Little Dove Read online

  Table of Contents

  Little Dove

  Copyright

  From the pervy heart of the author

  Dedicated to Baby Sprinkle

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Connect with Layla Frost

  Other Books by Layla Frost

  © 2020 Layla Frost

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Formatting by CP Smith

  Cover Design by Dark Waters Covers

  FROM THE PERVY HEART OF THE AUTHOR

  My Cupcakes… Thank you for being my ride or die this last year through all the chaos and clusterfucks. I appreciate your patience, understanding, and encouragement more than you’ll ever know. I adore you all and I’m grateful for each and every one of you.

  Brynne Asher and Sarah Curtis, you keep me sane. Well, let’s not get carried away. You keep me sane-ish. Thank you for being the best friends a gal could ever ask for and for being there for me—always, but especially this year. Here’s to more years, more booze, and more bombshell secret pets…

  Lindsay, thank you for always cracking the whip and being there for me! You’re an absolute treasure, and I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.

  Dark Water Covers… Every time I think you can’t top a previous cover, you do it. Thank you for the perfect Maximo cover. I love it!

  All the other authors, bloggers, Bookstagrammers, and readers in my life… I couldn’t do anything without you all. The patience, support, understanding, and LOVE this community shows is a constant reminder that the world isn’t a complete dumpster fire. I appreciate all you do.

  And M, this year has been the lowest of lows and the highest of highs. Through it all, you’ve been there. My rock. My best friend. My everything. I love you whole bunches.

  DEDICATED TO BABY SPRINKLE

  Thank you for the insane pregnancy hormones that made this book possible. You’re not even born yet, and I already owe you one. I also already love you. Spent years waiting for you, and I just know you’re going to be worth every second.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Our White Castle

  Juliet

  “GET IN.”

  “What?” I asked, taking rapid shuffling steps to keep up as my father gripped my shoulders and propelled me backward. I stumbled, nearly falling, but he didn’t stop.

  Throwing open the small pantry door, he shoved me inside. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear. Got it?”

  I had no idea what was happening, but I knew better than to question Shamus McMillon, especially when he was in a state.

  His graying red hair was in disarray and his wild eyes kept darting to the side. Each breath he huffed my way smelled like cheap whiskey and a keg of Guinness.

  So instead of the fifty-billion questions that danced on my tongue, I said, “Okay.”

  “I mean it, Jule-bug. Don’t open the door until I say so.” He scanned my face, his expression tense and anxious. With a sigh, he closed the door, leaving me in darkness with stale crackers, canned Spam, and likely a mouse or two.

  I’d just gotten home from errands and grocery shopping when Dad had dragged his butt off the couch to raid the food. His eyes had gone toward the front window before he’d dropped the peanut butter jar to the ground in order to push me into the pantry.

  I had no clue what he’d seen that’d freaked him out. We lived at the end of the long dirt road behind Dad’s gym and the only visitors we got were his buddies.

  If anyone should be freaked by that, it was me. His friends were assholes who gave me the creeps.

  Whatever this is, I hope it’s fast. I splurged on ice cream, and Vegas doesn’t seem to understand February is winter. My precious cookies and cream goodness is probably melting right now.

  Maybe it’s dinner delivery and I don’t have to cook for once. Or maybe it’s the few people I like from the gym bringing cake to go with my ice cream. Maybe, just maybe, my father didn’t actually forget my seventeenth birthday and is trying to surprise me.

  And maybe I’ll find a rainbow in the box of stale, store brand Lucky Charms and ride it to a pot of gold.

  I knew better than fanciful dreams. It wasn’t the first time my dad had forgotten my birthday. The fact it was on Valentine’s Day should’ve taken the guesswork out of it, but he’d still have to care enough to remember.

  He never did.

  There was a pounding on the front door before it opened so hard, it banged into the wall.

  “Boys!” Dad greeted, his voice traveling easily through the paper-thin walls. “What brings you to my castle?”

  I barely held in a snort.

  If this is a castle, it’s owned by the Burger King.

  And his Dairy Queen.

  It’s their humble White Castle.

  I’m so hungry.

  “If ya wanna book me,” Dad said, “ya gotta call my girl. She schedules my fights.”

  I rolled my eyes. He always gave that line, like he had some big-time agent or manager handling his fight bookings.

  I was his girl. Just me and a tattered desk calendar in the backroom of the training gym he owned.

  “We had a meeting today,” a deep voice rumbled—calm, cool, and collected.

  Whereas my dad sounded nervous, jittery, and forced. “Oh! Was that today? Must’ve slipped my mind. What’d you need?”

  “Rough loss on Saturday,” whoever said.

  Wait. I thought he won.

