Page 37 of Dolls & Daggers
Dove freezes, fingers wrapped around a blush-colored crystal goblet before she retrieves a water pitcher from the fridge and fills the glass. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Dove. It set you off. There has to be a story there.” I push the glass back toward her when she slides it across the counter. “You drink it. I had a few beers. I’m pretty sure you drank half a bottle of Patrón by yourself.”
She fixes me with a sassy look. “I may be little, Songbird, but I can still drink you under the table.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I smirk, holding her gaze as she lifts the glass and takes a sip. “So, what’s the story?” I prod, setting Fang down and inwardly beaming when he begs for attention again.
Instead, I reach across the counter, refill her glass, and bring it over to the sofa. I place the cup on a coaster, patting the cushion beside me as I get comfortable. “You wanted to hang out, didn’t you?”
Her lips twitch as she taps her nails on the gold speckled cream granite. “I don’t think trauma dumping on a first date is exactly material for ensuring a second one,” she states flatly.
“Is this a date, Dove? Or are we just two colleagueshanging out?” I raise an eyebrow, patting the cushion again. “Come on.”
Fang jumps up like I was calling him, curling into my lap and facing Dove like an endorsement. It seems to work. The corner of her lips lifts, a breathy laugh escaping as she shakes her head. “He likes men in general. Don’t feel too special, Songbird.”
“Tell me he doesn’t like Ryan, at least? I don’t think I can be friends with you if you liked that douche,” I coo at the rat before realizing I just spoke to him in a baby voice.
Dove hides her smile in the cuff of my jacket, coming to join me on the sofa. She hugs a pillow to her stomach, resting her head against the back cushion. “Okay, I won’t.”
I drop a glare to Fang. He peers up at me innocently, tail wagging furiously, with big eyes half hidden by his long bangs. “You just lost two points in my book, rat.” I turn back to Dove. “Story time. Fess up. What set you off?”
She exhales heavily. “Wren?—”
“I’m trying to get to know you here, Dove. Give me something real. Deeper than what you show everyone else at work. Drop the sunshine act. You’re in a safe space. A very pink, very safe space.” I grin, gesturing around her living room.
“But am I in safe company?” she wonders aloud, melancholy creeping into her voice.
I meet her eyes, my earlier playfulness fading. “Yes. You’re in safe company. Whatever you tell me stays locked in here.” I tap my temple.
And in here.My heart chimes in.
Thanks, my dude, but I’m not ready to go spilling you at her feet just yet.
Dove inhales deeply, then exhales with puffed cheeks and pursed lips. “Okay. Well. Long story short, I got a teacher in trouble when I was younger, and the kids at school got upset. He was everyone’s favorite, so they picked on me in retaliation. I grew up in a small town—one where everyone knew everyone. We lived in a tight-knit neighborhood, but people were angry about what happened. The kids took it out on my dog.
They paintballed my house, shot my dog, and covered him in paint. He died—both from the force of the paintballs causing internal bleeding and because the paint was toxic. He tried to clean himself, ingesting it in the process. By the time my mom and I got home, it was too late.”
She ends her story with a nonchalant shrug. “It was stupid. I shouldn’t have freaked out. I’m sorry.”
“What’s the long version?”
Her eyes snap up at my hardened tone. I listened the whole time, but my brain trips over the idea of hergetting a teacher in trouble. A feeling crawls down my spine and spreads through my limbs, icy and bitter, leaving my skin pebbled with gooseflesh.
Something flickers through her pretty blue eyes. A hint of sadness. A heavy weight she’s carried for years. A recognizable torment I hope to God I’m wrong about.
But like calls to like.
And right now, Dove is shining like a damn lighthouse in the middle of a dark, stormy sea.
“What?” she asks on a breath, long lashes fluttering as if my question confuses her.
“What happened with the teacher? How did you get him in trouble?”
I shift. Fang jumps from my lap and pads down the hall, likely sensing the unease creeping through me.
To my surprise, Dove answers. Her eyes fall to the cushion between us as she plays with a random curl, running her fingers over the flaxen strands. “My dad died when I was thirteen. He was away on a business trip. Just standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a seat at a restaurant, when a drunk driver lost control and hit him.”
Tears fill her eyes, and my heart reaches for hers, aching to offer solace.
