value, but even she could see that Sam held some ulterior, if not nefarious, motive.

"I told you. I wanted to talk to you. You and I share a common interest. Not to mention that I find you interesting by yourself."

Marissa scoffed. For someone like Sam to find her interesting seemed highly unlikely. "So, what was wrong with meeting in the park? This seems a highly inconvenient meeting place."

"Depends on your intentions," he grinned. "The park is an extremely public place. It would be hard to carry on a private conversation there without the possibility of eavesdroppers. Considering what I want to talk about, we need privacy."

"What you want to talk about, or what you want to do?" she begged petulantly. She felt shocked at her own boldness, but she seemed completely at his mercy anyway, and she doubted whether her words would determine the outcome of her evening here.

Again, he grinned at her, almost a leer, but his words spoke comfort his looks belied.

"Oh, Marissa. I think you misread me. I'm not the bad guy here."

"Then who is?" she asked him pointedly. "Because I'm not, and no one else is here."

He actually laughed at her. "You're funny. No, no bad guys here. This is just a conspiracy of the good guys: you and me."

Raising the glass to her nose, Marissa sniffed. She really couldn't smell anything like what she had sensed in the bar outside. Sniffing one more time, she took a small sip.

"Poison doesn't smell bad," she accused.

Again, Sam laughed. "You really have pegged me as one of the bad guys, haven't you? Watch." He picked up her glass and took a swig. "It's not poisoned, okay?"

Marissa actually sighed with relief. At least she didn't need to worry about that one. She took a bigger sip; her lips were parched, most likely from when Sam yanked her into the terrifying darkness and all the blood rushed from her extremities, she thought bitterly.

"Fine," she huffed. "Look, this is all very unusual. You claim you want to talk to me. You say you're the good guy. If this is true, then why would you bring me somewhere where just entering the building makes me a criminal? I've never broken a law in my life. And I think I'm breaking several right now."

He shrugged, a smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. "Probably."

"So, the sooner I can get out of here, the better I'll feel."

"Marissa," he purred, reaching to take her hand.

"And that's another thing!" she interrupted him, pulling her hand back. "You keep touching me without my permission. I don't just hold the hand of any man I meet. Even men I know well! You don't seem to have much respect for me."

"On the contrary," he peered up at her through the dim light. "I don't feel compelled to hold the hand of every girl I meet. Just ask Colleen O'Connell."

"Who?" Marissa asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Colleen O'Connell. You would remember her. She was with me the last two times you saw me in the park."

She cocked her head at him. "I wasn't really watching anyone but you."

At the words, he leered at her.

"I mean," she felt horrified by the intimations, "that you and I were carrying on conversations. Plus, I didn't know anyone else there."

"Of course," he leaned in across the table. "Yeah, I tend to lose sight of everyone else when you show up, too."

Though she had no doubt of his insincerity, hearing the words directed at her sent a thrill up her spine. She suppressed it.

"So why would I ask Colleen O'Connell?" she reintroduced the relevant topic.

"Huh?" he stared up from where he had grabbed her hand again. He had begun to swirl his fingertip across her palm, a liberty she allowed mostly to avoid an escalation of emotion in either of them. "Oh, about holding hands." he grinned. "Well, she would love to sit in your chair right now, holding my hand. She's been maneuvering into that spot for months."

"You said I've seen her?"

"Well, she interrogated you the other night."

Marissa knew immediately. "Oh, her." She could remember the caustic sound of the young woman's voice as she mocked Marissa. The thought brought Marissa back to her circumstances. "So, why did you bring me here? What is so important that you talk to me?"

"You are so suspicious, Marissa," he scolded. "I've seen it in your eyes since you met me; you have never trusted me."

"Can you blame me? The first time I met you, you sent me sprawling into the street."

"I told you! An unfortunate accident!"

Marissa felt her tongue loosening in an uncharacteristic fashion. "You are a liar. You had no need to stick your foot in front of my tire! Why did you do it? Explain yourself!"

Grinning, Sam leaned closer again, so close that Marissa could feel his breath on her face. "Oh, Marissa," he whispered. "How else was I going to meet you?"

Undaunted, she stared directly into his eyes. "And I think you're still lying! Why do you really want me here? You don't care about anything that I care about." Her cheeks burned, though not with embarrassment.

"I didn't say I cared," he grinned. "I said I was 'interested.' As a matter of fact, a lot of people are interested, including Colleen O'Connell, and several other very important people. We want to know about your paper."

Marissa stopped breathing altogether. Though she knew she should be frightened by the revelation, she couldn't feel fear, as if her brain had somehow disconnected from her emotions. She wanted to laugh or cry, not cringe away in terror. "What paper?" she had the presence of mind to ask.

Instead of answering, Sam reached up to stroke her cheek. Her lips opened with a little gasp of shock. The teapot began a gentle whine against the dark, but Sam ignored it, and Marissa found herself unable to pay attention to it. Again, her head warned that she should feel afraid, but she didn't. Sam trailed his fingers down to her lips. "You know," he whispered as he leaned even closer. "The beautiful stories, the articles, the lists. I especially like the stories. You," he studied her mouth intently, "write beautiful stories."

Despite her stupor, the words brought Marissa so much pleasure. Her lips curve in a closed-mouth smile. "You like my stories?" she slurred.

"I do," he agreed. "Who helped you write that paper?"

Marissa would have exclaimed her innocence again, but Sam stopped her protest with his finger, pressing it gently against her lips. Still, her mind could not make her draw away, even as she felt the noose of his question tighten around her neck. Before she could codify her complaint, Sam had pressed his lips against hers.

"Who..." a kiss. "...else..." another kiss. "wrote the paper?"

He pulled back an inch from her lips and stared expectantly into her eyes, as if he waited merely for her to say the words before he cut off her breath with a final, mind-numbing kiss. She leaned forward, letting her eyes fall shut and her lips part, craving the warmth of his mouth on hers again. For a moment, nothing happened, and the pause allowed a thought to worm its way through her stupor. Her eyes fluttered open in confusion.

"I..." she stuttered as he pulled back. Through the fog of sensations, her mind refused to surrender one thin thread of sanity. "I did it all by myself."