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Babydoll covers her mouth with a trembling hand. “Oh God, that’s h-horrible. That’s why the brooch means so much to you? Because it’s the last thing you have of hers?”
She should not know me this well, but there are a lot of should nots where Babydoll is involved.
“Aye, ya could say that.”
“How old were you?”
“I was five.”
Babydoll shakes her head, processing what I just shared. Something which has burdened me for so long suddenly feels a little lighter because it’s not a secret any longer.
“Is that what your face paint means?”
She isn’t thick; she understands the significance of it.
“Three men raped and killed my ma and because of them, that mask allows me to accept what I must do.”
“And what’s that?” she asks, stepping closer to me.
“It’s what I did to some fucker last night.”
She gasps, eyes wide as she doesn’t need me to draw a diagram. She understands I took a man’s life and feel nothing for doing so.
“You know who they are?”
Nodding slowly, I reply, “I do. Brody Doyle is goin’ to pay for everythin’ he took away from me.”
I realize she has no idea who that is, but I suddenly want her to know.
“This man, he’s the one who killed your mum?”
“Aye. I killed his brother last night, and it’s only a matter of time before I come for him.”
Silence.
Babydoll pales, her eyes focused in the distance. I cannot read her expression.
“Poppy?” I ask, using her name for the first time.
But she leaves me speechless when she leans forward, stands on her toes, and whispers into my ear, “The police are going to raid your home. They’re looking for drugs, guns, anything that can bring you down. You have to get rid of it. All of it. Now.
“And call me Babydoll.”
Pulling away slowly, I attempt to deal with her brutal confession. Is she telling the truth? But the better question here is, how does she know?
Angrily shoving her against the wall, a panicked gasp escapes her as I lower my face to hers. Her chest rises and falls frantically. Her fear is a drug to me. “If yer lyin’, so help me God…”
“I’m not,” she firmly replies, not intimidated by my anger.
And I believe her.
I slam my fist against the bricks, and she flinches but doesn’t cower. She understands what she’s just done by sharing this with me.
Gripping her chin between my thumb and finger, I arch back her neck and snarl, “Then God help ya.”
Before she has a chance to speak, I slam my mouth against hers, stealing her breath just as she does with mine. She fists my shirt, pulling me toward her as we kiss without apology, not caring who sees. Her smell and taste are like a punch of adrenaline, and I growl possessively because she is mine.
Without a doubt, Babydoll has an ulterior motive. I doubt our meeting was coincidental either. Babydoll is a liar…but I don’t fucking care.
