8. Juliette
Chapter 8
Juliette
J uliette’s mouth felt stuffed in cotton as she unlocked her room. Cheap and smelling vaguely of damp plaster, the U-shaped motel made her feel safer than multi-floor hotels, where any room had enough soundproofing that no one could hear you scream.
Here, she knew when her neighbors were watching television, knew when they were getting laid, or when they sobbed themselves to sleep. They could likely hear her police scanner—a fixture beside the bed and her most prized possession. She was quite sure that if she shouted, someone would hear it.
But would they react to such a cry? Or would they ignore it? Juliette wasn’t certain. But at least if she screamed Daniel’s name with her last breath, someone would know. She just wanted someone to… know. To believe her.
She kicked the door closed at her back and lifted the plaid curtain to peer into the lot.
The asphalt glittered beneath the circular white glare of the streetlight, but shadows encroached around the edges. The detective’s car was still there, but he’d moved it since dropping her at the door—parked at the far back of the lot. In the dark.
But she could see the glint of his watch where his hands rested on the wheel. A watch too expensive for most cops, but not fancy enough to draw significant attention—a cop on the take. Had to be. And what his partner had said, those whispered words that others weren’t supposed to overhear… You get caught up again? This isn’t like last time?
What the hell had happened last time?
Did it even matter? He was obviously dangerous. Despite his quiet demeanor, the way he protected the women in the club from other patrons, he had an agenda. And now, here he was, parked in the shadows at the back of the lot, eyes locked on her room. Watching her, just like he always did inside the club.
Why did that relax her shoulders? Why did his presence make her feel so much safer ? She was beginning to think it didn’t have anything to do with her so-called family curse .
To beat a dangerous monster, you needed a dangerous monster on your side. And she sure as hell hadn’t gotten anywhere by playing by the rules.
Once, she would’ve called herself insane for thinking this way—before she’d married a psychopath. But the mafia didn’t defeat their enemies through negotiations; cartel leaders didn’t smile and nod and play diplomat. They didn’t rely on a justice system that rarely meted out actual justice. They inked news of their triumphs in blood.
Juliette dropped the curtain and leaned back against the wall, absentmindedly tracing the scar on her chest. The healed wound brightened, itched—throbbing before settling back into ugly stillness.
Juliette reached into the back of her skirt and slipped Jason’s cell from her underwear—his stolen cell phone. Should she wait until the detective left? What if he sauntered up to the door, busted it down for the thrill of it? He didn’t seem like the type, but he had every reason to, even if he didn’t know it yet.
Juliette turned the cell over in her palm, frowning at the password screen. Shit . She needed to know who he’d called this week—needed to know whether anyone else knew she was here, who she really was. She needed to know why he’d died.
If it was because of her.
Had someone really told the detective that Waylon had gambling debts? Did they think Jason was his bookie? He could be, she supposed. What did she really know about him?
Not much. He liked chicken wings and draft beer and hole-in-the-wall bars that he wrongly considered to be restaurants. She’d always been bad at small talk—she’d been decidedly unpopular in her old life. Mostly because of the “dead people” thing.
Embalmers got a bad rap. But she’d rather be draining bodies than bartending in a strip club, barely making enough to cover this shitty motel room. Most of her money went to leafy greens and vegetables—she’d seen what junk food did to the arteries. But every employee gave half of their tips to Waylon. You got caught counting up cash on your own, so much as glancing at how many bills someone stuck in your G-string, and you were out on your ass. And it had been made clear to her time and time again, in this club and in others, that the scar across her chest made her particularly expendable.
No, not expendable. Ugly . Disgusting . Just like Daniel had always told her she was.
Her eyes burned.
Juliette tugged the tank top over her head and tossed it to the ground. She undid the thin straps on the bikini top. And then she was tearing the rest of the skimpy, demeaning outfit from her body, kicking off the high heels. Shedding Jennifer Crandall’s skin as she did every night the second she walked into this room. Massaging the tender, raw places where the strings had dug into her flesh.
