I forced a smile. “Yeah… just need the bathroom.” I ducked back inside.
The waitress was near the bar. When she saw me, her eyes widened.
“What is this?” I whispered, holding up the receipt.
She leaned in. “You don’t know him, do you?”
My stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”
She glanced around. “He brings different women here. Always acts broke. Some end up paying. One came back crying last week—said he stole from her. She let him stay at her place. Her laptop and jewelry disappeared.”
I stared at her, speechless.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know how else to warn you.”
I thanked her and walked back out, climbed into Deacon’s car.
He didn’t notice my silence. Just kept talking—his gym routine, a startup idea, how his ex was “too clingy.” I nodded, watching the city blur past, wondering how much of this was rehearsed.
When he dropped me off, he leaned in. “Second date?”
I smiled faintly. “I’ll text you.”
He drove off, still grinning. I stood on my porch, heart pounding. Part of me wanted to block him and forget it ever happened.
But another part—the stubborn part—needed answers.
The next day, I deep-dived. Not just his socials, but tagged photos, mutuals, comments.
His real name wasn’t Deacon.
It was Marvin.
I found a Reddit thread about a guy in our city using fake names to scam women—money, rides, places to stay. Screenshots, DMs, even a blurry photo. It was him.
I felt sick.
Then, two days later, he texted me:
“Hey, beautiful. Been thinking about you. Can I come over tonight?”
I should’ve blocked him. But I said:
“Sure.”
