Page 8 of Dolls & Daggers
I really do need to get laid.
“What’s that?” His biceps flex like he’s also fighting his body’s impulses, but his hands remain in his pockets, even as he leans in ever so slightly.
“They say in a bet, there’s a fool and a thief. You may think you’re the thief, Wrenley, but I assure you, I’m no fool.”
“I’m not the one betting, Dove.” His rich tone drops to a hush as he leans down, his breath warm against my ear, sending electric zaps down my spine, like touching one of those fly swatter contraptions—not quite painful, but not pleasant either.
Yet, the proximity, combined with his heady scent, sends a rush of warmth between my legs. My lips part as he draws back slowly, nearly brushing his cheek against mine.
“But if I were, I’d gamble everything and side with whoever was on the other end of the line—as long as it’s against you.”
He straightens and turns, walking away without somuch as a glance in any direction other than his office, leaving me to gape after him.
If only he knew what he just bet all his chips on.
“Of course,he’s friends with Detective Dick,” Bunny groans before slamming back a shot of cheap tequila.
“And, of course, he’s a good writer.” I toss back two in a row, forgoing the lime as I signal our favorite bartender for another round.
Wrenley’s piece on the Baby Doll Killer was impressive, I have to admit. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the way he writes about her—me?—is almost poetic. His article didn’t just praise her; it read like a love letter to the woman herself.
Yourself. Like he was spouting Shakespeare directly to you.
My articles are written in a way that endears my alter ego to the public, painting her as a vigilante, exposing the filth of her victims. Wrenley, though—he writes like he wants the world to fall in love with her.
“It’s not fair that he comes in and ruins our lives in less than twelve hours. Alex!” Bunny slaps her hand on the bar as the bartender refills our shot glasses. “Weneed a time machine so we can go back to tomorrow?—”
“Yesterday,” I chime in.
“Yesterday, before theCalifornia Dreamin'hottie stole my bestie.” She leans over and wraps her arms around my shoulders, her long raven hair cascading over me like a cloak.
I look at her incredulously. “Wait. What? No, no, no. No one has stolen me.”
“He has!” she cries dramatically, flinging the back of her hand to her forehead with mock derision. “He’s tucked you under his wings and flown the coop!”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking, and that’s saying something,” Alex interjects, his icy blues narrowing as he pours a shot for me only. “Tacos for you, missy. Or no more alcohol.”
“Hey!” she protests, sitting up straight, all evidence of theatrics vanishing from her hazel eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ, I was just kidding. Give me another, please. And three of the cola-braised beef.” She turns to me. “You eating?”
“Yeah, I’ll have the same.” A round of cheers from across the bar snags my attention. Wrenley is with Hunter and his cop buddies, plus a few women from work.
Fucking Cecilia. I knew he’d get her with that damn muffin.
“How do he and Detective Dick even know each other? I thought you said he just moved from California,” Bunny asks with a more sober tone than she had a minute ago. She glares at them, the motion crinkling the teal foil stars stuck to her cheek—a mask for the scar left by her husband.
My best friend’s mood swings on a dime, and sometimes, even I can’t tell if she’s tipsy, stone-cold sober, or just a divine actress. Years of hiding her true feelings, of keeping her tongue in check to avoid her husband’s wrath, left their mark. Even now, two years after his death, some habits die hard.
“Apparently, he lived here as a kid. They were childhood friends before his family moved to the West Coast for reasons I couldn’t dig up.” I tear my gaze from the corner and find Bunny watching me, a slow, predatory smile curving her lips. “What?”
“You’re into him.” Not a question. Not even an observation. Just cold, hard truth, according to Bunny.
“I’m… intrigued,” I admit. Anyone who can watch the videos I send to the police of me dismembering men and gleefully stabbing them to death, then turn around and still wax poetic about my appearance and intent? That’s bound to pique my interest.
My eyes stray back to the corner, only to find Wrenley watching me intently. For a moment, everyone else in the bar fades away until it’s just us. I’venever had such a visceral reaction to someone I just met.
Disgust? Sure. But immediately wanting to jump someone’s bones all because of his looks and overall disdain for my person?
I guess there’s a first for everything.