  He hadn’t said as much, but he also hadn’t gotten blackout drunk—or worse—like he always did after a loss.

  “Yeah, that sp—kid,” he said, catching himself before he used the slur, “has a helluva right hook.”

  There was a lot to despise about Shamus McMillon, and his casual racism was high on the list.

  “That’s funny,” the mystery man said in a tone that made it clear there was nothing humorous about it. “‘Cause I talked to Jose’s trainer. He said his right hook is weak. Not only that, but he sets his left foot. Everyone knows about it. He’s
trying to break him of the habit.”

  “Must’ve missed it. I’m gettin’ old, not as sharp as I used to be.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, I’ve actually been tossing around the idea of hangin’ up my gloves and focusing on training the young guns at the gym.”

  That was news to me.

  Dad gave a chuckle. “But if you’re interested in booking my grand finale fight, Max, I’ll—”

  “Maximo,” the voice rumbled.

  “Huh?”

  “My name is Maximo. Not Max.”

  The name didn’t sound familiar. Knowing who my dad associated with, I could just picture the wannabe hotshot with a pot belly and greasy face who thought he was one of the Rat Pack.

  I just hoped, whoever Maximo was, he hurried up and said what he needed to say. I had to eat, and after being on the go all day, my feet were killing me.

  “Right, right, Maximo,” Dad said. “I’ll get you my girl’s number, and she can help you out.”

  As if my dad hadn’t spoken, Maximo continued. “After I talked to Jose’s trainer, I went to see someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Carmichael. He had a lot to say about you, Shamus.”

  “Yeah?” A pitch of nerves hit Dad’s voice. “We’re old friends. Haven’t seen him in a while. Probably about a year or so.”

  That was a lie. Mugsy Carmichael was one of the wannabe gangsters Dad liked to run with. He came by the gym all the time and totally creeped me out. He’d just been there earlier that week.

  “You know what I hate, Ash?” the man—Maximo—asked.

  “What, boss?” a new voice answered.

  “Liars. Fucking hate them.”

  Something slammed against the wall, making me jump.

  “You took the fall,” Maximo bit out, his volume low, though he might as well have been shouting. There was a bass rumble to it that I could almost feel.

  “I’d never—” Dad started, but based on the sound of flesh hitting flesh—the soundtrack to my life—someone punched him before he could finish.

  “Don’t lie to me again,” Maximo said. “You took the fall after you bet on Jose.”

  My dad was a lot of things. A drunk. A gambler. A racist. A crap father.

  And greedy.

  I hadn’t thought he was a cheat, though. His name, title, and reputation in the boxing world were the most important things he had. He valued them above all else—including his only daughter.

  “Your loss cost people a shit-ton of money, Shamus. People who are not happy. People who are accusing me of running crooked fights. I don’t like liars or cheats, and I sure as fuck don’t like being accused of either.”

  “I didn’t fall,” Dad claimed.

  But it was a lie.

  And the sound of punches meant they knew it.

  I reached out and gripped the doorknob before hesitating.

  It wasn’t the first time someone had come to rough Dad up. He had his share of enemies. In the fight world. In the casinos. All across the US.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if the sisters at Mother Mary’s in New York spit when they heard his name.

  At least whoever was out there had gone straight to Dad instead of roughing me up in his place. It wouldn’t have been the first time that’d happened, either.

  Dad was a professional boxer. He could take care of himself. There was nothing I could do except put myself in danger for nothing.

  I let my hand drop from the knob.

  “I can make it right!” Dad shouted, and the commotion died down.

  “I think you’re underestimating how pissed people are. They want their money back.”

  “I just need a little time, but I’ll pay.” Dad’s panic was growing, and he didn’t try to hide it. “I’ll find a way. Sell the gym. Do something.”

  Oh, Dad. What’d you get yourself into this time?

  “Pit me against one of your new guys,” Dad pleaded, “and I’ll do whatever. Win or throw the match, whatever you want. I’ll make it believable so no one knows.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Maximo roared, the sound rattling in my ears. “What part of ‘I hate liars’ does he not get?”

  “No clue, boss,” whoever said.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Whoa, fellas. Max…imo. Maximo, man, sir. Come on.” Dad lowered his voice until I had to press my ear against the shared wall to hear him. “The gym, the car, everything. You can have it. Take it.”

  “I don’t want your shit, Shamus. It’s as worthless as you are.”

  “C’mon, man, seriously, I get it. I fucked up. I’ll find a way to pay and then I’ll retire. I’ll steer clear of the tables. But if you kill me, you’ll be out the money. Dead men can’t pay.”

  Kill?

  Did he just say kill?

