Little Dove Page 5

  Shit, this has probably cost a fortune and my insurance barely covers a Flintstones vitamin and a prayer.

  It wouldn’t be the first bill to go to collection, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

  After the doctor and nurse left, I didn’t speak and neither did Maximo. My thoughts were on what was to come.

  He clearly wasn’t going to kill me. My guess was he’d drop me back at home—likely after he threatened me to stay silent.

  Maybe it made me a shit person or a shit daughter—or both—but I wouldn’t go to the cops. It was doubtful they’d even care about Shamus’ death. It wasn’t worth ending up in foster care. Or worse, having them think I was responsible for his death.

  A quick interview with some of his buddies would show I had a lot of motive.

  My plan was to go back to my house, focus on how to survive, and pretend the last few days never happened.

  The nurse returned with the brace and showed me how to slide it on my foot, even though I already knew. She handed Maximo my discharge and prescription papers before recapping the doc’s orders.

  By the time she finished her spiel, the pain meds had hit my brain.

  Those pills were not Motrin…

  My head was a floaty balloon, and I was exhaustedly loopy.

  Have the lights in here always been so bright and annoying?

  And has Maximo always been so hot?

  No. Definitely not.

  It’s the drugs.

  Monsters aren’t hot.

  I need to get out of here. I’m pretty sure my balloon head can just float me away.

  Not waiting for help, I stood and wobbled, both from the meds and my foot.

  Maximo looked ready to throttle me. “Careful.”

  “I’m fine,” I said for what felt like the billionth time that day. So much so, the word didn’t even sound real anymore. “Fine, fine, fine.”

  “I’ll let you get her home. Contact us if there are any issues.” She looked at me. “Feel better, Dove.”

  I didn’t like her calling me that. I didn’t like her voice.

  But it was better than her calling me sweetie, so I wasn’t bitchy. “Thank you.”

  “Let me see if I can find you some clean clothes to wear,” she said as she headed for the door.

  “We’re set,” Maximo told her.

  My eyes darted to my crusty clothes and I grimaced. I’d rather stay in the open butt hospital gown than try to put that mess back on.

  When she opened the door, handsome goon was standing in the hall. He tossed a bag to Maximo and left just as fast.

  Maximo pulled out a pair of fleece PJ pants and a gray tee.

  Oh, thank God.

  He tore the tags off the shirt and handed it to me before turning around.

  I slid the scratchy gown off before pulling on the super soft shirt. “Pants, please.”

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  Right. It’d be kind of hard for me to put them on when I can’t even stand.

  I wiggled onto the exam table. Maximo took a step closer but stopped suddenly. He handed me the pants before giving me his back again.

  Once I had my pants on, I stood to pull them the rest of the way up. I tried to take a step toward the wheelchair—I wasn’t a total irresponsible dummy—but Maximo picked me up. “I can walk.”

  “And look where it got you.”

  “Fine, I can ride in the wheelchair.”

  “Or you can be quiet and let me carry you.”

  I narrowed my eyes but stayed quiet. If he wanted to waste his time and energy hefting me around, that was on him.

  It beat the scratchy wheelchair fabric against my back.

  When we got outside, the goon was waiting with the SUV. Like the ride there, Maximo got in and settled me on his lap before handing the goon the prescriptions. “Get these filled.”

  “I can do it,” I argued.

  “Ash has it handled.”

  “There’s a pharmacy on my street. I’ll bring them in tomorrow when I go shopping.”

  “Your street?”

  I nodded through my yawn, exhaustion and pain meds double teaming my brain. “You didn’t throw me out of the car. Or take me somewhere to kill me.”

  “You thought I was going to kill you?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, the duh going unsaid but highly implied. “But you didn’t, so that means you’re dropping me off at home.”

  His body went tight. “You’re not going back there.”

  “I live there.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What do you mean? It’s all I have.”

  “Not anymore,” he repeated.

  I was trying to keep up with the conversation, but it made no sense in my medicated haze. “The point is, you saved my life. I won’t go to the police. We’re even. You can just drop me off wherever.”

  His voice was firm and angry. “I’m not dropping you off anywhere.”

  “I can’t just stay.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re seventeen, and I’m not going to drop you at that dump so you can be homeless in a few days.”

  “Homeless?”

  “That shithole is in foreclosure.”

  The familiar money stress settled on my chest, but I breathed through it like I always did. It wasn’t a new occurrence. I’d been managing that anxiety since I was ten and first understood how royally fucked we always were. “I’ll figure something out.”

  I always did.

  I always held it together. I always made it work. I always survived.

  “I’m not having this fucking argument. You’re not going to live alone in that slum. You’d be dead by the morning,” he bit out, shaking his head. “Christ, I’m offering paradise and she wants hell.”

  I was about to ask why it mattered when it hit me.

  He felt guilty.

  I wouldn’t be a charity case. I didn’t want his pity. But he wasn’t offering out of the goodness of his heart. He was offering to clear his conscience.

  If I stayed for a bit, I’d have time to figure out my next step and his guilt would be alleviated.

  It was a win-win.

  “Maybe for a few days,” I agreed after a thoughtful moment. If things went downhill, I’d cross that bridge when I had to.

