Chapter Four
?
Torture me, dove.
Malcolm
Darling Dove: I’ve learned he has what could be considered an incriminating tattoo on him.
I understand your claims surrounding your organization’s ability to keep me safe regardless of how things play out, but you’ll have to forgive me my doubts and caution.
No matter how much it pains me to admit, I no longer believe it wise for me to take a hands-on role in this; however, since I am more convinced than ever that he cannot be allowed to live, I am willing to assist to the best of my abilities so long as I’m not getting my hands dirty.
As of today, I believe we’re participating in something akin to courting, so it’s likely I’ll be able to get him to places where accidents might happen.
This is not only the smartest method I can discern, but it is also the only assistance I am now willing to provide.
Since I didn’t take the money, you should have the funds still to distribute to the cause.
Please let me know how I can position the target in light of this information.
Looking forward to ridding the world of this great evil.
Blinking at my burner phone, I wonder exactly how long Azalea spent typing this out on the number keypad. An hour? Several? My word, woman. Writing a proper email via text on a flip phone concerning the murder of someone else must be the definition of insanity.
Melting into a smile, I lift the towel hanging around my neck and dry my hair as I exit my bathroom on the way to my bed.
She’s so…diligent. My Azalea.
Diligent and crazy.
Exactly my type.
Exhaling a curse, I secure my personal phone and plop into bed.
Me: Good evening, little dove. I miss you already and dread the weekend before us.
Reclining, I smile at my screen when dots immediately appear to disappear, then appear and disappear again. Once they’ve vanished a seventh time, I chuckle. “Come now, I’m not that hard to talk to, am I?”
At long last, she blesses me with a response.
Dove: Our sentiments concerning the matter of this weekend find themselves on starkly opposing sides.
I bite my lip as another curse slips through my head.
I love her.
Me: Is it cold on your side, without me?
Dove: No.
A man can dream, I suppose.
Me: What are you up to tonight?
Dove: Cleaning.
Why am I not surprised?
Me: I lysoled my black gloves after using them today, just so you know.
Moments pass. Many, many moments pass. I picture her lost in a sea of white clouds, inspecting every inch of what I’m certain is a blindingly bleached home for any speck of dirt. Finally, she pauses her compulsive germ war to reply:
Dove: Why would you do something like that?
Why? Oh, precious girl.
Me: So you’ll be more comfortable when I touch you.
More moments. More fantasies of Azalea scurrying about in an apron while she cleans. Then the gift of a response:
Dove: Since when have you ever concerned yourself with my comfort?
For a woman trying to kill me, it’s adorable how honest she’s being.
The way she wears the truth on her skin is beautiful.
Her emotions—usually so tepid and subdued—rise and fall and crash whenever they rear.
They’re either silent or screaming, and can anyone really blame me if I love the sound of the screams?
Me: You’re the one who told me to be kind.
Dove: You had those gloves prepared before I told you that.
Cute, smart, perfect little Azalea.
Me: So, one might assume, I was already intending to be very, very kind to you.
Dove: Doubtful. You haven’t been kind to me a day in your life.
Me: You really think terrible things about me, don’t you?
Dove: Professionally, no, sir.
Me: And romantically?
She sends me a middle finger emoji.
Me: Well, no matter how it might shock you, I happen to like you a great deal.
Dove: Yes, that does shock me. Quite a bit. Considering how very little you act like it.
Me: I’ve not been that awful to you, have I?
Dove: Remember that time you intentionally and specifically wiped ketchup on my clothes?
Me: Fondly.
Dove: Despite it being so obvious how important cleanliness is to me, you smeared red on the top of my favorite white dress. How, exactly, is that not “being awful”?
I dipped the pad of my finger in the puddle of ketchup that came with my lunch, then I made her stand still while I pressed the stain into her perfectly white blouse. There was a flash of emotion in her eyes followed by its swift murder. The entire rest of the day, she hardly blinked.
So I never did something like that again because the last thing I want from her is a shutdown.
I am desperate for her emotions—whatever they are—to break free. I want them to bathe me. Scorch me. Kill me.
She’s such a perfect, precious being, and she deserves to know love at the depth of the emotions she could feel if only something hadn’t taught her to bottle them up.
What I wouldn’t give to love her openly like that.
What I wouldn’t endure to convince her she wants to love me in the same way.
Me: The ketchup smear was a little heart.
Dove: It was cruel.
Dove: You’re cruel.
More cruel than she can possibly know.
Me: Yet you’re giving me a chance anyway. You must either think I’m cute and believe you have the power to change me or…you must suspect there’s more to me than cruelty. Which is it? Attraction, or faith?
Dove: Neither.
Me: Oh?
Dove: It’s my turn. I want to see how far you’ll go now that you’ve given me the power to be cruel back.
Another swear hits me, and I swallow—hard—cupping my free hand to my mouth as heat rises.
Breaths uneven, I shiver for this woman, helpless and hopeless and enamored.
If this is truly her goal, I pray with every cell in me that she doesn’t lose her nerve.
I need her to unravel me, bruise me, make me bleed.
Make me hers.
Shakily, I respond:
Me: So this is a revenge romance?
Dove: Problem with that?
Me: Not at all.
Me: In fact, thank you.
Dove: What do you mean “thank you”?
Me: I’m shaking for you, Azalea. It’s hard to type. You’re everything perfect in this world. I love you dearly. Please annihilate me. Please make me suffer. Please let me be yours.
And to that she does not reply.