  I threw open the door and launched myself into our small kitchen. I turned toward the entryway to the living room just as a boom filled the tiny house. Filled my head. It bounced around, leaving a ringing in my ears.

  But I barely noticed the echo it left behind.

  Because my focus—the entirety of it—was on my father.

  My dead father with the hole in his head and his brains splattered on our crappy couch.

  I’m never going to get that stain out.

  I’d thought my words were in my head, but I must’ve spoken them out loud because every set of eyes shot to me.

  Well, every set except Dad’s.

  Vomit lodged in my throat.

  “Shit,” a black-haired man bit out.

  The man to his left lifted his gun and pointed it at me.

  Right.

  At.

  Me.

  I had nowhere to go. There was no way I was getting through three goons and a monster of a man. The old backdoor behind me didn’t open anymore. If I jetted down the hall, I might be able to break one of the painted-shut windows, but it was more likely I’d be shot in the back.

  If I’m dying, running will not be the last thing I do on this earth.

  Trapped like a defenseless mouse surrounded by vicious predators, I stayed where I was. I steeled my spine and raised my chin.

  I waited for death.

  “Wait,” the black-haired man said, pushing the other man’s arm down. He studied me with dark eyes, running a tattooed hand through his hair and then across his stubbled jaw. Seeming to reach a conclusion, he gave a single nod. “She comes with us.”

  Oh no.

  At that, I did turn and run.

  There were fates worse than death.

  And if that was what I was facing, I’d take a bullet in the back instead.

  I took them by surprise and gained some distance, but my short legs were no match for the goon’s much longer ones.

  Thick arms wrapped around my waist, and I thrashed. I screamed. I bit. I kicked and punched and clawed.

  I’d fight.

  I’d die.

  But I’d never go with them.

  “Fucking hell,” the man cursed, squeezing me like I was the rabbit Lennie pet too hard.

  I caught him with a lucky kick to the junk. His hold loosened enough for me to wiggle free and punch him in the throat.

  I started to turn to take on whatever was behind me, but before I could, everything shifted. The world went sideways.

  And then it went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pretty Broken Girl

  Maximo

  “WHAT’RE WE GOING to do with her?”

  That was the million-dollar question.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror even though I couldn’t see the unconscious girl lying on the backseat of my Navigator.

  Shamus’ daughter.

  Last time he’d gotten behind on repaying his gambling debt, he’d thrown the blame on being a single father with no other family to help. I’d assumed it was yet another of his bullshit lies.

  I’d been wrong.

  She was a tiny, pretty thing. Ballsy, too.
She may have learned her scrappy fighting from Shamus, but her brass balls sure as hell hadn’t come from the coward.

  I focused on the road just in time to swerve to avoid some drunken asshat who’d decided jaywalking across the busy street was a smart choice.

  Ash flipped the guy off. “This is why I drive.”

  “No, you drive so I can work.”

  “Plus, having your badass bodyguard drive you around makes you look like a badass VIP.”

  I raised a brow. “I don’t need help with that.”

  “True,” he agreed. “Tell me the plan.”

  I would have, except I had none. No ideas. No damn clue.

  And I was a man who meticulously planned everything.

  Shamus’ death.

  Packing up enough of his stuff to make it look like he’d run away from his problems.

  Even down the exact spot where I was going to bury his body so no one would find it.

  I’d accounted for everything but the girl. She’d been a twist I hadn’t anticipated.

  “Can’t exactly dump her on the side of the road,” Ash said. “She’s seen us and heard your name.”

  That was true. I had friends on the force, but there was only so much they could do. Especially if she went to the media. They loved a pretty, broken girl. And Shamus’ daughter—with her huge green eyes, dusting of freckles, and long strawberry-blond hair—would be ratings bait.

  More than that, if we dropped her off, she’d be left to fend for herself against wolves.

  “Too young to leave on her own.” I ran my hand through my hair. “I doubt that bastard had any savings. She’d be fucked even without people coming to collect Shamus’ debts.”

  And they would come. Happily. Greedily. Eager to take their pound of flesh from the pretty, broken girl.

  I knew too fucking well what it was like to suffer for the sins of the father. I wasn’t leaving her to deal with Shamus’ clusterfuck.

  “So you’re keeping her,” Ash surmised, no question or judgment in his tone.

  “Yeah, I’m keeping her.”

  Juliet

  I could sleep for twenty hours.

  Still half-asleep, I kept my eyes closed as I stretched and rolled before burrowing into the pillows and blankets. I must’ve been even more exhausted than usual because rather than a flat pillow with its threadbare case and a lumpy mattress with broken springs, I felt like I was sleeping on a cloud. Clean and fresh and lush.