16. Wrenley
Two days. That’s all it takes—two days of Dove calling out from work for personal reasons, and I turn into a stage-five clinger of epic proportions.
She’s flipped the script on me now, refusing to answer my calls or texts. Well, except for a single, clipped I’m okay. I have to admit, that’s more than I ever gave her, but it’s nowhere near enough to quiet the gnawing need to talk to her—to see her.
I could go full stalker mode, show up at her house, and hypocritically demand to know why she’s ignoring me. Instead, I rein it in—just a little—and settle for ambushing her best friend to see if she knows what’s going on. Because, obviously, Bunny—whom I’ve been nothing but rude to and have said some not-so-nice things about—will have no problem spilling Dove’s whereabouts to me of all people .
Imagine my fucking surprise when I walk into The Tipsy Taco, fully expecting to hunt down Bunny, only to find my girl perched on the edge of a pool table, talking animatedly with Ryan . Of all fucking people.
The feral beast that has taken up residence in my chest whenever Dove is near stirs awake. Curled horns and smoke and the inexplicable need to plant my fist into Ryan’s modelesque face slither through me like a viper.
The bastard leans against the table, one hand gripping a pool cue, the other gesturing mid-story. Whatever he’s saying makes Dove throw her head back in laughter, exposing the delicate line of her neck and the fading bruises that still mar her skin. His brows pull together, and he reaches out, fingers ghosting over them.
My anger surges as Dove inches away, waving him off, muttering what I assume is an excuse while she picks at invisible lint on her taffy-pink shorts. Sliding off the table, she tugs at the hem of her white shirt, adjusting the fabric that wraps around her back and forms a bow, while Ryan presses his questioning.
“How long are you going to stand there looking like a dumbass?” Bunny’s dulcet tone interrupts my silent seething.
She’s beside me now, dark-purple-polished fingers curved around a shot glass, which I assume holds tequila. Today, rainbow foil paw prints trail down her cheek, covering the scar beneath her eye at the highest point of her cheekbone. She watches the scene unfold with a wolfish grin stretched across her mauve-painted lips, and I get why Hunter is completely enamored with the dark-haired beauty.
Where Dove is bright, effervescent sunshine, Bunny is mystery and calculation wrapped in sensuality—like a wolf draped in a rabbit’s hide. I swing my gaze back to Dove and Ryan, annoyed to find them locked in what looks like a full-blown argument. “Are they?—”
“No. Absolutely not.” Bunny crosses her arms, sipping her shot. “You should know by now that girl is wrapped around your finger, though she’d kill me for telling you that.”
Then why the hell has she been ignoring me?
I study Dove as she speaks heatedly, trying to reconcile this version of her with the Doll and coming up short. I can’t fathom it, and yet, I can. She’s a paradox I need to unravel. I will her to look at me, sending every desperate wave of choose me energy across the bar. It tugs at her, invisible fingers tipping her chin in my direction. For a moment, she stares. Then, a warm smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
“God, you two are dense,” Bunny sighs before sauntering off.
I nearly turn to tell her she and Hunter are no better, but just as Dove takes a step toward me, Ryan reaches out, grabs her belt loop, and pulls her back. It’s not aggressive, but it makes her stumble in her chunky platforms, grabbing onto him to steady herself.
My feet carry me across the bar in six long strides—my intention to plant my fists directly into Ryan’s face. I don’t stop. I don’t hesitate. I step into Ryan’s personal space, chest to chest, forcing him to release Dove. “Get your fucking hands off her.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t Hunter’s lapdog,” Ryan clips, puffing his pecs like it’ll somehow make up for the three inches I have on him. “This doesn’t involve you.”
“Wrenley, what are you doing?” Dove tries to push between us, her small palm splayed against my chest. If I wasn’t already pissed that she was chumming it up with this asshole, I certainly am now—because she just used my full name .