Why had she gone out with Jason to begin with? Because he was super good-looking in a Ken-doll kind of way? Sure, fine. Because she’d felt pretty in a sweater that covered her chest? Yeah . Because she was lonely? God, yes. Maybe she’d just wanted to feel normal for an hour—she hadn’t gone out with anyone since she’d run away from Daniel six years ago.
It had been a stupid, impulsive idea—she’d met him in the grocery store, and they’d walked to the bar up the road. He’d talked about baseball the whole time, hadn’t once asked what she liked to do. But towards the end of the “date,” he’d invited her back to his place. When she’d declined, he started asking where she lived. Where her family lived. If she had friends here.
He was interrogating her, pressing her for information as if he were doing research for someone else. She knew that pattern well from experience. Never the same face, but always the same desperate questions. That was usually when she knew it was time to run again.
She’d faked illness and left him at the bar last night. Tonight, he’d shown up at her work. But she’d never told him where she worked.
Juliette lowered herself to the bed, staring at the cell. What would your password be, Jason? He was a fan of baseball—Babe Ruth, especially—but how would that translate into a passcode? It was probably something like “80085” for BOOBS .
If only she could get to his body, use facial recognition to open the cell, then copy the numbers down—even call to see if Daniel answered. It wasn’t like Daniel would use his regular cell. A burner was more his style, and there were precious few ways to get that number.
Juliette dropped the phone to the comforter. Maybe she could… go to the morgue? With her expertise, she’d fit in, tell them what they needed to hear.
No, that was too risky. Besides, when they’d left the club, Jason was still on the floor, and… huh. Was he still there? Was going back to The Velvet Cage a viable option? She could pretend she’d left something in her locker. She just needed two seconds to flash the phone at his face.
Juliette made her way to the window and tugged the edge of the curtain aside again, just enough to peek out into the lot. The detective was still there. Standing outside his car now, hip leaned against the driver’s side door, shoulders even broader in the deep shadows, his cheekbones sharper, his jaw all the more defined. Strong—so fucking strong .
Her heart stuttered. An achy throb pulsed between her legs.
She had not felt this with Jason. Hadn’t felt this with any man in a decade—she’d been dead from the waist down since the second year of her marriage to Daniel. But this man, this dirty-cop detective …
He’d never once tried to touch her. He’d never tried to touch any of the girls at the club—he protected them, went after someone on Shonda’s behalf without asking for anything in return. He’d protected her tonight, too, kept her bloody fingers to himself.
I just want to help.
He cocked his head. Then he raised his hand in a one-second wave that was half salute.
She dropped the curtain and jerked back. He’d caught her looking at him—just her eyeball between the fabric panels, but how long had she been staring? Shit.
Either way, she could not return to the crime scene tonight—that had been a dumb idea, far too suspicious. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind to guess at the code, either. All she wanted was to go out into the lot, invite Ronan in. Which was absurd.
She leaned her head against the wall, her heart vibrating in her lower belly. Butterflies in her stomach, in her chest—fluttering their gauzy wings against the hot, wet center of her body. She could feel him, too, the way his hand had chastely brushed the back of her elbow as he guided her from the club and into the parking lot. How he’d stood so close to her—comforting, not possessive.
He’d made her feel safe despite the fact that someone she knew had just been murdered mere feet from her. She had barely studied the shadows at all as he drove her home.
But it was more than that. It was the way he’d been looking at her for months. As if she was a person—a real person worth caring about. As if he wanted to be… close to her.
Juliette swallowed hard. She grabbed the cell and shoved it beneath the mattress. Then she stepped in front of the curtains before she could second-guess herself, the chill air brushing her bare flesh. And drew them wide.
He pushed himself off the car, eyes trained on her—on her body.
What are you doing? one side of her brain screamed at her. Was she seducing him to keep an edge in this investigation—hedging her bets? Was she losing her grip after watching a man bleed out on the tile—a man she knew? Was she just lonely, desperate for some kind of physical touch? Was she literally insane? Did she need a release or even a distraction after the intense stress of Jason’s murder? Maybe she was in shock.
But the other side of her brain didn’t care about the reasons. Come in and fuck me. Come in and keep the monsters away by being just as dangerous .