  “Hear that, Ash? She’ll tolerate paradise for a few days.”

  Everything caught up to me, and I couldn’t keep my head up. It dropped to his shoulder as I gave a soft laugh. At least I thought I did.

  I wasn’t really sure.

  Maximo

  Jesus, she’s stubborn.

  And deadweight.

  I cringed at the phrase. Juliet had thought we were driving to her death. And yet she’d sat, quiet and brave.

  It made me wonder what she’d lived through that made her grow so strong.

  Or maybe what she’d lived through that made death seem not so bad.

  And made me seem not so bad.

  Because she didn’t hate me. I’d watched for it, expecting loathing in her gaze. I’d waited for her to scream or shank me with a broken tongue depressor. But she hadn’t. She’d smile at me. She’d reached for me when she was in pain.

  She’d wanted me there.

  Ash hit the brakes suddenly, and I tightened my hold. I should’ve put her down so she was buckled.

  I should’ve put her down so she could sleep comfortably.

  I should’ve put her down because I was a thirty-two-year-old man who had no business holding a seventeen-year-old in his lap.

  I didn’t put her down.

  Thinking she was asleep, I readjusted her when she murmured, “Ash.”

  His surprised eyes went to the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”

  “Your name is Ash.”

  “Yup,” he said, amused.

  “That’s a better name than handsome goon.”

  Ash started chuckling before catching himself and disguising i
t as a cough, but I could see his cocky smirk in the mirror.

  She thinks he’s handsome?

  “You’re off door duty,” I bit out, pissed and irritated for reasons I didn’t want to think about.

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Ash muttered, not even trying to hide that chuckle.

  Bastard.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nemesis

  Juliet

  I HURT.

  Every inch of my body was sore and burning and throbbing. I rolled over in bed, wanting more sleep, but something had woken me.

  No—someone.

  “Good morning,” Ms. Vera’s accented greeting pushed through my muddled brain.

  “Sleep,” I groaned.

  She flipped a switch and the curtain slid open, letting in all sorts of stupid light.

  I groaned again and buried my head under the pillow.

  “You need your medicine and cream,” she insisted, tearing the puffy cloud of a blanket off of me. “Then, you need to eat.”

  The meds and cream sounded awful. The food, though? That was worth waking up for.

  I sat up and saw a glass of water, pills, and the ointment lined up on the bedside table. I was in the middle of swallowing the meds when she smiled.

  “That was easy,” she said. “I thought I’d have to tell you there was coffee to get you out of bed.”

  Nearly choking in my excitement, I wiped my mouth. “There’s coffee?”

  “A small cup.” She tutted her disapproval. “Too young, but Mr. Maximo said he owed you.”

  My coffee yesterday. I forgot about it.

  Who have I become?

  I reached for the ointment, but Ms. Vera shook her head. “Shower first. Carefully.”

  Shower and coffee?

  Oh hell yeah.

  I removed the brace and was going to use the wall to get into the bathroom, but Ms. Vera wheeled something over. It resembled a scooter, just with the flat part higher up. “Put your knee here.”

  I stood and put my shin on the pad, my foot hanging off back. Steering with the handle, I was able to easily wheel into the bathroom. I was tempted to soak my muscles in the bath with some salts, but everything had been rearranged and I didn’t feel like searching.

  Plus, coffee was waiting, and I wasn’t about to miss out again.

  I let the hot water pound my skin as I shampooed my hair until my head was raw. I conditioned and washed as best as I could without irritating the scrapes.

  When I got out and dried off, I coated my face and arms in soothing aloe before cracking the door to see clothes set out for me.

  I pulled on the large tee and oversized joggers, grateful they weren’t constricting. Tugging the pant leg up, I got the ankle brace on when Ms. Vera came back in.

  I pushed the other pant leg up over my knee and slathered the ointment on my shins and knees. Bending forward, I tried to reach the tender spots on my back, but I was pretty sure I was disinfecting the shirt.

  “Let me do it,” Ms. Vera said, taking the tube from me. She was gentle and quick as she treated the scrapes.

  I wondered if Maximo blamed her for my escape, and guilt hit me hard.

  “You didn’t get in trouble, did you?” I asked even though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

  “You need to eat.” I thought she was dismissing my nosy question, which did not bode well, but then she added, “And I’ll tell you a story.”

  Using the scooter, I got myself into the sitting room and flopped onto the couch. I didn’t bother to lift the metal dome and just zeroed in on the coffee. It was small, but better than nothing. I added some sugar and cream before clutching the warm mug as I sat back to savor the deliciousness.

  Vera didn’t sit and instead flitted around the room to do her dusting as she spoke. “There was a very mean, crooked man. He worked for bad people and did bad things.”

  Is she talking about Maximo?

  “One of those bad things he did was come to America to try to spread his boss’ power. When he was caught—and it happened fast because he was not a smart man—he fled home, bringing the danger to his wife. A wife he cheated on, beat, and was cruel to.”

  Definitely not Maximo.

  But poor Ms. Vera.

  Why did the men we trusted to take care of us—albeit in very different ways—fail us so miserably?

