11. Dove
Bunny gags, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as I recount the tale of Wren feeding our coworkers dick jerky. “Oh my god. Is that even safe for human consumption?”
“I mean… it was processed like normal jerky. It was cooked!” She dry heaves again as I turn my back to her and motion for her to secure my full-body PVC catsuit. “It’s fine!” I draw out the "i" as she pulls the zipper up. “Look at all the shows with cannibalism.”
“Keyword: shows, Dove.”
“Okay, Miss ‘I used a rump roast to kill my husband.’”
“I didn’t eat it afterward! Or him!”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
Bunny clicks her tongue, patting my back. “What am I gonna do with you, woman? Are you sure this is a good idea? It’s completely unlike the Doll to do something like this. Aren’t you afraid it will only heighten his fascination with her? Or that he might recognize you?”
I turn and pick up the dagger sheath attached to my leg garter, removing the lacy fabric and securing my weapon to my thigh. “That’s what the catsuit is for. Once the wig is on, he won’t see an inch of skin. There’s no way he’ll know it’s me.”
I don’t have to look at Bunny to know she’s rolling her eyes. I can hear it in her voice. “I don’t know. He’s pretty obsessed with you. That program I got from the guys at Tailor Tech to see who’s been looking at your socials works just as well as they said it would. Wrenley stalks your profiles constantly.”
“Ah. Only half as often as Hunter stalks yours, then?” I grin at my best friend.
She smirks back, the motion causing the scar on her cheek to pucker. “Con-stan-tly,” she sounds out. “I think you two lovebirds are a match made in heaven.”
“He desecrated my dog. There will be no love matching.” I frown and turn toward my wall of wigs, choosing a dusty rose one. The long curls will hide the part of my neck that sticks out of the suit.
“Don’t say he desecrated Fang. That sounds gross, and now I’m fighting mental images no one should have to think about.” She scratches behind Fang’s ears as he lies in her lap, and he groans as if in agreement. I’m still pissed his fur is the color of a Skittles mix. Even though I did it to Wren first, the songbird crossed a line.
After packing my wig, contacts, and mask, I sit next to Bunny and pull on my platform boots. Designed to look like part of the suit, they help disguise my height and the ridiculously high heels. “Are you going to stay here or go home?”
Bunny’s pups are slumbering in Fang’s dog bed on the floor, a pile of white and black fur resembling a yin-yang symbol. It makes me think of her and me and how well we fit together as friends. It’s nice having someone who understands my motives for doing the things I do. Our friendship is the literal sense of ‘we listen, and we don’t judge.’ We just ask where to show up with our shovels and often wait for each other after a kill to be a shoulder to lean on.
She stretches before standing and places Fang on the couch. “I’m gonna go home. You don’t need me, right? I can stay if you do.” A wicked smile stretches across her face. “But something tells me you might be out late.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I get back.” I don’t entertain her insinuation. All I’m doing is scaring Wren. Showing him that the Doll isn’t someone to idolize—and that I am no one to mess with, even if he doesn’t know it’s me.
She grabs a pack of black nail stickers off the crafting table and tosses them at me with a nod toward my manicure. “Don’t forget these.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, perish from boredom? Yasha, Maru, come on, boys.” She pats her legs and opens the door wider as her dogs bound past her into the hall. With a flip of her hair and a wink over her shoulder, she leaves, her mischievous lilt floating behind her. “Have fun, Love Dove.”
“I’m not going to have fun! I’m going to scare the living daylights out of him!”
Wren lives in a small one-bedroom apartment in Murray Hill, on a busy street teeming with nightlife. It’s loud and chaotic, which surprises me because Wren doesn’t seem like the nightlife type.
Sure, he spends time at The Tipsy Taco, but we all do. Tuesdays and Thursdays are paramount for networking with new contacts and sources, and that’s just been the place to go for the last year and a half.
The clamor makes it easy to blend in. No one looks twice at the long trench covering my outfit or gives me a suspicious side-eye as I slip into the tiny alley between the buildings. I spent all day mapping out the route—pinpointing exactly which window to enter and where to stash my bag and coat—so I can get in quickly and slip away just as efficiently.
“Though she be but little, she is fierce,” I chant quietly as I hoist myself onto the top of a dumpster and begin climbing the rickety, old fire escape. The building is a four-story walk-up, so I take my time, careful not to rattle the metal too much. The last thing I need is someone swinging a baseball bat out their window, thinking I’m a burglar.
Don’t worry, residents of Wren’s apartment building. I’m not a burglar—just a serial killer here to scare the shit out of my annoyingly gorgeous work rival.
A soft glow spills from the hall outside Wren’s bedroom. Thankfully, the fire escape leads directly to his room, not the living quarters. Otherwise, this would be a much more complicated feat, and I’d have to wait until much later.
