The phone rang, jolting him out of his daze. He'd been thinking about her, the girl from earlier that evening. She was gorgeous, definitely his type. She could have been a model with those huge green eyes and long blonde hair. Those legs were a dead giveaway, though. Maybe she wasn't his type after all... But it was too late, he'd already chosen her.
He'd met her at the bar down the street from his New York City penthouse apartment. She was the fifth one. His friend had promised that this one would be the one. But she wasn't, again. He was mad. No, mad didn't even do his feelings justice, he was infuriated. His friend had promised him; apparently promises don't mean what they used to.
He picked up the phone with more force than he'd intended and almost ripped it off the cord. In his crazed state he muttered a quick apology to the phone and answered it.
"Oh, it's you. What the hell do you want now?"
"Listen, I know I m-made a mistake with the last one--"
"With the last one? Dammit John, you screwed up with all five!"
"Yes, y-yes I know. I'm sorry. But listen, I know I've found the right one this time. She's sitting at the bar up front, o-okay? And she's waiting for you, I just... I just know it!"
The man rolled his eyes at the phone, clearly unphased by the other man's begging tone. However, his annoyed look quickly turned to a happy one as a new idea came to his mind. He never told this to his friend, but it never really mattered to him if he found the 'right' one. All women were the same to him. As long as he could get his hands on one, he was happy. He did like to make his friend work, though, and this was why he gave him such a hard time about every woman he had been set up with. Every time, he would be angry with his friend, and every time his friend would apologize and find a new one. Every single time... And that way there would be no link between him and the women, not publicly at least.
But not a single one ever really fit his real needs.
And after the sixth mistake, the man finally found the 'right one'.
He was in the basement of his old home, the shit hole he had come from years earlier. The thing had never sold, but that could easily be attributed to the man's obvious distaste toward the idea of a sale. He came up with a reason to say no every time an offer was made. There were all kinds of offers: the low bidders, wanting to buy it at a cheap price because they saw a hidden potential and wanted to renovate it for resale; the high bidders wanting to be the clear and quick winners of the battle, hoping to make it a quick choice for the man; and the ones who offered his sale price, hoping to get it but not wanting to spend too much. But no matter what the price, he always said no. After all, he did have a deep, dark secret attached to that house. He couldn't ever let it go.
The bartender, the man's friend John, the seventh and final victim, was strapped to the operating table in front of him. The poor bartender stuttered as he begged the man to let him go. He apologized for the sixth mistake, he cried, he struggled against the straps. The man was set in his ways, though.
"Oh John, it's useless to apologize for her. She's gone now. So are the previous five. And they're all your fault. If only you had found me the perfect one sooner..." His voice trailed off as he thought of the six women he had so conveniently finished with over the last few weeks.
But now that he had finally found the one, he was happy enough. He couldn't let his favorite victim go.