Page 36 of Dolls & Daggers
“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice weary.
I shove my hands back into my pockets in an attempt at discreetly repositioning my pants, trying to ignore my body’s reaction. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t just say I wanted to go home with you, okay?”
Her brows draw together, and there’s something slightly familiar about the motion I can’t put my finger on. I’m sure I’ve seen her do it a million times before, but for some reason, it sparks a memory just out of reach—like déjà vu, but not.
“It’s fine,” she snaps, resuming her pace, sliding her arms through the sleeves of my jacket. “Really. Clearly, you don’t need company.”
“Someone sounds jealous.”
She snorts. “Keep dreaming, Songbird.”
It’s strange how it no longer bothers me that she calls me by the same nickname my mother used. Well… it does. But less than hearing her say my full name. That, I hated. It felt like a slap, like she had taken all her hurt and weaponized it, aiming straight for my chest.
“I’m not letting you walk home drunk.”
She doesn’t argue, and we fall into silence, the city sounds filling the space between us. It’s sort of… nice. Almost like we’re just a normal couple on a regular date.
“Why are you so obsessed with the Baby Doll Killer?” she asks quietly as we approach her street. “What is it about her that you’re so attracted to?”
“Whoa. Attracted? That’s a stretch,” I lie with a nervous laugh. Memories of how easily I pulled the Doll into my lap the other night filter through my mind. How hard I was just from her presence. But how the hell did Dove conclude that I’m attracted to the killer? “I admire her. I wouldn’t say I’m attracted to her.”
“Your articles say otherwise. That’s why we haven’t published them. You know that, right? You put her on a pedestal and take away from the horrific things the men she kills have done.” Dove throws her hands up. “You have an entire board of her in your office. You’re obsessed!”
I walk faster until we’re side by side. Her face is flushed from the cold, her chest heaving from how worked up she’s getting. A smirk crawls across my face. “And you’re cute when you’re jealous.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t reply as she stops at her building’s entrance. I happen to know Dove’s unit was left to her by an aunt she visited often as a kid. The neighbors welcomed her when she was younger. With her bright and bubbly personality and the fact thatmost of them already knew and adored her, the other co-op members were all too welcoming when Dove moved to the city.
But I keep that to myself. Because why the fuck would I tell her I know any intimate details about her life?
She’s right.
I am obsessed.
With her.
And I’m beginning to believe it might not be such a bad thing. I’m starting to see there’s a lot more to Dove than the sparkly mask she shows the world. As much as I’ve tried to fight it, I want to know the real her. I want to crawl inside her head and settle in, the way she’s made a home in mine. I want her to be just as infatuated with the idea of us as I am.
“Well, this is me.” She won’t meet my eyes, nervously digging the toe of her white platform into the concrete. I’ve never seen her nervous before. It gives me hope.
Of what, I’m not entirely sure. I still see my mother when I look at her, and that terrifies me. My past still has its deformed fingers hooked under my skin. Dove is like a bright new beginning I don’t want to tarnish.
“Since you’re already here, you might as well come up.” She spins and heads inside without giving me achance to say no. And I follow, because—newsflash—I’ve apparently become a simp.
Her place is bright and clean and so very pink. Cream and blush accents are everywhere, like something straight off a Pinterest board brought to life through decorative pillows, silk flowers, and even gilded crystal chandeliers. Dove’s taste is like an old, rich grandma’s—if that grandma had updated her appliances to match the century.
The rat greets us at the door. He looks like he’s gearing up for a Skittles commercial, his sparse hair still bright and colorful. “What’s up, little rat?”
“Don’t call him a rat!” Dove chides, but Fang just jumps on my leg, tail wagging like we’re old pals.
“He doesn’t care. I think he likes me.” I pick him up, tucking him into my arm like a baby. “Don’t you, little dude?” Scratching his head, I follow her further inside.
She glances over her shoulder, glaring at Fang. “Traitor.”
We reach her pristine, cream-colored kitchen with its custom blush refrigerator. “Do you want something to drink?”
She’s still swimming in my jacket as she opens a cabinet, pushing up on her tiptoes, revealing more of her bare thighs. My pants tighten, and I wonder what she’d do if I picked her up and set her on the counter.
For some reason, though, I find myself asking, “What set off your panic attack when you saw Fang?”
