9. Dove
“Stupid, stupid songbird!” Each word is punctuated by a deep stab, blood splattering my mask. The man beneath me is long dead, and this is entirely outside my usual M.O., but tonight isn't about precision—it's about releasing my feminine rage, not putting on a show for the Metro Police Department.
“Love Dove, if you keep going, we’ll have a harder time cleaning this mess up. He’s looking worse than Nathaniel did when I got through with him.” Bunny sighs, scowling as she scrolls on her phone.
My chest heaves with heavy breaths as I stare down. The man’s torso really is starting to resemble Bunny’s late husband’s face. Sniffing, I wipe my arm against the forehead of my mask, smearing blood across the material.
“I have to get him back, Buns.” I press my hands against the corpse's stomach. The wet squelch of blood and torn flesh echoes through the basement as I push up to my feet. Peeling off my gloves, I toss them and my dagger onto the lifeless body before yanking off my mask and striding toward the stainless steel tray lined with tools.
Usually, we work alone. I prefer meeting my victims in seedy hotels on the outskirts of the city or slipping into their homes while their families are away. Bunny lures her prey down here with the promise of indulging their twisted fantasies before turning the tables. But every so often, we find a man who fits both our victim profiles.
And sometimes you just need to bond with your girlfriend by murdering someone together.
“You need to just fuck him and get him out of your system,” Bunny murmurs.
“I don’t want to sleep with him,” I lie, knowing full well she won’t believe me. “And if fucking Ryan wouldn’t have ghosted me, I wouldn’t be so sexually frustrated.”
It’s odd that Ryan disappeared the other night and isn’t answering my messages. Very unlike him, especially since he seemed eager to take things to the next level in our situationship earlier that evening. Not that I would have agreed—but still, a woman has needs, and Ryan was dependable in that department .
A flash of red catches my eye. Blood has slipped past a tear in the disposable suit I have over my white dress. “Aww, fuck! This was one of my favorites, too,” I pout, tugging at the plastic. “Oh well.” I shrug. “That’s what I get for wearing white to a massacre.”
Bunny hums noncommittally, still glaring at her screen. She’s already ditched her suit and sits cross-legged on a barrel full of liquid against the wall, utterly unbothered that her black leather skirt has ridden up to reveal electric blue underwear.
“What’s got your attention, Buns?” I hop onto a barrel beside hers, peering at her phone. She’s flipping through a popular social media app, eyeing some random girl’s photos. “Who’s that?”
“Some fucking badge bunny who’s been sniffing around Hunter,” she bites out.
“Ah. Well, I feel sorry for her then.” I settle against the wall, my gaze drifting to the dead body on the floor. “Someone should tell her Hunter only has plans to trap one very specific bunny, and it ain’t her.”
She snorts, then sneers. “Well, she tagged him in a photo last night. He took her to dinner.”
“Shut up! He did not!” I snatch the phone and tap the picture in question. The woman’s manicured hand is delicately holding a wine glass, candlelight flickering in the background. A man sits across from her, but he’s out of focus. “Oh, Buns, that could be anyone. ”
“She tagged him! Why would he allow a tag if it wasn’t him?” she argues.
“To get your attention. And look, it’s working. You didn’t even enjoy our friend tonight.” I gesture to the body on the floor before giving her phone back. “This is supposed to be girl time.”
“You’re right.” She sighs, setting the device on the barrel before flicking her raven hair behind her shoulders. “I’m sorry. You have my undivided attention. How are you going to retaliate against Wrenley?”
Just hearing his name sends my blood to a roaring boil. “I don’t know, but it’s gotta be good.”
Bunny inhales sharply and faces me wide-eyed. Her plum eyeliner makes her hazel orbs pop, and the glittery gold star stickers covering the scar on her cheek catch the light as a mischievous grin spreads across her face. “What if we send Ginny Tailor flowers and sign the card from him? You said her husband wasn’t thrilled about them having lunch.”
