Little Dove

by Layla Frost

  Not until Maximo.

  Letting go of the awkwardness that came from the unfamiliar, I smiled. “I love it. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” His gaze dropped to my neck, zeroing in on his bite mark. The low rumble of his voice sent a tremor down my spine when he muttered, “Didn’t see this until now.”

  I worried he felt guilty for biting me so hard, but when he backed me against a wall, it became obvious that wasn’t his reaction to seeing his mark on me. His erection pressed into my belly as he dropped the empty jewelry box. I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead he grudgingly muttered, “We’ve got to go.”

  “Okay.”

  For a flash, he looked uneasy as he studied me. He opened his mouth before closing it again, his lips pressing into a thin line. Stepping away, he grabbed my hand and silently walked to his waiting SUV.

  His grip stayed tight the whole time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hungry For It

  Juliet

  GETTING OUT OF the car, I scanned the windowless building Maximo had parked in front of. “I thought we were going to one of your properties.”

  He hadn’t said as much, I’d just assumed.

  “We are.” Taking my hand, he started walking toward the doors.

  “This is one of your casinos?”

  I’d picked Dad up from a variety of nontraditional casinos, including the airport, gas stations, and even an old church that’d been converted into a strip club and casino. This wasn’t even in the top ten strangest setups I’d seen, but I was still surprised.

  He burst out laughing and his steps stopped so suddenly, I nearly lost my balance. He grabbed my waist to steady me. “This is not one of my casinos. I own the warehouse.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to know?”

  “Do I look like the kind of man who runs a casino out of a warehouse?”

  No, you look like the kind of man who runs the whole damn world.

  I lifted a shoulder. “No?”

  “Is that a question or an answer?”

  “An answer?” At his narrowed eyes, I held my hands in the air. “I don’t know what that kind of man would look like.”

  Gripping my hand again, Maximo started walking. “Jesus, I’m taking you to my actual resorts ASAP so you don’t think this piss-poorly of me.”

  Yay.

  Taking in the empty lot and horror movie vibe, I couldn’t help asking, “Why do you hold fights here?”

  We stopped outside a set of metal double doors. The dim overhead light played with the darkness, adding shadows to Maximo’s defined jaw and cheekbones. He looked menacing and hot. There was something unreadable in his expression as he curled his hand around the side of my neck, his thumb stroking across the bite mark. “You’ll see.”

  With that ominous answer, he released me to touch his thumb to a keypad similar to the ones at home. There was a beep and a click before he opened the door, gesturing for me to enter first.

  It may not have looked like an arena from the outside, but the inside sure did.

  And a nice one, at that.

  Rows of empty padded folding chairs surrounded the ring in the center of the humongous room. Speakers and lights hung from the high ceiling, stocked bars lined the walls, and a blank scoreboard was suspended over the ring.

  With a hand at my lower back, Maximo guided me around the edge of the room and down a long hallway. He put his thumb on another lock and opened the door to an office.

  He grabbed a remote off the desk and turned on a small TV. “Stay here while I check on everything.”

  “I can help,” I offered, not wanting to miss a moment of the excitement. There were a lot of things I hated about my childhood, but boxing wasn’t one of them. It was thrilling and primal and beautiful in a violent way.

  “Maybe next time. Marco will be outside the door.”

  And then he left.

  I scanned the office, but it was just beige concrete walls, two doors, a metal desk, and a few metal filing cabinets. Trying one of the drawers, it loudly slid open.

  Empty.

  Boring.

  I opened a door to find a tiny bathroom that’d seen better days. I used it anyway, scrubbing my hands like a surgeon when I was done. Flopping down on the desk chair, I spun around a few times before leaning back to watch the TV.

  After forty-five minutes—or a sitcom and a half in TV time—there was a ruckus in the hall.

  People must be arriving.

  I cracked the door to check it out, but the only view I got was of Marco’s broad back.

