Chapter Two
Pretty Broken Girl
Maximo
“ W HAT’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 .
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.