Little Dove Read online

  And that’s what woke me. Because nothing in my life was clean, fresh, or lush.

  My mind catapulted into consciousness, the memories flashing through my brain like scenes from a horror movie.

  My dad was dead.

  Shot.

  Murdered.

  I’d been kidnapped. And drugged?

  The thought launched me upright. I was still in my clothes and nothing felt out of place. No aches or pains that would take this from a nightmare to hell on earth.

  I jumped from the bed, barely seeing the room as I scanned for an exit. Finding three doors, I tried the closest one, but it led to a bathroom. The second door was to a walk-in closet.

  Let’s see what’s behind door number three.

  I frantically turned the handle on the last one, but rather than a hallway, it led into another room. There was yet another door on the opposite side, and I ran to it, yanking the handle.

  It didn’t budge.

  Panic set in, and I banged my fist over and over again. “Let me out! Let me out of here!”

  No one came.

  I pressed my ear to the thick wood, hoping to hear voices or movement, but it was silent.

  Okay.

  Okay, I need a plan.

  First, I needed a weapon. Then an exit. Then I’d haul ass out of there. Then…

  Well, I’d figure that out.

  I turned back to search the bedroom more thoroughly.

  Oh Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

  There’s no place like home… And this is definitely no place like home.

  My actual bedroom was the size of a closet, and a small one at that. It barely fit my twin bed, and I had to keep my broken dresser in the bathroom. My walls were a faded pee yellow, stained and likely filled with lead. And the rust-colored carpet was worn away, left scratchy and stained—a common theme through the whole house.

  Wherever I was, it was the exact opposite of all that.

  The room was huge. Bigger than our living room and kitchen combined. The walls were a pretty gray-blue, no fading or stains in sight. The white, four-post bed was oversized and covered with puffy pillows and a plush comforter the same color as the walls.

  There was also a white armoire, two bedside tables, and a long bench in front of the bed that matched the rest.

  Our furniture at home never matched—not even two pieces, let alone a whole room. It was all cheap thrift shop finds or even cheaper curb finds.

  I checked the armoire and the drawers on the bedside tables, but they were empty. Searching the bathroom next, I hoped for a razor, chemical spray, or even a plunger, but there was nothing.

  I tried to lift the frosted window, but it wouldn’t budge—and not because it was painted shut.

  Damn.

  Heading back into the bedroom, I decided to try the window that was behind the bed. Standing on the soft mattress, I pushed the pale blue curtains aside as best as I could with the headboard in the way.

  The fenced-in yard—if it could even be called that—stretched far and was filled with more plants than I’d ever seen in Vegas, minus some of the casinos’ gardens. They were healthy and vibrant, something that was hard to achieve in the dry heat. Off to the side, amidst all the greenery, I could see part of a pool. Beyond the tall wooden fence, there were beautiful trees and distant mountains, making a gorgeous backdrop to the picturesque landscape.

  It looked like something straight out of a magazine.

  Actually, it looked like a luxury resort.

  I’m in a hotel. That makes sense.

  Kinda.

  Other than why I’m here, it makes sense.

  I tried those windows and was unsurprised when they were locked. I could’ve broken one, but hurting myself on the glass would make me more vulnerable. Not to mention, I was on the second story. Jumping would almost certainly lead to a broken bone or worse.

  Backtracking to the sitting room, I scanned each inch as if my life depended on it—because I was pretty sure it did. It was the same size as the bedroom, though more sparsely decorated. A plush couch faced a TV hanging on the wall with a long coffee table positioned in front of it. But that was all. No desk or chair. No mini fridge. No logoed pad of paper and pen. No phone hanging from the wall, a relic mainstay in all hotel rooms—or at least the motel rooms Dad and I had stayed at.

  There was a rush of emotion I didn’t want to face, so I bottled it up.

  I had to be smart.

  If nothing else, Shamus had taught me to watch out for myself.

  There were no windows and only two doors—the one to the bedroom and the locked one. I inspected the locked handle for a discreet latch, but there was nothing.

  Hotels locks are on the inside of the room.

  All the cool I’d gathered disappeared. Fear seized my heart as I yelled, “Let me go! Please!” I knocked, again and again until my knuckles hurt, and then I switched to slapping the thick wood. “Please, please, please!”

  I’d just given up to rest my knuckles when I heard it.

  Footsteps.

  I scurried away from the door as the knob began to turn.

  This is how I die.

  I’m the slutty cheerleader in the horror movie of life, screaming my way to an early grave.

  Wishing like hell I’d found a weapon, I braced as the door opened.

  It wasn’t the boss or one of his goons, thankfully. Instead, an older woman came in with a tray. My eyes went behind her, but before I could make my move, the door slammed closed.

  She set it down and smiled. “Pretty girl,” she said with an accent. “Eat. You’re too thin.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I lied.

  Tsking, she shook her head. “He does not like liars. You haven’t eaten since you got here yesterday, you must be starving.”

  I rocked back. “I’ve been here since yesterday?”

  That meant it’d actually been two days since I’d eaten because I hadn’t had anything before running my errands the day before.

  “Yes, you were tired.”

