Page 23 of Dolls & Daggers
I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “One: gross. I don’t want the entire floor smelling like poo. Two: remind me never to get on your bad side.” An idea sparks. “What if we get pink toilet paper and TP his office?”
“What are you, five?” she asks derisively.
“Like your suggestion was any better.”
Then her eyes light up, and she grabs my shoulders. “I got it! He’s always making fun of your obsession with pink.”
She’s not wrong. Wren loves giving me backhanded compliments about my outfits and office decor, but… “I’m not following.”
“His hair is blond.” She nods like I should be connecting the dots. When I don’t, she sighs dramatically and continues as if she’s explaining it to a toddler. “It would be a shame if someone put color in hisshampoo bottle at the gym. Doesn’t he go during lunch?”
My brows flatten as I deadpan, “Did you really expect me to follow that train of thought?”
She hops off her barrel, adjusting her skirt as she heads for the door leading to the rest of the basement. “Come on. Who’s working security tonight?”
“Whoa! Wait! What about him?” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder.
Bunny just waves me off. “Eh, he’s fine. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
Wrenley
The spray of warm water soothes my aching muscles. I went harder on the bag than usual today, releasing my pent-up frustration over Dove, the Doll, and work.
Waiting for Dove to retaliate has me more wound up than an old fucking clock. Her little digs and quips are starting to piss me off, and now more than ever, I’m questioning what the fuck I’m even doing here.
My hands ball into fists at my sides as I let the water run down my body, replaying our last conversation.
“I heard someone had a rather awkward lunch with the Tailors today. Sounds like big daddy Tailor got alittle jealous of his wife going to lunch with a handsome young reporter.”
“Oh yeah? And where did you hear that from?” News travels fucking fast if she already knows. I thought Jackson Tailor was going to happily snap my neck when he crashed my work lunch with his wife, all because we were talking about the new center she’s opening.
Dove giggles. “A lady never reveals her sources. And it sounds like you lost your best one there, Songbird.”
“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the tile, wincing as the skin on my knuckles splits.
The swell of red washes away instantly, pink droplets falling to my hardened cock before swirling down the drain.
Violence, Dove, and jerking off all seem to go hand in hand lately—pun intended. Thinking about her pisses me off, which makes me hard, and before I know it, I’m coming to the image of her with my hands wrapped around her throat, imprinted on the back of my eyelids.
Ignoring my erection, I grab my shampoo and close my eyes, lathering my hair and letting the suds wash away any and all dirty thoughts pertaining to Dove. Instead, my mind drifts to the Doll. I don’t know why I thought working here might bring me closer to finding her. To figuring out who she is. To getting the chance to crawl inside her mind andcocoon myself there until I can emerge as strong as her—strong enough to face my demons.
I thought maybe Dove had an in. A source, or something,anything, to help with her articles. But I can’t bring myself to follow her, to try and discover how she knows so much about the vigilante serial killer. I can’t bring myself to spend more time with her than necessary—even if she wants me to, if last weekend at the bar was anything to go by. Turning her down gave me a fleeting sense of control, but the aftermath has left nothing but a bigger itch I want to scratch while simultaneously pushing Dove further away.
Even before that night, she clearly didn’t want to work together. But who can blame her?
Would things be different if I’d played nice on my first day here? In all honesty, I thought I was. I thought Dove could be charmed, swayed by my good looks like everyone usually is. I saw her office and expected a meek, albeit smart, woman who would happily share the workload.
How fucking wrong I was.
I wash my hair again, keeping my eyes closed as I rotate under the spray, soaking up the warmth before begrudgingly grabbing my towel to dry off. As I wrap it around my waist, I notice a neon pink stain on the soft, white Egyptian cotton.
“What the fuck?” I turn the towel over, scanning the shower for any sign of what could have caused the color, only to see the suds from my shampoo are bright pink.
Adrenaline courses through my veins like a hit—but instead of euphoria, it burns like acid, eating away at my insides.
Quickly, I wrap the towel around my waist and dart out to the vanities, ignoring the odd looks from the other guys in the locker room. I’m sure I look like a cartoon character, comically sliding in my shower flip-flops as I reach the mirrors.
“Are youfuckingkidding me?” The question reverberates off the walls, met with a few snickers as I rake my fingers through my ruined strands.