“Ten out of ten do not recommend,” I murmur, prepping myself. Having barely three feet to situate my bag, fasten my wig, and put in my contacts—in the dark, I might add, not an easy thing to do—is less than ideal.
Oh, the things we do for pure, unadulterated loathing .
I manage because I’m a pro.
Once my mask is in place, I slide open the window and slip inside, silent as a grave.
I am darkness. I am shadow. I am an angel of death.
From what I can see of Wren’s room in the dark, it’s spotless, with only a bed and a dresser to fill the space. On the wall is a board mirroring the one he has at work—tracking the Doll and all her accomplishments. Nothing personal. Nothing to make it feel homey.
It’s cold and sad. My big ol’ heart clenches with empathy.
It’s fine, Dove. He just moved back and probably hasn’t had time to go shopping.
Taking a steadying breath, I stand at the doorway and listen. The aroma of garlic fills the space, and now and then, the occasional scrape of a utensil against a plate mixes with the rhythmic clicking of a keyboard.
Busy, busy boy. What are you working on, Songbird? Another article I’ll have to stow away? More flowery words about how the Doll is perfect in every way for me to get myself off to in the privacy of my apartment?
Don’t judge me. I have a thing for words, okay?
Gradually, I make my way down the short hall. So fucking slowly, so my boots don’t make a sound. My fingers tighten around my dagger, knuckles likely white beneath my fingerless gloves. My heart beats in my chest with such violent thumps it’ll be a miracle Wren doesn’t hear it first.
At the hall’s end, his apartment opens into a living room on the left and a tiny kitchen on the right. He’s sitting on one of those sectionals that got super popular a few years ago for small apartment living—the kind that pulls out into a bed but isn’t more than three cushions wide, with the third being a storage chaise.
A small coffee table holds his dinner—a bowl of pasta that smells fucking amazing—and a bottle of imported beer. He’s relaxed, laptop on his thighs, thin wire-framed reading glasses perched on his nose.
How did I not know he wears glasses? And why the fuck does it up his hotness factor by a thousand? The glasses, combined with his gray sweats and messily tousled hair, are enough to send my body into overdrive. He’s a goddamn booby trap of desire.
I want to stomp my foot and throw a tantrum but settle for an annoyed huff, momentarily forgetting my mission.
Wren’s fingers still over the keyboard, his entire body freezing like a scared chicken.
Worst serial killer ever.
His gaze lifts to mine. He blinks once. Twice. Then shakes his head. Moving his laptop to the cushion beside him, he removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Wow, Wren. You’re even imagining her in your apartment now. You seriously need therapy.”
I cock my head, waiting for him to realize this isn’t a dream. I’m very real, and he should be very scared.
As he looks back up, his eyes widen slightly before he laughs wryly. “Okay, who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here? Did Hunter put you up to this?” Wren looks around like Hunter might be hiding somewhere. “Ha. Ha. You dick.” His gaze returns to me. “Seriously, it’s not funny. I don’t know you. I don’t appreciate a stranger in my house.”
If I were a burglar, this guy would definitely be dead by now.
Refraining from shaking my head at Wren’s apparent lack of danger intuition, I step forward, snapping a sharp, “Sit down!” as he tries to stand.
My voice modulator does the trick, transforming my usually chipper tone into a sultry, distorted rasp. His expression morphs into disbelief. As I approach, his wide-eyed gaze locks onto mine.
“It is you,” he whispers.
“A little birdie told me you have an obsession.” I twirl my dagger between my fingers, ensuring he sees I’m armed and mean business. The glow from the kitchen catches the blade, his eyes snapping to it before meeting mine again. “Do you know what happens when we obsess over things, Wrenley Campbell?”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as I step between the coffee table and the couch. A pretty pink flush blooms on his cheeks as he stares up at me, equal parts mesmerized and fearful, and shakes his head slowly while I wait for him to answer.
Placing a knee on the cushion between his legs, I lean forward and drag the flat of my blade down his chest. “Obsessions poison our minds. They make us weak.” My blade glides lower over his sinfully perfect abs. I grab the back of the couch to anchor myself as I continue pressing closer into his space. “You convince yourself they aren’t bad for you.” Wren’s breath comes in short, sharp bursts. “But in the end,” my mask brushes his face as I whisper in his ear, “most obsessions will kill you.”
I expect my dagger to meet the space between his legs and send terror through the man currently at my mercy. However, my blade meets a mass of steel instead. Wren is hard as stone. Completely turned on. And that discovery sends a flood of warmth pooling in my lower belly.
Warm hands encircle my hips and drag me down abruptly, sliding to my thighs to part my legs around his waist. The hand holding my dagger flies out to join the other against the back of the couch, keeping me steady. He straightens, still towering over me even while sitting, his lips nearly brushing the ones painted on my mask as he murmurs, “I’m already dead inside.” His hips thrust up, his cock meeting my center through our clothes. “But you can show me a piece of heaven before dragging me to hell.”