  He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Need something?”

  “No, I—”

  “Then close the door.”

  Rolling my eyes, I said, “I just wanted to see.”

  “Close the door, Juliet.”

  “Fine.” Since I couldn’t see anything past the human door that was Marco, I closed the actual one. I climbed onto the desk and flicked through the stations, growing more and more envious of the people in the arena.

  The air was always wired before a match. The blood lust and violence. The adrenaline. The savageness. It was unlike anything else.

  Instead of experiencing that high, I was stuck experiencing the low that came from shitty TV.

  After another sitcom, the door swung open, the low rumble of chaos growing louder. Maximo stood in the doorway, his expression blank.

  I turned off the TV and approached, his sharp eyes tracking my every movement. When I got within reach, he hooked a hand behind my neck and tugged me so I slammed against his chest. His head lowered and his lips pressed against mine in a bruising kiss.

  There was a desperation to it I may not have understood, but I liked. A lot. His kiss wasn’t as cold and aloof as he’d been. It was hot and fervent.

  Pulling away, he held my hand but didn’t speak as we left the room—not that I would’ve been able to hear him anyway. Conversation and laughter traveled down the hall at a steady roar. Since there was no cheering or flesh hitting flesh mixed in with the noise, I knew the matches hadn’t begun.

  When we reached the main area, my steps faltered before stopping completely.

  It was…

  Insanity.

  Chaos.

  Wild.

  There were beautiful women in various stages of undress hanging on men. Minidress clad waitresses navigated through the crush with practiced ease. The heavy stench of liquor and cigars clung in the air, mixing with wired adrenaline—a cocktail for depravity.

  Noticing I’d stopped, Maximo paused, too, his eyes on me as a muscle in his jaw twitched. After a long moment, he tugged my hand as he continued down the aisle.

  As we moved, I glanced around at people talking, drinking, and smoking. No one was dressed casually. It was all pristine suits and sexy dresses, and the smell of money filled the air just as strongly as the tobacco.

  When I caught sight of an older, bald man openly groping a redhead’s breast, I dropped my focus to my feet.

  Maximo stopped at the first row. Clearly for VIPs, the chairs had extra padding and there were small tables between each one.

  He sat in the aisle chair, and I started squeeze by him when he pulled me into his lap. Settling me on his thigh with my legs between his spread ones, he wrapped an arm around me.

  Surprised by the intimate hold, my eyes shot to his, but his stony stare was aimed outward at everyone else.

  He was a king, daring anyone to challenge him for his throne.

  No sooner had we settled than a pretty blond cocktail waitress appeared at our side. “Usual whiskey, Mr. Black?”

  He didn’t even glance her way. “Two waters.”

  “Yes, sir.” She sped away, ignoring anyone who tried to flag her down.

  I sat stiffly on his lap, my spine steeled and my hands clasped so I didn’t fidget.

  Never give away more than you want them to know.

  Well, I definitely don’t want this lion’s den to sniff out my discomfort be
cause they’ll pounce on the show of weakness.

  Movement on the other side of the aisle caught my attention, and I watched as a woman leaned forward and lifted her short skirt to expose her ass. The man she was in front of ran his hand along the top of her ass cheeks. Only when he bent forward did I realize he’d been spreading a line of coke. He happily snorted it before running his tongue along the residue. He smacked her ass and she stood upright, tugged her dress into place, and walked away.

  When I got a view of his face not coke deep in someone’s ass, I recognized him, though it took me a moment to place from where. He was a politician. I didn’t know what kind, but I’d seen his face plastered on billboards and the election ads that repeated every other commercial.

  I shifted my gaze far from him and was careful not to let it settle in one spot for too long. Surrounded by drugs, alcohol, beautiful women, and rich men seeking a thrill, I was betting there was a lot happening I didn’t want to see.

  The waitress returned and set the water bottles on the small table next to us. She didn’t wait for acknowledgment before moving on to serve someone else.