“Oh my god, Bunny. I’m trying to prank him, not get him fired and run out of Manhattan.” I met Jackson Tailor once, and once was more than enough. The man is the epitome of charm and intimidation wrapped in a gorgeously sculpted package, but he only has eyes for his wife and assumes every woman who so much as looks at him wants him. “I tried getting a quote from Jackson once about Iconic , and he said, and I quote, ‘Sweetheart, I’m flattered, but I’m married.’ Then he just walked off. Joe introduced me to him and his wife later that night, and there was no apology whatsoever. Just an unamused nod before he led his ridiculously beautiful wife away.”
“Daaamn, he’s brutal… it’s perfect!” Bunny cries.
I shake my head vehemently. “No, Buns.”
“Boo. You’re no fun.” She cocks her head, sighing. “We could collect the dog’s poop and hide it around his office?”
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 his shampoo 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 a little 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 and cocoon 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 you fucking kidding me?” The question reverberates off the walls, met with a few snickers as I rake my fingers through my ruined strands.
Pink!
Bright. Fucking. Neon. Fucking. Pink .
If my hair were any darker, it wouldn’t matter. But my dirty blond locks are just light enough that I know I’ll need professional help to fix this shit.
How the actual fuck did she pull this off?
She would have had to bribe a guard to get in after hours—but how did she even know which locker was mine?
“Goddammit, Dove,” I seethe through clenched teeth before taking a deep breath, my mind already reeling with ideas for retribution. I grab one of the mini blow dryers from a wicker basket under the vanity.
It’s so much worse dry. The lighter strands from my days on the California beaches look like someone took a pink highlighter to them, while the rest of my hair is a muted shade of raspberry.
“Someone pranked you good, huh, man?” Some guy claps me on the shoulder sympathetically as he sets his Dopp kit down beside mine. “Want some advice? Don’t let them see you’re pissed about it. Wear it loud and proud, my man. Besides,” he throws me a wink, “it’s not a bad color on you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, fully intent on not taking his advice.
However, by the time I make it back to the office, one encounter abruptly changes my mind.
“Oh my goodness! Look at you!” Sharon squeals, clapping a hand over her mouth. “It looks like Dove’s gone and publicly marked you as hers.”
“For Christ’s sake, Sharon, it’s not like she owns the color pink,” Cecilia sneers in her colleague’s direction. “ I think it looks great, Wren.”
I give them a brief nod, hyper-focused on what Sharon said about Dove marking me.
Take the in, Wren. And the guy’s advice. Don’t show Dove you’re upset. Let her stew in fear of your vengeance.
Passing her office, I see she’s not there. Instead, I find her in the break room, sipping her coffee while she reads a book.
Nonchalantly, I stroll past her table, hands in my pockets. “What are you reading, Dove?”
“To Kill a Songbird—I mean, Mockingbird.” Her sickeningly sweet tone and facetious reply set my nerves on edge, but outwardly, I remain the picture-perfect image of calm as I head to the fridge.
I grab one of her yogurt containers and a spoon, spinning around to see she hasn’t even looked up from her book. “Interesting,” I prod. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a true literary lover.”
She snorts, bright blue eyes flicking up for a second to register the yogurt in my hands before returning to her book. “I expect you to replace that.”
“Sure, Dove. Why don’t we go down to the corner bodega together, and you can pick out whatever flavor you’d like?” I smirk, shoving a spoonful of the strawberry snack between my lips.
She starts to retort, but the words die in her throat as she looks up sharply. This time, she tries to hide a snort behind her hand. “Oh, Songbird. What have you done?”
Before I can answer, George from Sports and Recreation appears in the doorway, promptly stopping to stare. “Good lord, Wrenley. What happened to your hair? ”
Dove fails miserably at containing her cackling, avoiding my gaze as she gathers her things.
“Well, George. You know how boys tease girls on the playground when they like them?”
Dove pauses briefly, eyes darting up to meet mine before turning to leave.
George scratches his head. “Uh, yeah?”
“I think someone just has a crush and keeps picking on me because they’re obsessed.” I toss the empty yogurt container in the trash and shove my hands into my pockets, my words landing just as Dove crosses the threshold.
She stops, turning halfway, presenting me with a glowing smile. “Careful, Songbird. That kind of thinking goes both ways.”