Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 7
John Ringer sat in the backseat of the taxi, watching rain slide down the window. Morning traffic was crawling, and Goat Home City looked as tired as he felt.
The driver, Mohammed, was his usual ride. A deal they’d made years ago still stood—Ringer had helped him out on a case, and in return, Mohammed drove him wherever he needed, no questions asked.
“Rain’s slowing everything down,” Mohammed said, adjusting the wipers.
Ringer didn’t respond. He stared out the window and spotted a man on the sidewalk trying to hail a cab. Drenched, well-dressed. No one stopped.
“Pull over,” Ringer said.
Mohammed looked in the mirror. “What for?”
“Let him in. He’s getting soaked.”
Mohammed sighed but pulled to the curb. Ringer rolled down the window. “Need a ride?”
The man stepped closer, nodding. “Yes. Thanks. Been out here a while.”
He climbed in beside Ringer, dripping water onto the floor mat. “Appreciate it.”
“This city doesn’t treat people too kindly,” Ringer said.
“Yeah,” the man replied. “Name’s Bruce. Bruce Wayne.”
Ringer shook his hand. “John Ringer. I run a small private eye business.”
Mohammed cut in. “Where to, Mr. Wayne?”
“Jack’s Garden Supply And Groceries. Just a couple blocks up.”
“I’ll drop you off first, then Ringer,” Mohammed muttered.
Ringer nodded. “Works for me.” He reached into his coat and handed Bruce a business card. “If you ever need help, that’s me.”
Ultimate Bruce Wayne read it. “Ringer & Bell Detective Agency. Got it.” He tucked it into his coat pocket. “Thanks.”
The cab stopped again. “Here’s your stop,” Mohammed said.
Bruce opened the door, then turned back. “Thanks again, John.”
“Anytime,” Ringer said.
Bruce stepped out into the rain and disappeared into the crowd.
The cab pulled back into traffic, and Ringer leaned his head against the window.
John Ringer stepped through the front door of the brownstone and gave his coat a quick shake before hanging it on the brass hook by the door. The office smelled faintly of old paper, weak coffee, and floor polish—same as always. Outside, the neighborhood was just starting to stir. Low-end, working-class block. Too early for trouble. Or so he thought.
He glanced toward the front desk. Empty. Mary Bell’s chair was pulled back like she’d just stepped away, but the crystal ashtray on the reception desk was nestling one half-smoked cigarette with its familiar red lipstick staining the butt. Mary Bell was a lot of things—talkative, impulsive, shamelessly bisexual—all contained in a six-inch-to-five-foot, barely dressed bombshell of a fairy.
“Mary?” he called. Nothing could be heard but the hum of the radiator and the patter of rain against the window glass. Then he heard it—a soft moan, low and breathy. It came from his office in the back. Female. Not hurt. Not exactly.
John moved down the hall, slow and quiet. He nudged the door open with the side of his shoe. The lights were off, but enough morning haze came through the blinds to paint the room in gray stripes.
On the old loveseat beneath the window, Mary Bell was curled up with another woman—both of them five feet tall, half-dressed, tangled together like ivy and wire. Wings shimmered faintly in the dim light. Maybelle’s blonde hair spilled over her shoulder. The other woman had darker curls and a face that looked like it had launched a thousand bedtime stories.
John cleared his throat. His partner looked up from sucking on the other woman’s breast, acting like this was a normal thing to be happening in his office at eight o’clock in the morning. “Oh. Hey, John. Morning.”
“Morning,” he said. “Mary. What exactly are you doing?” She snorted. “What do you think I’m doing? You’re thirty, not twelve. I’m pretty sure you know what sex looks like.”
“Yeah, I know what it looks like. I just didn’t expect to find it happening on my loveseat. With you and her. In my office.” The sexy fairy grinned and kissed the other woman’s lips. “She’s always been so adorable and you humans do call this a loveseat. This is Tinker Bell.”
Tinker Bell gave him a small wave from where she was still nestled in Mary’s arms. Half-naked. Looking comfortable. “Wait,” John said. “You’re making out with the Tinker Bell of film and screen?”
“Well, yeah,” Mary said. “I’m sure I mentioned to you in the past she’s my cousin.” John blinked. “So you’re making out with your cousin?”
The ferry rolled her green eyes. “You humans and your ancient rules. We’re fairies. It’s not like I can get her pregnant. Well, technically I could, but I would need a certain love potion to make it happen. I don’t think she would really want to do that because, you know, being an actress, having a baby would really, at this time, ruin her career. Right, Tink?”
John leaned a hand on the doorframe. “Still. My loveseat, Mary.” “I didn’t expect you in this early,” she said, finally sitting up and adjusting her blouse with her usual nonchalance. “But she’s here to hire us for a job.”
Tinker Bell sat up, her back against the arm of the loveseat, her bare feet in her cousin’s lap. “She’s correct, Mr. Ringer. I want to hire Ringer & Bell Detective Agency.” John raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
Tinker Bell nodded. “We need you to find someone.” John noticed she used the word “we,” not “I,” when she said it. “Who?” he asked.
Mary answered. “Peter Pan.” John stared at the two fairies for a long beat. “You mean Peter Pan Peter Pan?”