  Maximo grabbed a bottle and released me just long enough to open the lid and hand it to me. I took a sip, but the cold water sat heavily in my stomach. He took it back and set it next to him.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  He just lifted his chin.

  It wasn’t long before more people filled the seats.

  A couple stopped in front of us. The man’s surprised eyes landed briefly on me before focusing on Maximo. He extended his hand. “Black.”

  “Adams.” Without releasing his hold on me, Maximo used his free hand to shake before making introductions. “Juliet, this is Tony and Ella Adams.”

  Ella smiled at me, offering a little wave. “I love your dress, Juliet.”

  “Thanks, I love yours, too.” It was sexy and red, with a Jessica Rabbit-esque slit up the thigh.

  “It’s fun to get dressed up every now and then.” She took the seat two over and Tony took the one on the other side, leaving an empty chair between us. I was relieved I wouldn’t have to make or listen to small talk all night.

  All conversation quieted as the room turned electric.

  Like everyone else, I felt the morbid anticipation of what was to come. My heart raced and it took everything in me to sit still.

  A light-haired man climbed into the ring, gripping a microphone as he walked around. “Ladies and gentlemen, betting for bout one is officially closed. You can place wagers on the other two until ten minutes before they begin, so if you’re feeling lucky, get your ass up and put your cash down. It’s gonna be a helluva night!”

  Loud music blared through the speakers as a parade of people came down the aisle right next to us. In the midst of them was a boxer in green shorts, but there were no sponsor emblems attached to them.

  That’s weird.

  He climbed into the ring with part of his crew, the rest setting up outside their corner.

  The music changed suddenly, thumping bass shaking the ground. Another parade of people and another fighter with no sponsor emblems on his blue shorts went past, rounding the ring for his corner. Unlike his opponent, he climbed in alone as his people raced around to get everything set up.

  The music cut off and the emcee introduced the boxers. Green shorts was The King. Blue was God of Death.

  My money was on blue, and not just because his name was better. He may have been smaller, but bigger wasn’t always an advantage.

  A bell dinged and it was on.

  And it was ugly.

  I wasn’t sure why the ref was even there because he wasn’t calling a single thing. King fought dirty, aiming for low blow after low blow. God of Death was quick with a dodge and a jab, though he’d yet to connect a good hook.

  When the round ended, I tilted my head toward Maximo’s ear. “Who’re we supposed to root for?”

  “Doesn’t matter with this one. Who do you like?”

  “God of Death.”

  “The King is favored to win.”

  “And he knows it. He’s too cocky. Death is hungry.”

  He lowered his head so his lips grazed the shell of my ear. “I agree.”

  A shiver went down my spine, goosebumps spreading across my skin. Since his arm was still wrapped around me, I doubted he missed it.

  He never missed much.

  The bell rang, and I shifted so I was facing outward rather than sideways.

  Death took a couple kidney shots before King dropped his gloves. It was just inches. Just for seconds.

  But it was the opening Death had been waiting for. With energy he’d been conserving, he went at him until King was against the ropes.

  The ref was close but he wasn’t pulling Death off. He wasn’t forcing the TKO. He wasn’t even trying to get him to back away.

  Death is gonna kill him.

  Holy shit, he’s gonna kill him.

  My frantic eyes turned to Maximo, but he just stared ahead like a robot. The only reaction he gave to the savagery unfolding was his hold tightening so I couldn’t move.

  All around me, depravity flowed free and bloodshed went unchecked. It was clear the rules were different there.

  Because there were none.

  Like it was a train wreck happening in slow-motion, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the devastation. I watched as Death threw a right cross, twisting his pelvis so all his strength went into it.

  King slammed to the mat, not even trying to break his fall.

  Like deadweight.

  My breath froze in my lungs. It whooshed out when King lifted his glove just enough to tap out.

  And that was it.

  Second round.

  Victory by submission.

