10. Juliette
Chapter 10
Juliette
T he short walk between her motel and the strip club was clean this time of morning—after the street sweepers had come through, but before the evening crowds emerged to skulk around the massage parlors that gave more than massages. Three different sex clubs in total, and Waylon had been the only one willing to hire her.
A mangy gray cat meowed at her as if in commiseration, then took off up the alley. The rest of the road was silent save for the warm October breeze, her footsteps on the cobblestones.
Juliette crossed her arms, wrapping her sweater tighter around her chest. There was a humid stickiness in the air, but she’d been cold since she’d awoken, her blood too hot—feverish. It had been twelve hours since a man had taken his last breaths in that club, but it felt like weeks. Every second had been filled with trepidation.
Except for those blissful moments she’d spent in front of the motel window.
Juliette swallowed hard. Whatever momentary peace she’d felt last night had vanished, her veins crackling with panic, her blood pumping gasoline. She didn’t want to make herself look more guilty than she already did, but she had to get out of here. The moment the police cleared her, she’d be gone.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had to run—far from it. But the pit in her belly was new, a little voice in her head whispering about grief and regret, hissing that if she left, she’d never see the detective again.
It made no sense. She barely knew him. And it wasn’t as if she could get close to him—have a real relationship. He didn’t even know her name.
And he never could.
No, he was just a way to pass the time—a bandage for her shattered self-esteem. And for the rest of her life, whenever she was feeling down, she’d remember the way he looked at her. She’d remember the way he’d mouthed beautiful . She’d recall the way she’d believed him, if only for the night.
The fantasy had to be enough. It had to be.
The sign for The Velvet Cage approached on her right. An angry purple backdrop with neon lights that only worked sometimes, turning it into HE VET AGE, which sounded more like a medical service for older male poodles than a strip club. She grabbed the handle and pushed, but… the door didn’t budge. What the hell?
“There’s no one here.”
Juliette turned to see Brittany striding up the walk from the alley. She must have tried the back door already.
“Where’s Waylon?” I need my money.
“I was walking up the alley when that hot cop from last night showed up, shoved him into the backseat of his car.”
Juliette’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious? Why?”
But she knew the answer, didn’t she? Brittany had lied, told Ronan that Waylon had been arguing with the dead guy. And Ronan seemed to believe that Jason was a bookie. Of course, Waylon looked guilty.
But the lack of blood on Waylon should have been enough to clear him. Did they think Jason had been stabbed with a fire poker or something from across the room?
“I think because of that argument thing,” Brittany said with a triumphant smile. “I sure as hell didn’t tell them the dead guy was there for you.”
There for me. Dead because of me. “Thanks for that.”
“Hey, it’s not like you killed some customer in the back room.”
Customer? But Juliette didn’t correct her.
Brittany shrugged, nonchalant. “I mean, even the cops seem to know you’re innocent.”
That was true enough… she thought. But they had just taken Waylon in, and she looked guiltier than he did—she’d been the one with blood on her hands.
“Do they really think that guy was a bookie?”
“A bookie?” Brittany pursed her lips. “I have no idea. I kinda thought that girl from Waylon’s office killed him.”
Her heart stopped, the humid breeze hissing down the back of her sweater, raising gooseflesh. “What girl?”
“You didn’t see her back there? She was heading into Waylon’s office when I went back to freshen up. That’s when I saw your friend and came to get you.”
Juliette nodded. The girls often used wet wipes between dances. All it took was one headstand in front of a guy with beer breath to make your G-string funky. “Who is she? Does she work here?”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
“Do you think that she?—”
“Girl, I have no idea. But if she stabbed him and ran out, I wouldn’t blame her. We all want to stab these bastards sometimes.” Brittany brushed her dark locks from her face. “Maybe Waylon’s new girl just has more balls than we do.”
Right. More balls. The scar on her chest throbbed. But there was something else there, too—the tiniest flicker of hope. The same fragile hope she’d felt when Ronan had mentioned Jason being a bookie.
She needed Jason’s death to be about something he’d done—something unrelated to her. Maybe it was even an accident. What if the new girl had been trying to escape Waylon, and Jason had gotten in the way? Six stab wounds were definitely overkill, but panic made people do crazy things. Illogical things.
Juliette knew that firsthand.
