5. Wrenley
Hunter grips the bag tighter, his feet sliding back a few inches from the force of my hit. A smarmy smirk twists his lips as he raises his brows in amusement.
“What’s got you in a tizzy? Lover’s quarrel again?”
“We.” Punch. “Aren’t.” Punch. “Lovers.” Punch, punch.
Even though he hit the proverbial nail on the head. My first official week of work has been hell.
From my suggestions getting shot down in every meeting to my articles being siphoned into a folder on Dove’s desktop, I’ve been reduced to churning out mediocre reports about shit I couldn’t care less about while Dove’s work still takes center stage.
Charming the office hasn’t helped either, because the one person I actually need to impress is the one person immune to my dazzling smile and good looks. If anything, the infuriating woman is completely unaffected.
A fact I find most irritating—though, for the life of me, I can’t fathom why.
Dove Carroway is an enigma. A riddle I can’t crack. On principle, I don’t want to be attracted to her, but every time she’s in my general vicinity, I can’t fucking look away. It’s like our eyes have a magnetic pull, drawn together no matter how hard I try to resist.
“It’s kinda creepy how much she looks like?—”
“Don’t fucking finish that sentence, Hunt.”
The bite in my tone echoes through the gym. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the inside of my arm as we switch places.
Hunter studies me, unconvinced. “Is that your issue with her? Because I’ve never seen that woman dislike anyone. And for as long as I’ve known her, I can’t think of a single soul who has a problem with her. She’s like bubblegum personified—sweet, sugary, and addicting… if you know what I mean.” He shrugs casually, but I know he’s baiting me.
He’s been doing it all week. Every time he sees me and her together, because for whatever reason, he sees something between us too. A force yanking us closer, even when we try to stay apart.
“What about Bunny?” I counter. Two can play this game, asshole. “She’s more my type. I like the whole rocker chick thing she’s got going on—sexy without meaning to be, you know? Maybe we should do a double date.”
The more I talk, the harder my best friend hits the bag, each strike forcing me to use more strength to keep my feet firmly planted. “Funny,” he quips. “Come near my girl, and you won’t have eyes left to look at Dove with.”
“Oh, Bunny’s your girl? Does she know that? Last time I checked, she hates you.”
I let go of the bag just as Hunter lands a blow, stepping back to remove my gloves and take a sip from my water bottle.
“Ha. Ha.” He deadpans. “She just pretends to hate me. Just like you with Dove.” He levels me with a knowing stare. “I’m serious, Wren. I’ve never seen you like this with a woman before. You’re not one to go out of your way to be snarky, so what gives? If it’s not her looks, is it just because she won’t publish your articles? If that’s the case, give it time. You just started there. She probably feels threatened because you’re a man, and statistically, it’s a male-dominated field. She pulled that place out of the gutters. Show a little respect.”
The thing is, Hunter’s right. Tailor Industries was this close to cutting Metro Media before Dove came in and revived it. I don’t know why I felt the need to start on a sour note with her.
Fuck a sour note. You basically emo-screamed an anthem about being THE MAN in all caps, Wren. No wonder she hates you.
And I’m learning quickly that when Dove dislikes someone, she doesn’t make a show of it. No. She delivers her displeasure on a rose-gold platter, laced with cotton candy and glittery sugar sprinkles—making you think she’s treating you special while she’s really poisoning you from the inside out.
My ringtone cuts through the silence.
The gym is quiet for a Sunday, or at least that’s what the attendant at the front said. We usually go to Hunter’s gym, closer to Metro P.D. headquarters, but since I have access to the one in the Metro Media building, we decided to try it out and haven’t returned to his since. The air here smells crisp and clean, not like a pit of sweat-drenched misery, and there’s a cooler with free imported water and top-tier sports drinks just outside the locker rooms—which are fully stocked with the best hair and skin products money can buy.
We hadn’t even made it out of the locker room before Hunter announced he was going to be my permanent plus one.
He chugs his water, giving me a sidelong glance as I swipe my screen and send the call to voicemail .
“Everything okay?” he asks, the question heavy with a familiar delicacy that rattles the marrow in my bones.
Even after all this time, my best friend still hasn’t given up hope that I’ll eventually talk about what happened back then. Why I had to leave New York and finish high school across the country in California—confirm his part in that decision.