  “I was drugged,” I hissed.

  There was no shock on the woman’s face. No confusion. No denial.

  She merely shrugged. “That only lasts a few hours. You slept the other sixteen because you were exhausted.”

  Sixteen hours?

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten. I was told not to wake you until noon, but the men said you were awake.” She gestured to the food. “Eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.” My growling stomach contradicted my repeated lie.

  “He hates liars,” she emphasized, a heavy warning in her tone. It lightened when she began fussing with the dome on the tray. “The food is good. Mr. Freddy only uses the best ingredients. Better than sludge and bland microwave porridge.”

  I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to be stubborn and petulant and on guard. But the food smelled so good, my resolve quickly weakened.

  It would be stupid not to eat. I can’t escape if I’m too weak. I need my strength.

  Nervously approaching like she was going to jab me in the neck with a needle, I asked, “It’s not poisoned?”

  She looked at me like I was an idiot. “If Mr. Freddy hears you ask that, he won’t cook for you again. Ever.”

  “Got it,” I mumbled. Lowering myself to the couch, I removed the metal dome to reveal a pile of food. The large plate was piled high with eggs, a mountain of home fries, toast, and a stack of bacon. A separate bowl of fruit sat next to the plate with little containers of butter, jelly, honey, and some sort of thick cream. There were also small glasses of OJ, apple juice, and milk.

  It was more than I ate in one day, much less one meal.

  Still, a vital piece of my DNA was missing. I would need the caffeine boost if I was going to find a way to escape, so I tentatively asked, “Would it be possible to have coffee?”

  Thankfully she didn’t call me greedy or take the tray away. She just gave me a motherly smile—or what I guessed was a motherly smile
, I didn’t exactly have a reference. “No, coffee is bad for young girls.”

  Tell that to Starbucks’ main demographic—high school girls who can’t live without their daily frappe or PSL.

  “It’ll stunt your growth,” she continued.

  Yeah, I’ve been five-three for two years. I’m done growing.

  Keeping my thoughts to myself, I dug in.

  “Do you have food allergies?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Call me Ms. Vera,” she corrected.

  “Juliet,” I said because it seemed like the right thing at the time. After I said it, I wished I’d given a fake name.

  I suck at this.

  “Pretty name for a pretty girl. Do you have any foods you hate?” she asked.

  “Breakfast sausage, squash, and tuna. Oh, and oregano and rosemary, but that’s it.”

  Her brow raised. “Ones you don’t like?”

  I picked up a perfectly cooked piece of bacon, crunchy but not too crunchy. It was thick, not the cheap, thin stuff we microwaved. I shook my head. “No, ma’am. I’m not picky.”

  She gave a soft sound of acknowledgment but otherwise left me to eat as she fussed with righting cushions and wiping down surfaces that were already immaculate.

  I could only eat a quarter of the delicious breakfast before I was stuffed.

  When the woman—Ms. Vera—came back in from the bedroom, she eyed my tray disapprovingly.

  “I’ll eat the rest for lunch,” I said automatically, not wanting to piss anyone off. Realizing my response made it seem like I’d still be there in a few hours, my tone was hopeful and nonchalant when I added, “I’ll take it home with me.”

  My hope was quickly dashed when Ms. Vera said, “You’re not leaving.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until Mr. Maximo says you can.”

  I was supposed to be playing it smart, but I couldn’t stop myself from shouting, “That’s kidnapping!”

  Again, she shrugged like it was no biggie that she was an accomplice to kidnapping and unlawful holding and whatever else it was.

  “I’ll scream until someone calls the cops.”

  “No one will.”

  Disappointment sank like a boulder in my belly. “The other hotel guests?”

  “Mr. Maximo owns four hotels, but this is not one of them.” There was no anger, ridicule, or venom in her voice. It was matter of fact. “And no one will help you.”

  He owns hotels?

  And this isn’t one?

  Then where the hell am I?

  Pulling out a little drawer in the coffee table, she grabbed a remote and turned on the TV before handing it to me. “I’ll be back with your lunch in a few hours.”

  “Wait!” I stood up. “What am I supposed to do?”

  She tilted her head toward the TV. “There are hundreds of channels, I’m sure you can find something to watch.”

  As she approached the door, I readied myself to bolt. But when the door was opened, two goons were there.

  I may have been able to knock her over, but I had no chance against them.

  Flinching as the door clicked closed, I scanned the room, zeroing in on the little drawers I’d missed during my first inspection.

  I pulled all three completely out, turning them over as if I was in an escape room and needed to search for clues. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Only, instead of fighting the clock, I was fighting for my life. I went into the room and checked the armoire and nightstands, feeling around the back and under the drawers.

  Empty.

  Shit.

  I was well and truly trapped.

  Conserving my energy so I was ready when the opportunity arose, I went back to the sitting room, grabbed the remote, and flipped through the channels.

  Hundreds and hundreds of channels.

  CHAPTER THREE

  And The Oscar Goes To…

  Juliet

  “HAS HE SAID when I can leave?”

  I didn’t speak his name. I never did.

  Two full days.

  I’d been there for two long, boring days. That might not seem like long, but when being held captive and waiting for my fate to be revealed, it was an eternity.