  And no one died.

  Shoulders slumped, I grabbed my water and drank half in one go. My heart rate slowed from hummingbird speed, though I was still amped on adrenaline and relief.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a no-holds-barred fight. I’d grown up around violence—and not always the spectator kind. It ran in my veins as much as blood.

  Rich people betting on fights to the death would’ve pushed me beyond my violence threshold, but as long as everyone left the ring breathing, I was good.

  There was a rush to prepare for the next match.

  I turned to talk to Maximo, only to find him already watching me. When he didn’t speak, I bragged, “I called it.”

  His lips just barely tipped, but I caught it. “I agreed with you.”

  “Yeah, but I said it first.”

  He lowered his head to kiss me before returning his focus to the preparations. “So you did.”

  The second match went longer, making it to round five before ending in an exciting knockout. And, once again, it was ugly but no one died.

  During the last break, the emcee hyped the final bout. His efforts worked and more attendees went to place their bets before it was too late.

  “That man deserves a fat bonus and a good raise,” I muttered more to myself than Maximo.

  Still, he lifted his chin. “Noted.”

  Whatever further commentary I may have had died in a lusty fire when Maximo moved to rest his hand on my thigh. There was something about the contrast of his large tattooed hand encircling my pale skin that sent a jolt of need through me. As though he knew the effect he had, his fingertips teased up my inner thigh.

  I tilted my head to look at him, but his expression was blank, his eyes hard and alert. In a room full of powerful people, he made it clear he was in charge. That he held the cards and wouldn’t hesitate to take someone down. That he’d enjoy it.

  It scared the hell out of me how someone could look so icy and ruthless, but I couldn’t deny it was also crazy hot.

  So long as it wasn’t aimed at me.

  The emcee climbed the steps and swung under the ropes. “You know what time it is, folks. I hope you’ve put your money down because you could be leaving with stacks on stac
ks.”

  The frenzy grew, everyone’s amped-up energy feeding off one another. It was always like that on fight nights, especially before the main event. With the addition of the other vices, it was magnified tenfold.

  Music started—loud and pounding. The first boxer climbed into the ring and circled the mat, hitting his glove to his chest a few times. The waistband of his red and orange shorts touted sponsor logos, but I couldn’t see what they were.

  The song faded, a new one starting slow and low before growing louder as the bass and tempo increased. The other boxer entered with his crew around him. I didn’t have to strain to see if he had sponsors because he stopped right next to us, giving me a clear view of the single logo on his black shorts.

  Black Resorts.

  He held out his glove, and Maximo tapped his fist to it. When the boxer lowered it toward my hand, I did the same.

  Returning his focus to the ring in front of him, he stretched his neck. And then he grinned.

  It wasn’t cocky.

  It wasn’t aggressive.

  It was the kind of grin that said he was damn excited to throw fists.

  As he climbed in, the emcee finished intros and sponsor rundowns.

  Orange was Alek ‘The Finisher’ Findlay.

  Black was Mateo ‘Kid Wonder’ Torres.

  Oh, both good nicknames.

  Kid Wonder is better by a hair, though.

  I shifted on Maximo’s lap and waited for him to give me his ear. When he didn’t, I cupped his cheek and tilted his head. “I guess I don’t have to ask who we’re cheering for. He’d have been my pick anyway.”

  “Yeah?”

  I let go of his cheek and nodded. “He doesn’t just want the victory, he likes the fight. That makes a difference.”

  I had no clue why, but at my words, Maximo cupped the sides of my head and kissed me. His fingertips dug in as he tilted my face to deepen the kiss.

  He speared his tongue in to taste and take and devour.

  And, like there was no one else in the whole world but the two of us, I let him.

  I hadn’t noticed the bell ringing, but he must’ve because he tore his mouth away just as the fight began.

  Taking a shuddering breath, I focused on the match and not Maximo, his kiss, and the way my body reacted to him.