Lighten up, Songbird. Life isn’t as serious as you make it out to be. Dove’s parting words from Friday echo in my head just as my screen lights up with a voicemail notification.
“How is your mother?”
Hunter’s eyes are glued to my screen as I lift my tired gaze to his. His lips are tight, his skin a little paler than it was seconds ago, and his amber eyes are dark with the same shadows as the last time he asked that question.
“She’s fine,” I clip, swallowing the bile rising in my throat as we head to the locker room.
Hunter inhales sharply, another prying question no doubt on the tip of his tongue, but his phone buzzes, stealing his attention.
“Shit.” He breathes the word out, quiet but firm.
“What is it?”
“The Doll struck again.” His voice is grim. “She sent in another video. ”
A zip of adrenaline shoots down my spine.
Finally.
“Does that mean you have to go in?”
Hunter sighs, knowing full well I’m going to hold him to his promise this time. So far, I’ve had to wait until they scan her videos for any clues to her identity, but he guaranteed me a seat at the table when the next one dropped.
“Do you have your press badge?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, already typing out a message.
“Always.”
I can’t stop the way my voice shakes with excitement.
Hunter gives me a dry look. “Only you would be happy to hear she took another victim,” he mutters. It’s followed by something else, but I don’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.
Because my excitement isn’t just about the Baby Doll Killer taking another life.
It’s that I get to see the video before a certain pastel-pink princess does.
Dove
Oops!...I Did It Again blares over the speakers as I thinly slice the last remnants of Jefferey Nills’ penis. I sing along, swaying my hips as I lay out the meat, preparing it for the dehydrator.
Fang gnaws contentedly on the final piece from the previous batch, stretched out in his oversized pink bed between the kitchen and small dining room. “Is that good, baby?” I coo.
A jingle of keys makes his ears perk up, and seconds later, Bunny’s dogs—a black Pomeranian named Yasha and a white one named Maru, after one of her favorite animes—come bounding in.
The kitchen fills with excited yips as the dogs greet each other before Yasha and Maru snatch up Fang’s jerky, immediately tussling over it. My sweet little sharer decides to let them have it, jumping up on Bunny as she walks in, a bottle of watermelon vodka and our book of the month clutched to her chest.
“Hey, Love Dove,” she sings. “Excellent song choice. Very appropriate.” She sets the alcohol on the counter and scoops Fang into her arms. “Hey, my man.”
“How was your weekend?” I ask, popping the trays into the machine. “Everything go well?”
A smirk curls her lips before she kisses the top of Fang’s head and sets him down. He joins her pups, who’ve already broken the jerky into smaller pieces, settling beside them with his portion. “Everything went great. Kent Peterson won’t be bothering anyone ever again.”
“Did you make him suffer?” I retrieve our usual drinkware—blush-colored vintage goblets we found at a flea market last year—and start mixing our drinks.
Bunny hops onto a stool, plopping her black leather bag beside her, digging through it for the ring light she uses when we take our book club photos. “I busted each of his knuckles, slowly, one at a time, and the bastard had the audacity to pass out after the fourth one,” she says with mock astonishment.
“What a weakling.” I laugh, retrieving the rose-shaped ice cube molds from the freezer and popping out the pretty chunks of ice, each containing frozen raspberries and mint leaves.
We share a grin before she continues, adjusting her phone and pulling the book closer to play with lighting. “I know, right? Anyway, I used smelling salts to wake the asshole up and continued on my merry way. He’s currently stewing on his evil ways in my basement with crushed hands and feet. I’ll finish him off tonight.” Her voice is light, almost cheerful, as she snaps a few photos of the pretty pink book.
“Ooh, drawing this one out?” We clink glasses, taking small sips before setting up the shot.
Tailor Tech , a division of Tailor Industries , is preparing to launch a new social media app called Iconic . Employees are getting the opportunity to test it before the public launch, and so far, Bunny and I are enjoying it. We’ve already built quite a following for our Cereal Killer Book Club.
Bunny pulls a mini box of Lucky Charms from her bag, pouring it into the cream ceramic bowl with little bunnies on it—the one I keep here just for her. Bunny’s favorite food group is cereal, hence our book club name. Not to mention the play on words.
We think it’s hilarious.
“He’s a fucking douchebag,” she says, sloshing oat milk into her bowl after I hand her the carton. “Put his wife in the hospital twice this month alone. And she made up good excuses for both trips, which tells me she’s used to it.” She takes a photo of her setup before shoveling a spoonful into her mouth. “He deserves to suffer.”