But she didn’t expect him to. The man was a voyeur. Always had been.
Ronan remained standing beside the car, stock-still in the shadows at the back of the lot. No one else around. There was no one else in the entire universe, just this gorgeous man, with his gaze locked on her.
She drew her left fingertips over each nipple, in turn, the way she’d seen the dancers do a million times—teasing them into hard points. She slipped her right hand between her legs, her hips just above the windowsill.
Was this… sexy? Or was she making a fool of herself?
Please let it be sexy. Please don’t let him reject me.
But he should reject her—she was a witness. Maybe an accomplice. There were police department rules against that. The mere fact that he was ignoring them, risking his job for her—that she was worth the risk—made her skin shimmer with tingling heat.
Ronan took a step nearer, and her chest locked up. Was he actually coming inside? Maybe he was coming to arrest her. But then he dragged his gaze around the lot—the mostly empty lot—peering extra hard at the other motel windows. He stopped at the hood of his car and eased himself down against the grill. Giving her his full attention.
The look on his face shot electricity through her veins. She spread her pussy with her fingers, her other hand tugging at her nipples. Already so wet. She slipped two fingers inside, then drew them to her mouth, sucking her juices from her skin.
Ronan’s fists clenched against his knees. But his face remained stoic, watching her as if she were the most gorgeous creature that ever existed. The desire in his eyes—his desire for her—was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.
She was sure that was what it was now: desire . It wasn’t wishful thinking. And he was no actor. This dangerous man, the one who’d let her wash her bloody hands, who had taken care of her after a murder… he wanted her. Badly.
She swung her hips, left then right, in a sultry dance, the way Desire had earlier. A moan hissed from between her lips when she brushed the tender nub at her center. Circling her clit exactly the way she liked, the way no one else had done for her—around and around until every nerve ending was buzzing.
Do you like that, Detective?
Ronan licked his lips but otherwise remained perfectly still, watching as she flicked that sensitive pearl, faster, faster, faster, rolling her nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Liquid heat surged through her veins, her breath a hissed staccato pant.
She could feel what it might be like to straddle him—to take him into her, to let him thrust his cock deep inside her cunt, her pussy stretching to accommodate him. She could feel his fingers gripping her ass. Hear his low grumbled moans as he fucked her.
Her legs were shaking, his fixed gaze making her skin feel feverish. She released her breast and slipped her palm between her legs, edged a finger inside, the other hand still flicking her clit.
Ronan cocked his head—entranced—and this alone almost drove her over the edge. She slipped a second finger into her pussy, massaging her G-spot. Then she pressed her ring finger against her backdoor. She didn’t think he could see the latter—that was just for her. And she didn’t need to see his dick to know it was pulsing, throbbing, aching to be inside her and?—
The orgasm ripped through her suddenly, violently, waves crashing against each other in a frenzied attempt to meet the shore. There was no crest, no pulsing to ease her back down, just euphoric spasming that smashed the breath from her lungs.
She came to with her head thrown back, her gaze fixed on the stained ceiling, her fingers gripping the windowpane so hard her knuckles ached. The metallic tang of blood lingered on her tongue—she’d bitten her lip. Her entire body was trembling. Her legs felt like rubber.
Juliette lowered her gaze, forcing her focus back to the lot.
Detective Ronan Duffy hadn’t moved from his place against the front grill. He clearly had no intention to approach, to thrust himself inside her—to fuck her properly. But she would have let him—heaven help her, she would have.
He smiled, his entire face lighting up with satisfaction. But not for himself—thrilled with her pleasure. He looked downright elated that she’d gotten off, even if he hadn’t—as though her release was all he’d wanted.
Beautiful , he mouthed.
Her heart stopped.
Juliette righted herself, wiping the sweat from her brow. Then she mouthed back the only thing she could think of— Thank you— before drawing the curtains closed. She could still see his gorgeous mouth, could hear his voice in her head.
Beautiful. Beautiful, Beautiful .
Her eyes stung. It was stupid, and she knew it—but she believed him.