SHOOT| ✓

Darcy Ivanov (i)

I SKIPPED SCHOOL AND SPENT MY ENTIRE DAY WATCHING AS MANY CHICK FLICKS AS I COULD.

Surprisingly, they turned out to be more informative than I had ever given them credit for. I must have watched at least twenty different movies, and along the way, I picked up about a hundred different things I could try on my date with Darcy tonight.

As the hours went by, I found myself getting more and more engrossed in the films. I was so absorbed in the stories unfolding on the screen that I couldn't tear my eyes away. And the kissing scenes - I must have replayed them a dozen times each, studying every move, every gesture, every subtle nuance.

It wasn't just about the kissing, though. I was taking notes on everything - the way the characters talked, the way they flirted, the little things they did to show each other that they cared. I was determined to make tonight perfect.

By the time the sun began to set, I had a long list of ideas and a newfound confidence. I was ready for our date, and I was going to make it the best one yet. Thanks, chick flicks.

Girls expect a kiss at the end of the night and I can't process the reasons why. Why is the exchange of saliva so important? Seems disgusting to me.

I don't take any particular interest in lip-locking with girls.

It comes as a surprise to most people, even my parents and Ryder. I just can't take pride in putting my lips on every girl I come across like most of the football team.

I choose carefully. I guess Darcy's the lucky gal.

I already have the kiss laid out, down to the very millisecond I plan on leaning in and pulling away. Long enough to keep the moment sensual, and short enough to keep the tension high.

I think it should work. It's easy enough for even the dumbest of football players to understand. Pricks. So hormonal it drives me insane.

The only aspect of this entire evening that I haven't accounted for is the shuddering of my heart and the heat engulfing my body as I sit in Dad's car at the curb of the street.

I stare at Darcy's quaint house through the tinted window, and it does nothing to soothe me.

Stalking is so much easier, and so is committing murder.

I lean back against the leather seat and take the time to even out my breathing. I think of the potential I have of killing her tonight. I think of all the ways I might screw up. I think of where to hide the body.

I think of what she might be wearing.

I'm clad in my dark wash jeans, white T-shirt and a jean jacket. I hate effort. I also hate the fact that I didn't put in enough effort.

Don't be a pussy, Jackson. Get out of the fucking car.

My fingers reach for the door handle. Pushing the door open, I step out and close it behind me, taking a deep breath in before finally marching up the path leading to her house. I don't bring my knife with me. It might put a dampener on the entire evening. I'm sincerely trying not to ruin it. I walk up the porch steps and stop right in front of the door.

Here it goes.

I push the doorbell and wait, meanwhile, all my anxiousness is dripping like an overflowing sink.

It takes less than two minutes for the door to creak open and for my eyes to settle on who I know isn't Darcy. This man is young-looking, tall, and broad-shouldered; intimidating to a fault. His stony expression mirrors mine, and his piercing green eyes are unreadable as they glower at me.

He strikes me as the kind of man with very hostile intentions. I respect him already.

"Darsi, ya dumayu, on zdes'."