  “The man he’d tried to ruin came and killed the evil man, but he didn’t kill his wife. Knowing she was a victim of her husband’s cruelty, he offered her a choice and a threat. She could stay there or she could come work for him.”

  “And the threat?”

  “That if she ever crossed him or even thought about avenging her husband’s death, he’d kill her with zero hesitation.”

  “But you never did.”

  It wasn’t a question, but still Ms. Vera dropped the façade and answered. “Never. He offered me kindness instead of cruelty. A job.” She gave me a pointed look. “A home instead of a hovel. Life instead of pain and struggles.”

  Not-so-subtle message received.

  “To answer your earlier question, he did not punish me for your actions. The fact you are here is proof that Mr. Maximo is a fair man who doesn’t believe in punishing people for others’ mistakes.” She paused, scanning the beautiful room before continuing. “And running was a mistake. One I hope you don’t make again, sweet girl. Because along with being fair, Mr. Maximo is no fool. And next time you will not be as incredibly lucky as you’ve been.”

  Not-so-subtle threat received, too.

  “Now eat,” she ordered. “I’ll be back.”

  As Ms. Vera left, I pulled the dome off and grimaced.

  Sausage patties and egg whites.

  I guess someone decided I need to be extra-healthy when healing.

  Damn them.

  I drank my coffee and ate my small bowl of berries before choking down the eggs and the sausage. When I’d eaten all I could, I scootered into the bathroom to brush the sage taste out of my mouth. And then I scootered around because I was bored.

  When my legs hurt too bad to continue, I went back to the couch to watch TV.

  But it was just my luck that the one time I wanted to watch, the cable was out. I flipped through fuzzy channel after fuzzy channel, but I only had access to a few crappy daytime talk shows or fake court dramas. I settled in to wait for The Price is Right.

  Maybe I’ll just doze.

  _______________

  It felt like I’d just drifted off when Ms. Vera was back with a goon. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the handsome one. Extra unfortunately, it was the guy who used to ignored me but had taken to glaring.

  Apparently, he’s holding a grudge about being locked in a room.

  I was about to apologize but bit my tongue and returned his glare.

  Now he knows how it feels.

  He picked up my old tray and left as Ms. Vera put down the new one.

  “I just had breakfast,” I pointed out.

  “Four hours ago.”

  Okay, so I did more than doze.

  Ms. Vera left before I could mention the cable being out.

  Oh well, I’ll ask at dinner.

  Since my breakfast had been less than appetizing, my stomach grumbled, happy to eat again. I removed the dome and my empty stomach sank. Thick white bread sandwiched lettuce, tomato, cheese, and—so gross—tuna salad. It smelled like low tide on a hot day, and my stomach churned.

  Holding my breath, I scraped off as much tuna as I could before adding the small portion of chips to the topping sandwich. It took all my stubbornness, but I got it down without losing my lunch and breakfast.

  The bowl of berries was even smaller than that morning’s, but I savored each delicious bite.

  I’d just finished when someone knocked and the door was opened. Ignore-now-glare man came in to get the tray. He tossed something to the couch next to me.

  “What’s that?” I asked, not tearing my eyes from him.

  I didn’t think he’d attack me, bu
t I wasn’t sure. I didn’t trust anyone, but especially not people I’d ticked off.

  “From the boss,” was all he said before leaving.

  Once the door clicked closed, I looked at the box next to me. A beautiful iridescent bow was on top of the pretty gray wrapping paper. I took the bow and slapped it on my head before tentatively unwrapping the paper. It took me a moment to figure out what I was looking at.

  An iPad.

  He gave me an iPad.

  I lifted the lid from the box to find a shiny, sleek tablet. It was so pretty. I wasn’t sure if technology was supposed to be pretty, but it was. My experience with gadgets was limited. My old cell had been a laggy brick. The computer at the gym was one step above a hamster-powered machine.

  The iPad was the opposite of both.

  Careful not to drop it, I took it out of the box and spotted a note underneath.

  A belated birthday present

  -M

  How did he know about my birthday?

  I pressed the power button to find it’d been set up and was ready to use.

  Out of curiosity, I tried to download Facebook, only to find it—along with every other app—had been blocked. Most of the internet was unavailable, too, but I could visit some sites. Bringing up Google, I typed in Maximo Black to find it completely restricted. No websites, no pictures, no news stories.

  No surprise.

  It was worth a shot.

  I went to the bookstore app but wasn’t able to download anything, even the freebies. When I checked out iBooks, there were already some mysteries and historical nonfictions downloaded.

  Since libraries were free, books had been one of the few sources of entertainment I’d had access to no matter where we’d lived. I preferred serial killer biographies or true crime, with the occasional fantasy thrown in, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Turning off the soap opera I’d barely been following, I opened one of the books and settled in.

  I didn’t care that it was locked down tighter than a thirteen-year-old boy’s laptop. I didn’t care that the book selection sucked. It was an iPad and it was mine.

  My fingertips ran across some ridges on the back, and I flipped it over to see an engraving.

  Happy Birthday, little dove.

  I wonder if he knows how few presents I’ve received in my life… and that this is, by far, the best one.