Page 34 of Our Little Dove

“We have to be careful. We’ll have a fucking mess on our hands if she recognizes us and starts screaming bloody murder in the studio,” he says while I let my wild emotions fall through the cracks of my defenses before I build them back into place.

Smirking, my eyes glint with mischief as I feel the vulnerability seep from my body, quickly replaced by my signature, sinister and playful wit. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a plan. We’ll play the professional artists just doing our job until the moment is right.”

“She knows our names, Fintan, and our voices. How the fuck do you think this is going to pan out if we can’t talk to her?”

“Just fucking go inside and follow my lead,” I hiss as I push past him, grabbing the phone that’s still clutched in his hand and making my way inside.

Iwant to cover up these scars that are arguably the world’s most unhinged and possessive tramp stamp.I want it gone!I want to make it disappear, or at the very least, I want peace of mind knowing that no one other than me will know what hides behind the ink. A ‘mark’ of my choosing.

I shift in the chair by the large windows of the studio as I wait. The anticipation churns in my stomach, mingling with a touch of nervousness as I wrack my brain, trying to figure out why the man from the front desk seems so familiar.

“Shit, I kind of wish Molly was here,” I mumble to myself, trying to ease my sudden anxiety.

She always came with me for moral support, although she is not a big fan of needles, and I doubt she’d want to set foot in a studio with me after I made fun of her for chickening out of our plan to get our tongues pierced together a year ago.

Fiddling with my phone, I glance at the screen periodically, checking the time and hoping they are able to help me before they close for the night. To my surprise, a notification pops up just as I look at the screen, and I see the familiar name of my best friend:Molly.

I fucking hope it is the emails I asked for and not another seemingly empty apology. I do miss her, but I can’t forgive her so easily for what she did.

With a mixture of nervousness and trepidation, I open the email. My heart rate quickens as I read through the contents, each word sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins.

It’s all here. She gave them everything they could possibly need to find me.

How can I use this to find them?

The emails contain all the correspondence between her andKinkactors.com, the so-called company she found to perform the staged kidnapping I asked for. Their slogan almost makes me giggle in disbelief. “Act out your fantasies. What the fuck?” I whisper as I read.

My eyes scan over the details, absorbing every piece of information. The times she chose, the consent form on my behalf, the assurances—it’s all here, laid out in black and white.

My vision grows blurry, and I feel faint for a moment but then I spot what I am looking for. A web address. After typing it into the browser on my phone with shaky hands, I sit up, completely focused on the screen.

It does look legit. I can see why Molly felt so giving with my information.

Ah, there it is…

They have a “contact us” section on their page with a phone number.

Looks like my career choice is finally paying off. I can trace the number and possibly find out who it belongs to. Maybe even hack into their device and take a look at what they’ve been up to.

Web design for obnoxious CEOs and clients like Karen from the bakery is not for the faint of heart and it is hands-down the most soul-sucking work I have ever done but it is fun when someclients hire me to hack into competitors’ sites, for a ridiculous price, of course.

In this economy, I can’t really be complaining about the work, boring or illegal, since I can afford to live in my three-bedroom house in one of the better neighborhoods outside the city.

Taking a deep breath, I save the number listed on the site and slip my phone back into my pocket. The man from the front desk approaches, a smile on his face as he confirms availability for my tattoo.

“Good news, miss. We can fit you in before closing. Would you mind if I take a look at what we are covering for you today?” He asks as he grabs a sketch pad and pen from behind the desk and moves toward me looking more relaxed than before.

I remain silent as I take in his features, memorizing every beautiful detail of his face. He clears his throat and continues, the nervousness from earlier barely contained beneath the surface.

“Do you have a design in mind or would you prefer me drawing up something for you?” he asks while rubbing the back of his neck.

“I—um,” I stumble over my words, not knowing how to respond.

Maybe I should have given this some thought instead of looking like a fool.

“Miss? Is everything all right? Do you need some time?”

He seems professional. Well, he would to anynormalclient wanting a tattoo, but I don’t miss the slightest pitch in his voice as he tries desperately to stay calm.

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