The moan that escapes me sounds oddly erotic through the modulator. Wren keeps thrusting, slow and deep, his grip firm on my waist. As much as I’m enjoying this turn of events, the victorious glint in his eye reminds me why I came in the first place—and it isn’t to get off from dry-humping on his couch.
I shove him back, pressing the dagger to his throat. The movement traps his cock between us, the crown sliding against my clit, and I can’t stop my hips from rolling against him. “What kind of sick fuck gets off on a serial killer threatening his life?”
Wren whimpers as I dig the tip of the blade into his skin, a bead of blood welling up. His fingers slide around to grip my ass, guiding my movements, urging me to ride him faster, harder. “You won’t hurt me,” he moans.
Sweat slicks my skin beneath my catsuit. It’s like he’s started a fire in my bones, burning me from the inside out. “And why do you think that?”
The need to rip off my mask and watch him unravel beneath me is infuriating. I want to lean forward and lick his skin, taste his blood like I’m a goddamn vampire, and savor the flavor, knowing he’s bleeding for me— because of me.
“You only hurt men who are guilty,” he grits out, lifting a hand to grasp my wrist. He slows our movements, and somehow, it’s a thousand times more sensual as we share the air in the sliver of space between us. Eyes locked, he slides his thumb beneath the band of my glove, stroking over my pulse point. “And the only thing I’m guilty of is being utterly enchanted by you.”
Pleasure coils low in my belly, fueled by his pretty words and the soft, breathy moans spilling from his lips. I’ve never been with such a vocal man before, and it’s unlocking something primal inside me, a door my ovaries seem determined to launch themselves through.
Attempting to regain control, I twist my wrist free, press up on my knees, and sheath my dagger before dropping back down, rubbing against him with sharp jerks of my hips.
“Oh fuck,” he whimpers, head falling back, eyes squeezing shut.
“That’s right.” My hands run up his chest, fingers curling over his shoulders, fucking him dry and wishing there weren’t any barriers between us. “Come for mommy. ”
Wrenley
My eyes snap open, fingers tightening. The skin around her eyes pinches, almost like she’s in pain, effectively stopping my movements just as I’m about to come.
Instinct takes over. My hands shove outward, flinging the Doll off my lap and onto the coffee table. It holds her weight—though my beer ricochets across the room.
“What the fuck?” she demands. The modulator makes the question sound comical, though there’s nothing funny about the situation.
“I-I’m sorry… I…” Words fail me. My heart stutters in my chest, and it’s painful to breathe. The ache, though, is nothing compared to the sheer humiliation throbbing through my rapidly deflating cock.
It wasn’t the Doll I was thinking of. Even though I’ve imagined this scenario a million times—dreamed of having this moment with her—it was Dove who had occupied my mind.
Dove’s big blue eyes and bouncy blonde hair. The image of her in the Doll’s place, head thrown back as she took her pleasure from me. And right when I was about to fucking come in my pants to thoughts of a woman who utterly annoys the fuck out of me, the second I heard the word mommy …
It was like the world slammed to a halt.
Dove and that vile fucking word cannot become synonymous. It’s already bad enough that their appearances are so similar.
Embarrassed and ashamed, I force myself to look into the dark depths behind the Doll’s mask. A real-life serial killer just rode me to near completion, and I shoved her off like she had cooties.
Wordlessly, she stands. I reach for her, but she pulls away, rounding the table and fleeing down the hall.
Pushing to my feet, I rush after her, adrenaline pumping through my veins at the lost chance to make a connection. “Wait!”
But by the time I reach my room and lean out the open window, she’s already gone. I scour the fire escape, looking for any clue she was there at all. A dropped dagger, a scrap of material from her bodysuit—fuck, even a hair from her wig, but she’s left no trace behind.
A shrill ring sounds from the living room as my phone goes off. In a stupor, I retrieve it, only to see it’s my mother… again. You’d think she’d get the point that I don’t want to speak to her. But anytime even an inkling of a thought pertaining to her flutters across my mind, it’s like it shoots her a fucking signal. Fury builds in my chest. One second, my phone is clenched in my hand; the next, it’s across the room, hitting the wall with a crack.
I had a chance, and I ruined it.
The opportunity to finally get my questions answered stared me right in the face, and instead, I let my attraction get in the way.
And why the fuck was I thinking of Dove?
Bile rises up my throat. I barely make it to the bathroom before retching up my dinner—and part of lunch—as a new swarm of questions floods my mind.
How does the Doll know about me? Why did she let me pull her onto my lap? Will she come back?
You basically edged her and threw her off you. If she comes again, it’ll be to put that dagger through your neck for real.
I flush the toilet and slump against the cool porcelain tiles. Maybe Dove is right—partially, anyway. I obviously have too much pent-up sexual frustration.
I need to expel it. And since doing it with Dove will more than likely open a door I don’t want to walk through, I need to find someone else to fuck.