“What?” I asked, taking rapid shuffling steps to keep up as my father gripped my shoulders and propelled me backward. I stumbled, nearly falling, but he didn’t stop.
Throwing open the small pantry door, he shoved me inside. “Don’t come out no matter what you hear. Got it?”
I had no idea what was happening, but I knew better than to question Shamus McMillon, especially when he was in a state.
His graying red hair was in disarray and his wild eyes kept darting to the side. Each breath he huffed my way smelled like cheap whiskey and a keg of Guinness.
So instead of the fifty-billion questions that danced on my tongue, I said, “Okay.”
“I mean it, Jule-bug. Don’t open the door until I say so.” He scanned my face, his expression tense and anxious. With a sigh, he closed the door, leaving me in darkness with stale crackers, canned Spam, and likely a mouse or two.
I’d just gotten home from errands and grocery shopping when Dad had dragged his butt off the couch to raid the food. His eyes had gone toward the front window before he’d dropped the peanut butter jar to the ground in order to push me into the pantry.
I had no clue what he’d seen that’d freaked him out. We lived at the end of the long dirt road behind Dad’s gym and the only visitors we got were his buddies.
If anyone should be freaked by that, it was me. His friends were assholes who gave me the creeps.
Whatever this is, I hope it’s fast. I splurged on ice cream, and Vegas doesn’t seem to understand February is winter. My precious cookies and cream goodness is probably melting right now.
Maybe it’s dinner delivery and I don’t have to cook for once. Or maybe it’s the few people I like from the gym bringing cake to go with my ice cream. Maybe, just maybe, my father didn’t actually forget my seventeenth birthday and is trying to surprise me.
And maybe I’ll find a rainbow in the box of stale, store brand Lucky Charms and ride it to a pot of gold.
I knew better than fanciful dreams. It wasn’t the first time my dad had forgotten my birthday. The fact it was on Valentine’s Day should’ve taken the guesswork out of it, but he’d still have to care enough to remember.
He never did.
There was a pounding on the front door before it opened so hard, it banged into the wall.
“Boys!” Dad greeted, his voice traveling easily through the paper-thin walls. “What brings you to my castle?”
I barely held in a snort.
If this is a castle, it’s owned by the Burger King.
And his Dairy Queen.
It’s their humble White Castle.
I’m so hungry.
“If ya wanna book me,” Dad said, “ya gotta call my girl. She schedules my fights.”
I rolled my eyes. He always gave that line, like he had some big-time agent or manager handling his fight bookings.
I was his girl. Just me and a tattered desk calendar in the backroom of the training gym he owned.
“We had a meeting today,” a deep voice rumbled—calm, cool, and collected.
Whereas my dad sounded nervous, jittery, and forced. “Oh! Was that today? Must’ve slipped my mind. What’d you need?”
“Rough loss on Saturday,” whoever said.
Wait. I thought he won.
He hadn’t said as much, but he also hadn’t gotten blackout drunk—or worse—like he always did after a loss.
“Yeah, that sp—kid,” he said, catching himself before he used the slur, “has a helluva right hook.”
There was a lot to despise about Shamus McMillon, and his casual racism was high on the list.
“That’s funny,” the mystery man said in a tone that made it clear there was nothing humorous about it. “‘Cause I talked to Jose’s trainer. He said his right hook is weak. Not only that, but he sets his left foot. Everyone knows about it. He’s trying to break him of the habit.”
“Must’ve missed it. I’m gettin’ old, not as sharp as I used to be.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, I’ve actually been tossing around the idea of hangin’ up my gloves and focusing on training the young guns at the gym.”
That was news to me.
Dad gave a chuckle. “But if you’re interested in booking my grand finale fight, Max, I’ll—”
“Maximo,” the voice rumbled.
“Huh?”
“My name is Maximo. Not Max.”
The name didn’t sound familiar. Knowing who my dad associated with, I could just picture the wannabe hotshot with a pot belly and greasy face who thought he was one of the Rat Pack.