4. Dove
“Okay, I know you’re doing recon tonight, but I need you,” I plead, layering my voice with as much persuasion as possible.
“Love Dove, I hate tacos and tequila night. Detective Dick will be there with all his little buddies, and it’s so Jersey Shore it’s disgusting. Why don’t you just join me?” Bunny’s tone is flat, completely unconvinced.
I don’t blame her.
She and Detective Dick—aka Hunter Remington—have been at each other’s throats since she rejoined the department. And as much as I try to get her to admit it, she refuses to acknowledge it’s because they want to hump like her namesake.
“New guy is going, and I can’t let him try to steal anyone in the office from me.” I glance around the break room as I whisper my mission into my phone, ensuring no one overhears. Wrenley has already charmed half the floor—the female half—and it’s only lunchtime. Who knows what will happen by tonight? “He’s definitely playing dirty. I saw him bringing Sharon a coffee and Cecilia a blueberry muffin, and you know that bitch loves her muffins.”
He’s after my job, and I can’t let him win.
Besides, who can do a better job of writing about me than me?
“Is he that hot?” Bunny actually sounds interested.
Even though she can’t see me, I point my yogurt spoon in warning. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh, honey. I’m thinking about it for you . When was the last time you got laid? And a rival? The tension? Swoon.” She croons the last word like a damn romance narrator.
Monotonously, I reply, “You realize how ironic that is, right?”
“I-I… That isn’t… It’s not the same!” I can practically see the blush staining her freckled cheeks as she vehemently denies her attraction to Hunter.
“Uh-huh, sure.” I pop a spoonful of strawberry yogurt in my mouth just as Wren enters the break room. I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him. Whenever we end up in the same space, my body tingles like it has a Spidey sense, hyper-aware of the songbird cooing at all the little chickadees in the office.
“I have to go. Think about tonight. Please?” I say quietly, tossing the foil top from my yogurt and turning to head back to my office before I have to interact with grumpy Mr. I Wanna Steal Your Job.
Wrenley is painstakingly handsome, I’ll give him that, but his earlier rudeness will surface at some point, and no amount of good looks can make up for the fact that he’s a dickfa?—
“Hello, Dove. I dropped something off for you on your desk. Feel free to go over it before passing it along to the rest of the team.” Wrenley’s smooth, deep voice drips over me like ice cream on a hot summer day.
Sticky. Sugary. Messy.
His presence at my back is suffocating, and I tilt my head up to see him looming over me. He grins at me from upside down. Or is he right side up, and I’m the one bending backward to get a better whiff of his cologne?
What is that? Cinnamon, citrus, and... sunshine?
Sunshine doesn’t have a smell, Dove. Get away from him. Now. Before he fucks up your other senses.
“Holy shit, is that him?” Bunny perks up. “He sounds sexy as hell. Count me in for tonight. I’ll take one for the team.”
My eye twitches, causing Wrenley’s to crinkle with mirth. I spin out from under him, my mask firmly in place as I face him and cheerfully exclaim, “I’m sure it’s riveting, Songbird. I’ll take it home to read before bed. I need something new to help me sleep.”
He tenses at the moniker. It’s what his name means, so I don’t see the issue, especially if it keeps cracking his chiseled armor.
“I look forward to your notes,” he grits out between clenched teeth, shoving his hands into the pockets of his navy Alain Dupetit.
I know a cheap suit when I see one.
“Whoa… A hundred bucks says you two fuck by the end of the night,” Bunny laughs, reminding me she’s still on the phone. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll meet you at your place at six.”
“Easiest money I’ll ever make.” I don’t bother saying goodbye, holding Wren’s glare with wide eyes and a saccharine smile as I hang up.
“Betting against me already?” His eyes narrow, and his pouty lips split into a smirk that makes my stomach flutter.
Only for a second.
Once that stupid measure of time passes, my palm twitches with the urge to smack the smarmy grin right off his gorgeous face.