“I told you to stay away from her,” I seethe, fury radiating from every pore. If she knew the shit he’s said about her, there’s no way she’d even entertain a conversation with him. But we’re drawing a crowd, and I refuse to embarrass her by airing his filth in public.
“Why would you say that?” she demands, still trying to wedge between us. “I can take care of myself, Wrenley.”
I crack my neck, jaw tightening, but before I can respond, Ryan cuts in. “You wanna know why I stopped talking to you suddenly?” He gestures at me. “Because this asshole threatened me.”
My eyes snap back to his. “You wanna tell her why ?” My voice is foreign to my own ears—raw, dripping with unfiltered rage. I’ve never felt such anger. Such unbridled need to destroy someone so thoroughly.
“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.” Dove curls her fingers into my jacket, stepping into me, pulling my focus back to her. “Let’s get out of here. Take me home?”
A fraction of my anger ebbs at the urgency in her voice, in her eyes. My hand finds her waist, her warmth grounding me—reminding me that, once again, I’ve picked a fight with an off-duty cop.
“Nothing like a little hate fuck, I guess.” Ryan smirks over Dove’s head. “That’s okay. Take her for a ride. She always comes back.”
Dove gasps, affronted. She spins, hand flying. He catches her wrist mid-swing and shoves her back—not hard enough to hurt her, but enough that she stumbles.
I lunge, catching her while swinging for his face. He dodges, throwing his own punch. It lands, snapping my head to the side .
“Wren!” Dove twists in my arms, unharmed, but fuck , he could have seriously hurt her—and the look on his face says he knows it.
She presses a palm to the side of my mouth, glaring at him over her shoulder before shifting her worried gaze back to me. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been hit harder.” I spit, swiping the back of my hand across my bloodied lip.
Someone hands her napkins. A bouncer awkwardly arrives, escorting Ryan out. He glares at us as he’s swallowed by the crowd and they part for him like he’s got the plague. I’m not a cop-hater, but there are some who abuse their power, and Ryan is definitely one of them. The thought of him and Dove together—intimately—spikes a fresh rage.
“Come on.” Dove tugs my arm, pressing an ice-filled bag to my lip. “Let’s get you home.”
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Dove murmurs, pressing a rose-shaped, raspberry-and-mint-infused ice cube—because that’s all she has—to my lip. I wince slightly from the sting but refuse to show her any real weakness. I rushed in to be her knight in shining armor; I shouldn’t be crying over a simple cut .
Ryan got me good, though, splitting my lower lip open so badly that Dove tried dragging me to the hospital for stitches. But I didn’t want to sit in a stuffy waiting room full of sick people and overworked nurses too sleep-deprived to bother with a kind bedside manner.
I just wanted to go home. Apparently, that meant her place. I’m not mad about it.
Fang sets a paw in my lap, begging for attention, but before I can scoop the rat up, Dove gently shoos him away. “Your big, bad friend is hurting right now, baby boy. We have to nurse him back to health.”
Suddenly, my brain is filled with images of Dove in a slutty little nurse costume, and a groan escapes my throat—which she mistakes for something else entirely.
“You really shouldn’t have started shit with him,” she repeats for the umpteenth time since we left the bar, letting me take the ice from her.
“Duly noted. Next time, I’ll leave you to the two-hundred-pound beefcake whose sole mission is to let his dudebros gangbang you,” I mutter, slowly massaging the cube around my lip.
Dove sits back on her knees, huffing air out of her nose like a tiny, angry dragon. I imagine sparkly pink smoke curling from her nostrils, infusing the air with glittering fury. “I still can’t believe he said that. He totally had me fooled, and usually, I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
Yes, I told her exactly why things went down the way they did. She also made no fewer than three calls to every police contact she had to report him for gross misconduct—even though, technically, I started it.
She pushes off the couch, arms crossed, one bare foot tapping against the floor as she stares at the wall. “I am a little proud of the Olympic blowjob reference, though. I am competitive in sports,” she muses.
I can’t help but laugh, wincing when the smile that threatens to split my lip all over again widens too far.