“Hey.” I reach over, laying my hand on hers. “You don’t have to convince me, Buns.”
Her anger softens, shoulders relaxing as she chews her sugary bite before washing it down with the watermelon cocktail. “I know.” She checks her watch. “Let’s get this posted before we have to go. What should I put as the caption?”
She types as I dictate. “Found this beautiful gem in a cute, pink bookstore in Brooklyn. It’s like Gilmore Girls meets Practical Magic with a hot, swoony guy, kitty familiars, and an FMC with pink hair… say less! Lucky Charms are the vibes with this magical read. QOTD: Are you reading along with us this month? #weloveindieauthors #supportlocal #jessicahoffaauthor #cerealkillerbookclub.”
Once it’s posted, I round the counter, sitting next to her. Golden sunlight beams through the dining room window, casting its glow over her features, turning the shiny white scar on her cheek a silvery shade. It’s rare for her to go out without covering it with a foil sticker, but she never leaves home without a pack of them in her bag.
“When is the video going through?”
“At three. I’m pretty sure Hunter told Wrenley he could sit in on the viewing this time,” she says, finishing her cereal. “How have things been at work between you two?”
“Interesting, to say the least.” I prop my chin in my hand. “I’m starting to wonder why he wants to work for M.M. He could go anywhere and have his articles published. He’s a great writer, and if he weren’t so infuriating, I’d probably fall for him with how he writes about me… well, the Doll.”
“Why won’t you publish his articles?”
“Because he romanticizes her. At the end of the day, the Baby Doll Killer still does just that—kills. When I write about it, I make sure the public knows how awful the alleged victims were. When he writes, he makes murder seem sexy and the Doll alluring. He’s enamored with her, and the last thing we need is the public seeing her that way. She’s a vigilante, not a sex symbol.” I sigh. “I wear fuzzy slippers and sing lullabies, for crying out loud. Wrenley will start a movement where civilians start going out and taking matters into their own hands. That will draw bad attention to Metro Media. Not to mention, it’ll paint our alter egos in an extremely bad light if the public starts romanticizing us. We still have the press on our side. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Maybe I should just explain that to Wrenley—without giving myself away, of course. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t stringing him along for my own personal reasons. He'll stick around if I keep telling him he just has to work harder before I publish something of his.
And for whatever reason, I don’t want the songbird to fly away just yet. Something about him captivates me. Or maybe I’m obsessed with how he sees me as the Doll. It’s fascinating—his resentment for me versus his infatuation with her.
A part of me wonders if he’s attracted to the idea of the Doll. Of a masked woman sneaking in, tying him up, and using his body for her pleasure. It’s a normal fantasy for women about men, so why can’t men feel the same?
Even more intriguing? The idea doesn’t seem so bad to me. I’ve often daydreamed about having Wrenley completely at my mercy—not to torture or kill, but to fuck. His tall frame quivering beneath me, hands bound so he’s unable to touch. His heated gaze taking in every naked inch of me as I writhe above him, riding his generously sized cock until he fills me—and it is quite large. I glimpsed its impressive outline at the gym the other day. The thought of making it fit had me so wet I had to cut my treadmill session short before anyone noticed.
But back to my daydream. Right when he comes, I’ll remove my mask, letting him see it’s me milking him dry. Me he’s allowing to tie him up and fuck him silly.
What would he do then if I untied him? Would he fuck me like he hates me? Pour all his aggression into a sweaty, furious bed session, only to go back to sneering at me in the office?
A shiver runs through me, goosebumps prickling my skin.
“Do I want to know where you just went in your head?” Bunny’s voice snaps me out of my trance. My cheeks heat as I avoid her knowing gaze and devilish smirk. “Seriously, Dove, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in love.”
“I’m not in love!” The squeak in my voice betrays me.
“Uh-huh. Sure.” She sips her drink. “Just don’t let him leave. Maybe throw him a bone every once in a while. Play a little nicer. Because when you put it that way, you’re right, and the last thing we need is him spreading that shit elsewhere.”
She’s right. But something tells me that once I let my guard down around the songbird, he’ll prove far more dangerous than he lets on.
Just like I wear a mask to hide who I truly am, Wrenley wears one of his own, hiding his true intentions behind a charming disguise.
I just need to figure out what his secret is.