Page 75 of Dolls & Daggers
Turtle Dove
Eeee! So cute!
A picture comes through of her and Fang. Dove blows a kiss at the screen while the rat looks at her like she’s crazy. A smile curves my lips again as I collapse into a chair and scrub the day’s travel from my face.
Fuck, I miss them already.
Turtle Dove
We’re headed to Bunny’s for book club. I swear I’m going to make her tell me what happened in that bathroom.
Hunter won’t tell me. If Bunny tells you, I think it’s safe to say she wants him just as much as he wants her.
Dove’s reply is almost immediate.
Turtle Dove
Duh! I could have told you that! They love each other. She’s just worried about getting hurt again.
Anyway. Bunny’s house has shitty service, so if you call later and I don’t answer, that’s why. Talk tomorrow?
I need a long, hot shower to ease my tense muscles. More than anything, I wish I’d just been truthful with Dove and told her what I was really doing.
Talk tomorrow. And when I get home, I plan on having a very long, very serious conversation with your pussy while you discuss future living arrangements with my cock.
Just typing the words has me hard. If I hadn’t lied, I’d FaceTime her so we could mutually masturbate to relieve the frustration of being apart for the first time in weeks.
Turtle Dove
I’m on the train, Songbird! And you don’t want to go walking around Hunter’s with a hard-on! Down boy!
Guilt eats away at me for lying to her. She’s given me the strength I need to face my demons, but I refuse to drag her into my mess. I know she’d be by my side in a heartbeat if I asked her to come with me.
But now I finally understand why she doesn’t want me there when she becomes the Doll.
My mother is unpredictable. And I won’t put Dove in any situation that might put her in danger.
I can take care of myself, Songbird.I can hear her as though she’s beside me—hands on her hips, a pretty scowl on her face, amusement dancing in her big blue eyes.
Goodnight, Turtle Dove. I love you.
Turtle Dove
I love you, too.
Even though I know she can take care of herself, I need to do this alone. I have to face this to live the life Iwant with Dove. Otherwise, there will always be a tiny speck of splattered ink on every page of our story, an ever-present blemish in the margins.
Steam rolls out of the small bathroom as I turn the shower as hot as it will go. The water scalds my skin, but I barely feel it. The pain is nothing compared to the terrors that occurred in the house I’ll be visiting tomorrow.
For years, I suffered. Unable to walk away. Unwilling to face the proverbial monster under the bed. When I was old enough to know better, I should have stopped it. I could have left. Yet I did nothing.
What kind of sick fuck does that make me?
A traumatized one, Songbird. This is why we need to go to therapy.
Dove’s words from a few days ago echo in my mind as I wipe the fog from the mirror. Since interviewing Ginny Tailor about the new family center she’s opening, I researched their accommodations. Therapy happens to be one of them, and the branch near the Upper East Side has people who specialize in sexual trauma.
Dove is interested in various support groups, but I need something more solitary. I’m not ready to talk about what happened to me with a bunch of strangers.