Instead, I smile sweetly and shift my phone to the hand holding my yogurt. Stepping into him, I trail my free palm from the top of his left lapel to the bottom, relishing the way his eyes darken a fraction and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“You know what they say about betting, Songbird?” I lay my palm flat against his chest. Or maybe his abs. Either way, he’s rock solid, and I have to fight the urge to fist his shirt and climb him like a tree.
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 so much 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. “We need a time machine so we can go back to tomorrow?—”
“Yesterday,” I chime in.
“Yesterday, before the California 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’ve never 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.
“Why are they coming over here?” Bunny’s voice tugs me back, and I blink.
Wrenley and Hunter are indeed making their way toward us, empty beer glasses in hand despite the full pitcher at their table. I feel Bunny tense beside me. Her body language shifts—rigid, twitchy, like Hunter has caught her in a snare.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was afraid of the detective.
But I do know better, and if there’s anything Bunny’s afraid of where Hunter is concerned, it’s only her feelings for him.
“Well, if it isn’t Detective Dick? I see you picked up a stray. Better keep an eye on this one.” My voice jingles with feigned merriment. “He thinks he’s a thief.”
“Oh, so it’s not just me then?” Wrenley laughs, signaling Alex for another beer before flashing Hunter a smirk. “She’s this cheerful with everyone.”
He’s shed his suit jacket, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, revealing toned forearms .
Hunter laughs, ignoring Bunny entirely as he locks his amber gaze on me. “You know, Dove. If you’re not careful, one of these days, some guy is going to mistake your antagonism for foreplay.”
Heat flashes in Wrenley’s eyes as they slide back to mine. The type of fire you can’t figure out if it’s meant to consume you or burn you to ash. I hold my smile, cocking my head, silently daring him to add to Hunter’s comment.
“Maybe I should go to HR,” he muses with a full grin before turning to Bunny. “I take it you were the one on the phone earlier? The one I’m betting with? Hi, I’m Wrenley.”
He sticks out his hand, arm crossing in front of Hunter, who steps back, irritation flashing across his handsome features as he looks between his friend and mine.
Bunny shakes Wrenley’s hand meekly to make herself appear weaker—just like I did when I met him this morning—then gifts him with a dazzling smile. “Bunny. And I’d be careful betting against Dove. I’ll survive because I’m her best friend.” Her gaze drops, eyes settling between his legs. Her grin turns feline. “You, however, are going to be eaten alive.”
My brows flatten at the innuendo, and I shoot her a deadpan look.
Hunter smirks, taking a sip of the new beer Alex sets in front of him before giving Bunny and me our tacos. “Eh, I think Wren can hold his own. Dove isn’t so scary once you get to know her. Right, doll?” He winks at me, and I’m almost positive he’s trying to get under Bunny’s skin.
Wrenley glares at him for the affectionate term, his lips curling in distaste for a hot second before his features shift back to pretty-boy charm. He turns that devastating grin on me. “I fully intend to prove that Dove and I can work well together. I’m not trying to take her job. I’ll be happy to work under her.”
My eyes narrow. Liar. If that were true, he wouldn’t have spent all day schmoozing. He would have been busy trying to endear himself to me .
Bunny chokes on her taco. Bits of beef and cabbage go flying across the bar top as she exclaims, “Oh, I’m sure that’ll happen. Under, over, side by side. She likes to be in control so?—”
“That isn’t what I meant,” Wrenley cuts her off sharply.
She shrugs. “Then you’re not on my side of the bet.”
Wrenley looks at her quizzically while my lips curve up in a grin that denotes my victory for today’s verbal spar. “Wanna tell him what you bet me?”
“I don’t really care. I told you I’m not a betting man. It was a joke, Dove,” he sneers .
“Well, that’s good. Because I bet her you two’d be fucking by the end of the night.” Bunny’s abrasive delivery causes Wrenley to cough into his drink, foam and golden liquid spewing from between his lips to join the remnants of her taco on the smooth, glossy walnut.
“Not happening,” he manages between sputters as Hunter pounds his back, not even looking mildly concerned.
I extend my hand out, palm up, curling my fingers a few times as Bunny reaches into her purse, grumbling about how much she hates to lose.
“So then, Songbird, I’ll ask again—who’s the fool?”