  In my real life, I worked at the gym. I kept the house running. I did chores, ran errands, and then worked at the gym some more.

  I didn’t watch TV for hours on end. I didn’t nap. I didn’t eat huge, gourmet meals three times a day.

  They were playing some kind of game with me, I knew it. Lulling me into a false sense of security with relaxation and beauty before pulling the rug out from under me.

  What other explanation was there?

  Each time I saw her, I asked if he’d said when I could leave. Each time the answer was the same.

  “No,” Ms. Vera said simply.

  Damn.

  Weighing my words for fear of losing what little entertainment I had, I asked, “Can I have something else to do? Some books or magazines.”

  “I’ll ask.”

  “Did he say if I could have real clothes?”

  When she’d brought me breakfast the day before, she’d also dropped off toiletries and a new set of clothes. Unfortunately, they were oversized PJ pants and a tee that fit like a dress.

  As comfy as they were, there was no way I’d be able to run in them.

  And I needed to be able to run.

  “Yes,” she said.

  That was something.

  “Now eat.” She removed the dome from my breakfast tray.

  It wasn’t my leftovers. It never was, no matter how many times I insisted on eating them.

  Instead, there was a slice of thick bread covered in smashed avocado and a poached egg with fresh herbs. As always, there was a big bowl of fresh fruit salad, but only one glass of OJ.

  Someone paid attention to what I ate and how much.

  I sat and began eating the fruit. Ms. Vera shook her head, muttering that I was too skinny, but she otherwise left me alone as she went about her daily task of cleaning what was already clean.

  I heard rustling from the bedroom and rolled my eyes. Like the day before, I’d made the bed only for her to undo it and make it again.

  Unlike the day before, though, there was a knock on the door.

  My heart raced as I bolted up, wondering who was there, what they wanted, and, most of all, if I could finally leave.

  Ms. Vera came rushing in as the door opened, but it was just the goon who always ignored me.

  As far as I’d seen, there was a rotation of three different ones.

  The brown-haired guy in the doorway was smaller than the other two, but still a goon. He never even glanced my way, which was fine by me.

  The big, bulky meathead with the dark hair always glared like he wanted to snap me like a twig.

  The last seemed nicer—the handsome goon with a dimpled smile. He was tall, tattooed, and bulky with buzzed hair and a blond beard. He didn’t look at me much, but at least he offered a smile when he did. It beat being death glared.

  Then, of course, there was him, but I hadn’t seen him since that first night. He had black hair that was buzzed on the sides and left longer on top, scruff, a bunch of tattoos, and evil black eyes.

  Monster’s eyes.

  “Oh good.” Ms. Vera held out her hands and took the bags I belatedly noticed he held.

  The ignore-me goon didn’t speak or look my way before leaving—surprise, surprise.

  Ms. Vera retreated to the room with the bags. As curious as I was to know what they held, I stubbornly fought the urge to ask. Sitting back down, I cut and ate a few bites of the delicious avocado toast, but I’d filled up on fruit.

  When Ms. Vera came back in, she didn’t comment about my leftovers as she gathered my tray. “There’s some new soaps in the bathroom and a fresh set of clothes on the bed.”

  “Thank you.” I stayed on my best behavior and didn’t bite the hand that feeds.

  Not yet, at least.

&nbs
p; When she left, I went into the bedroom to check out what had been left. Sure enough, the bed had been remade, each line and fold precise. A pair of gray leggings, a white cropped tee, plain underwear, and a bra were set out on it.

  When I’d asked for clothes, I’d figured I’d get… I dunno, something that looked like a prison jumpsuit or a thrift store special. I hadn’t expected anything cute or soft.

  Going into the bathroom, I saw the built-in shelf had been stocked. I’d gotten soap, shampoo and conditioner, and a toothbrush and toothpaste the morning before, but there was even more of it, plus bubble bath, face wash, and a thick paddle brush.

  I was tempted to soak in the tub but stuck with a quick shower. I dried off, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and waited.

  I had a plan.

  Thankfully, my lunch a few hours later included the usual bottle of water. Despite the nerves and anticipation clenching my stomach, I forced myself to eat all the food but tucked the bottle next to me so Vera didn’t clear it away. I waited another tense hour before slipping on my worn-out shoes.

  I was fed and had water.

  I was rested.

  I was dressed in clothes that allowed movement.

  It was time.

  The darkness of night may have been easier to hide in, but it also meant I’d have to navigate in said darkness.

  Daytime was my best bet.

  Heading to the main door, I knocked hard. “I need help! My stomach hurts so bad. I think something is wrong.” When there was no response, I added a sob that was only half-forced. “Please, help.”

  The door clicked before opening. I thanked my lucky stars it was the ignore-me goon again and not the nasty one.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My stomach,” I groaned.

  He took a step in.

  And I took my opening—literally. Like one of Dad’s boxers, I ducked and weaved, dodging the man. I squeezed out the door before slamming it closed with him locked inside.

  The room was at the end of a hall, leaving only one direction to go. I ran, passing door after door until I turned a corner and saw them.

  Stairs.