“Poor songbird.” She sticks out her bottom lip mockingly. “That’s what you get for being mean to me.”
“ Mean to you?” I repeat incredulously, tugging at my collar. Despite the ice against my skin, her apartment is stifling. I abandon the cube on a coaster and stand, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it over the arm of her couch before yanking my tie loose and unfastening the top three buttons of my shirt.
Dove hops onto a stool by the island, propping her chin in her hand, watching me unabashedly. Again, I try to envision her as the dark, unhinged Doll who goes around chopping off men’s dicks.
For everything she went through when she was younger, she’s so bright and happy.
Did I hit the bullseye when we first met and assumed she was being fake? That she was hiding something behind that cotton candy smile?
Do I even care?
At this point, Dove being the Doll would be the best thing to ever happen to me. I could selfishly have my cake and eat it, too. Black buttercream with a side of pink glitter sprinkles every fucking day for eternity.
“I told you my story, and you ghosted me, Wren,” she says bluntly. “Even when I reached out repeatedly, you ignored me. See? Mean.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—” I trail off, realizing I never even considered it from her perspective. She let me in, and I slammed the door shut, as if her trauma was too much for me to handle.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
“Dove—” My phone rings, the shrill tone slicing through my apology.
Dove half-turns to peer at my phone where it lies next to hers on the counter. She blinks, murmuring, “It’s your mother.”
Leave it to her to ruin the moment.
“I’ll let you get that.” Dove is already disappearing down the hall before I can tell her I don’t want to take the call. The bathroom door clicks shut behind her with one last, undecipherable look cast my way.
Thoroughly frustrated, I hit decline—only for Hunter’s name to pop up a second later. I answer. “I’m assuming Bunny told you?”
“Yeah. How you feeling, buddy?” he asks in his best Deadpool impression.
“I’m fine, you sarcastic shit. What do you want? If Bunny told you what happened, surely you know I’m with Dove.”
“Is the little hottie gonna nurse you back to health? Don’t forget your sucker for being a good boy and taking your ass-beating like a champ. Or are you the one with the sucker for her?” He laughs.
“Goodbye, Detective Dick .”
“Hi, Hunter,” Dove calls behind me. I spin, still holding the phone, Hunter’s laughter echoing in my ear.
“I gotta go,” I mutter, hanging up as I stare, completely dumbstruck.
Dove apparently took me removing my jacket and tie as an invitation to get comfortable. Which, it’s her place, and fuck, am I thankful for that.
She reappears in the living room wearing a tiny, bubblegum-pink satin camisole with cream lace trim and matching shorts that cut high on her thighs, hair piled messily on top of her head .
“What?” she asks. “It’s time for pajamas. Get comfortable, Songbird. We’re gonna watch a movie and talk. I’ll make popcorn.”
She pads past me into the kitchen, pulling out ingredients like this is an everyday occurrence for us. “Go!” she urges. “Wash the blood off your face and rinse with mouthwash.”
“So bossy.” I smirk, even though she can’t see it. The playful banter does something to me, and I want it—fuck, I want it to be permanent so badly.
She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Just wait till we move it to the bedroom, handsome.”
Warmth blooms in my chest like a punctured water balloon. It makes me feel happy—almost giddy.
Dove and I have blown way past the usual awkwardness couples commonly experience in the first initial stages of courting. We’ve laughed, yelled, and pranked each other to the point that maybe we were always meant to skip straight to this.
But there are still so many secrets hanging over us.
Secrets I feel need to come to light if we’re going to make a real go of it.
As I exit the bathroom, I feel like some of those secrets are hidden behind the ominous door on the left side of the hall. It looks just like every other door in her place, but this one feels different—almost like a cold, looming presence as I walk by.
Popcorn popping in the microwave tells me Dove is still in the kitchen. A strange tingle crawls up my spine as I reach for the gilded doorknob and turn it slowly, ensuring I don’t alert Fang.
Locked.
“What are you doing, Wrenley?”