Page 1 of Little Dove

1

AMARA

“Whore.”

Instead of reacting, I close my cash register and move away to sweep off the hair on the floor. From the number of times I’ve completely ignored similar remarks, you would think people would eventually get bored and move on, but they haven’t yet. The insults are practically white noise to me now. Hell, whore is the tamest one of them all. With the way they carry on, I’m surprised they haven’t pinned a scarlet letter on my chest. Then again, that would take guts they don’t have. Instead, they choose to lash out with ugly words and then quickly bury their heads in the sand so they can ignore their own hypocrisy.

“Did you hear me?” the woman snaps. “You think I don’t know that you’re whoring yourself out to any man who gives you the slightest bit of attention? You broke up the Wilsons’ marriage because you slept with her husband and son! The sheriff is going to arrest you, just you wait and see, you fuckingwhore.” Then, she swipes a small glass jar of candies off the counter. When she storms off, I turn to look at the mess.

I’ve heard all the rumors swirling around the town about me, and all the opinions on what the sheriff will do about them. Not the breaking up a marriage part, of course, but they claim I slept with a minor. A fifteen-year-old boy, to be precise. None of which is true, but this town will do anything to get rid of me.

For the millionth time since I turned eighteen, I wonder if staying here is really a smart idea. I mean, it’s not like I’m having a great life here. I’m an amusement, a popular target for gossip, and vandalism when the mood strikes. I have nothing other than this shop keeping me here, and its hold on me is tenuous at best. Old Man Withers needed the money, and no one else in this tiny town wanted it, so here I am, renting this tiny space—for now, anyway. He clarified that if a better tenant comes along, I’m out on my ass.

Maybe it really is time to move on from Zion, Arizona.

Unfortunately, leaving will take money I don’t have right now. Setting up my shop took everything I’d managed to save by living in the rundown hotel on the edge of town—limiting my meals and walking everywhere. Owning a car is out of the question. I took Driver’s Ed in school and got my license when I turned sixteen, but, hell, it’s been so long, I’m not even sure I remember how to drive anymore.

That’s a problem for another day. I don’t have the funds, or the means, to get out of here yet, which means I’m stuck.

I sweep up the broken glass and wasted candy and return to clean my station. The chair is old, and the mirror has seen some better days, but beggars can’t be choosers when you’re just starting out. Not to mention, it gives the salon an old west appeal that most of the men in town seem to like. The women, not so much, but they’re the ones who come at me the most, so I don’t give a damn.

Hell, I’m surprised Bailey came in. Normally, she goes to the pricier salon on the other side of the town, but when she called this morning asking for a last-minute appointment, I couldn’t turn away the money. I realized what she was up to the minute she walked in, though, I truly hadn’t expected her to smash the jar.

Now she has something to share with her church group and all the PTA moms. Of course, she’ll embellish what she said to me, spinning it to make herself look like the champion. And me? She’ll tell them she left me in a puddle of tears and guilt on the floor.

I put away the broom and look at my books. I have two more cuts today, but neither of them will take long since they’re both men’s. I nearly groan at the name on my next appointment. Shit. I thought I had another couple of days before having to put up with him.

The women in town like to call Ezra Boyd a hunk and a ladies’ man. I call him what he really is: a creep who thinks only with the shriveled-up brain in his pants—not the shriveled-up brain in his head. He leans on his looks, trying to pass himself off as a sweet southern cowboy you can trust to take your daughter out for a good time and have her home by ten o’clock with nothing more than a peck on the cheek.

Little do they know that the very same man they adore is the one who will pressure women into fucking him, and if that doesn’t work—and this is only my suspicion based on what I saw one night when I went to the bar to do the owner’s hair after hours—spike their drinks to get himself exactly what he wants. The women he goes after are getting younger and younger. The last girl I saw him with was barely eighteen.

I should just refuse to cut his hair, but I can’t turn away money. Not if I want to save enough to get out of here.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when doorbell clangs and Ezra walks in, a sly smile on his face. I can see the appeal, with his blue eyes framed by long, thick lashes, dark brown hair he keeps under a black Stetson at all times, and a wide smile full of straight white teeth. He keeps in good shape, always showing off his physique, wearing tight button downs and jeans. He likes to show off. On his feet are shiny black boots that I figure he has to polish every damn day, considering all the dust around here. They’re certainly not a working man’s shoe.

Then again, Ezra hasn’t worked a day in his life. No, he’s a trust fund baby with more money than sense, and soft, manicured hands. Just like his brother had. Or maybe still does, but I don’t want to go there right now. I need to keep my wits about me.

Smiling politely, I say, “Hey, Ezra. Have a seat.”

He swaggers into the shop, scanning it carefully before sitting in the chair. “How are ya, darlin’?”

We’re a long way from Texas, but it works for him, so I doubt he’ll ever change it.

“Fine, thank you. And you?” I wrap the cape around him swiftly as I take in his hair. This is his second appointment with me this month, which means he’s only come in here to try and flirt his way into my pants, or insult me. We’ll see which one it’s going to be today.

“Well, now, I would be so much better if someone would finally let me take her out,” he says pointedly, giving me a flirtatious smile in the mirror.

“You already know my answer, Ezra.” No fucking way in hell. “Now, are we just doing a trim today?”

His blue eyes darken at my rejection. The man hates being turned down, and every time I do, I know I’m getting closer and closer to his breaking point. A man like him will only take so much before he snaps.

“Yes,” he says, but I don’t miss the way he tracks me in the mirror as I move around to get my clippers, comb, and scissors. “And try not to fuck it up this time, huh, darlin’?” he adds silkily. “I have another lady who’s willing to give me her attention, and I don’t need to look like an idiot when I get there.”

I ignore his dig and get to work. I say nothing as he launches into an endless monologue of town gossip. I simply listen with half an ear, concentrating on not making any mistakes, even though I’m sure he’ll find one. He’ll want an excuse to come back and berate me.

“So I hear you’ve been a busy girl,” he remarks with a wolfish smile.

I don’t stop what I’m doing, but my stomach clenches because I already know where this is going. “How so?” I finish running the clippers around his left ear, brush off his neck, and pull the apron away.

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