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, and Brittany smiled sympathetically, probably assuming she was frustrated about Waylon’s absence—about the money. But she wasn’t frustrated, not now. Could she actually stay here? Did she have to run?
You just want to stay with Ronan. See what his hands feel like on your skin—what he does when you’re not separated by glass.
Her heart clenched. Those thoughts were just more reasons to leave. Any connection was a risk, especially one with a cop. Jason was the first “date” she’d been on since leaving Daniel. He’d somehow figured out where she worked, had kissed her… then died immediately after. That was too much coincidence, wasn’t it?
If only she could get into that phone. She’d spent three hours at the library this morning, making a list of potential passcodes using social media clues. But she knew so little about Jason that her social engineering tactics had hit a wall. The combinations she’d tried this morning—his birthday, his mother’s birthday, Babe Ruth’s birthday—had all failed.
Brittany squeezed her arm. “It’s okay, girl. I’m sure Waylon will be back soon enough. And if he’s not… maybe we’ll get a new boss who will give us all of our tips.” Brittany pulled a piece of gum from her pocket and folded it into her mouth.
“Yeah, maybe,” Juliette said, but her mind was elsewhere.
Soon enough, the police would realize Jason’s phone was missing… if they hadn’t already. They might be tracking it now, which was why she’d only turned it on briefly at the library, a ball cap pulled low over her face to hide her from any cameras. The sooner she could confirm her safety and ditch the thing, the better.
There was only one place left to go: the morgue.
Brittany extended the pack of gum her way, but Juliette waved it off. Was the morgue really the least risky option? Ronan wasn’t going to help her with a stolen cell, and he’d ask far too many questions if Jason actually had been hired by her ex. But did she really think that she could scan Jason’s face with the phone to get it open? Was she stupid enough to walk into the morgue? Just because she could talk the talk with other “death professionals” didn’t mean she’d walk out unnoticed.
Just wait a few hours for Waylon and get your money. Convince Ronan you’re innocent. Then fucking run.
Running was the only viable option. What else could she do? She’d faked her own death once, but she’d waited three months for the perfect opportunity. Left her own blood all over the house, overturned tables to make it appear there had been a struggle. Then she’d lit the house on fire as if Daniel had been trying to obliterate the evidence.
The fire was a contingency plan—whether he was locked away in prison or dead hadn’t mattered to her so long as he was gone. But both plans had inexplicably failed.
Every single part of that crime scene had been staged to make him look guilty. Even the inside of the trash can was smeared with her blood. Body or not, they should have arrested him, at least questioned him—ruined his career.
But they hadn’t. He was above the law, as he’d always claimed to be.
The hairs on her spine prickled, and Juliette refocused on the street. Brittany was still watching her.
“How long ago did they take Waylon away?” she forced out.
“Maybe… five minutes? And before you ask, your hot cop didn’t say anything about when they’d be back. He’s such a… take-charge type.” She winked, a sparkle in her eyes.
Juliette resisted the urge to ball her fist—rage? No. Jealousy. “He’s not my hot cop,” Juliette managed, but her voice shook.
“Then you won’t mind if I take a run at him, right? He seemed pretty into me last night.” Brittany waggled her eyebrows— if you know what I mean .
Her heart sank. Juliette did know what she meant. He’d probably been hard when Brittany brought him that drink.
Juliette wasn’t special. Even if he thought she was beautiful, she was just another girl for him to watch. And now… she was a witness. She was a job. The way he was a job to every girl in that club.
“Jenny?”
Juliette blinked. “Sorry. Yeah, go ahead. Let me know how it goes, okay?”
From the excitement in Brittany’s eyes, Juliette had no doubt that she would. And from the way her chest tightened, acid boiling in her stomach, she knew she was already in too deep. Deep enough to be dangerous. Because whether Daniel knew where she was now, he’d find her eventually.
He always did.
She couldn’t afford attachments or heartbreak—emotions were dangerous when she needed every ounce of her resolve just to survive.
Juliette watched Brittany turn on her heel—platforms even outside of work—and click her way up the road. She took a deep breath, the sharp tang of garbage from the alleyway souring the sticky air.
This was for the best. Let Brittany distract him. Let Ronan fixate on someone else.
Maybe then Juliette could convince herself to forget him too.
Before she got him killed.