45. Juliet
JULIET
O f the nine levels of Inferno, Roquel seems to fall in love with the top one. Unlike the first floor, the ninth is all glass pillars, mirrors, and white surfaces.
Heels clack across the floor as she stumbles out of the elevator after an hour on the third-floor dance club.
A bite of guilt stabs me in the gut as she swings into my side and I have to wrap my arm around her waist and practically drag her to one of the booths lining the wall across from giant windows that look out over the city’s skyline.
“This place is soooo great.” She giggles. “I can’ believe you don’ wanna come here all the time!”
I wince as she shrieks right next to my ear and drop her ass onto one of the snow-white couches of the booth. Hughes, now joined by Murphy, follows like two silent shadows, rounding the back of the booth to stand along the wall.
“I want ’nother drink!” Roquel demands, one arm shooting up into the air. She snaps her fingers and shakes her head, choppy black hair sliding across her shoulders as she peers towards the bar. “Where’s the waiter?”
Grinding my teeth, I straighten away from her and adjust my top. She’d nearly latched on to it and dragged it straight off when she fell into the booth. “I’ll grab you something,” I say. A water, for sure.
Had she snuck away from me at some point to take shots? Maybe someone had accidentally slipped her a roofie, but that’s probably unlikely. Unlike other places, Inferno is well-known amongst celebrities and rich kids as one of the safest in terms of date rape bullshit.
The last guy that had gotten caught trying to roofie some rich heiress here had been found out to be a paparazzi looking to score. To my knowledge, he never showed up to work the following week… and no one had seen him since.
The Troyans make far better allies than foes.
As I march towards the bar, I spy Murphy slipping away from the wall to follow, leaving Hughes to look after Roquel. I realize that this is as good a time as any to look for what I need. If Paris is going to be here then I need to lose the tail and head back down to the seventh floor.
Heart pounding as I near the bar, I wait for a bartender dressed in gauzy white pants and a flowing shirt to make his way to me. How they manage to wear their white outfits all night without spilling a single thing on them, after working at The Dionysus Lounge, I’ll never know.
“One vodka spritzer, a water, and two lemon drops,” I say.
Five minutes later, the bartender delivers my order and just as before, asks for no payment. I take the first shot for liquid courage and grimace at the sharp burn in my throat. The second goes just as quickly.
“Miss Donovan.” Murphy’s voice is so quiet it doesn’t seem all that close until I turn towards the man and find him nearly on top of me. “Please remember that Mr. Calloway asked you to be mindful. Even if you’re here for fun, you should temper your alcohol consumption.”
“It’s fine!” I say, giggling too loudly as I lift the vodka spritzer in my hand.
The liquid spills over the rim and straight down my arm.
I gasp and swing the drink around wildly, a false overcorrection that ends with half of the contents of the glass spilled down the front of my halter.
The bright red fabric darkens and clings straight to my breasts, conforming to the outline of my nipples.
“Ah!” The scream is a bit too shrill, but fuck, the drink is cold and I hadn’t mentally prepared myself well enough.
Murphy’s hand shoots out and he plucks the drink directly from my hand, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
“My shirt…” I glare down at my halter before lifting my gaze to Murphy as he sets the glass onto the bar’s counter and reaches for a stack of napkins nearby.
“This is why I asked that you maintain?—”
“Oh dear.” It takes all of my willpower not to smile as a new voice enters our sphere.
Turning to face the newcomer, I find a tall willowy woman in a skintight cocktail dress the same color as the bartender’s uniform. Against her dark skin, she looks like a fallen angel. Beautiful and dangerous and just who I was hoping to see.
“Your poor outfit.” The woman casts a mournful look down at my stained shirt before offering me her hand.
“I’m not sure if you remember me, Miss Donovan, but I’m Bea Alma, the manager of Inferno’s ninth floor.
I’m sure you’re still enjoying yourself.
If you’d like, we have a selection of clothes for VIP guests to exchange for accidents just like this. ”
“Wait, I don’t think—” Murphy’s hands still hover over me, unsure if he should be attempting to mop up my tits or if even attempting to will get him fired.
I could tell him that it’ll get him a set of broken fingers if I’m the one to decide, but instead of doing so, I shoot him a scowl and step closer to the woman.
“Do you want me to go back to the table like this?” I snap, gesturing down to my clothes. “I’m sticky and I want to fucking change. Is that a problem?”
“Mr. Calloway—” he starts.
I don’t let him finish. “Would have your head if he knew you let me stand here like this in front of all these people.” My voice arches higher and if Bea looks worried as several patrons turn their heads to watch the commotion, the woman doesn’t show it. She’s got a damn fine poker face.
Murphy frowns and turns to look back at where Hughes is. “One of us should?—”
“What?” I demand, snorting. “You want to watch me undress? Do you want to die?” I cross my arms over my chest as Murphy whips back around, eyes widening.
“No, that’s not what I—” He interrupts himself this time, whispering a low curse. He dips his head. “Fine, I’ll escort you to the changing room and wait outside.”
Glancing at Bea, she merely nods her understanding and sweeps us around the bar. “Of course,” she says, all pleasant smiles and radiant calm. “Right this way.”
Bea leads Murphy and me towards a long hallway that darkens as we walk along it.
All of the white and glassy angles of the main club floor turning a murky gray and then a charcoal color until we turn a corner and find nothing but black doors on either side.
She stops next to the third one and types in a code on the lock.
The door swings wide, revealing a long room with racks of clothing to one side and several bins and cushioned chairs across from it. “We have changing rooms at the back,” Bea explains as Murphy trails us inside.
I don’t care about the actual clothes—either on the racks or on my body—so I quickly find a replacement shirt and turn to Bea who gestures to one of the slim doors at the end of the closet. When Murphy moves to follow, I stop and glare back at him.
Pointing to one of the cushioned chairs, I bite out my words. “You can sit there,” I say. “I’ll be back after I’m cleaned and dressed.”
He narrows his eyes on me before flicking up to look at the ninth-floor manager. Bea, catching on quickly, smiles at him. “Don’t worry, sir,” she murmurs. “I’ll make sure she’s well taken care of.”
Murphy harrumphs, but nods regardless. “I’ll be right here, Miss Donovan.”
Heart thundering against my breast, I have to force myself to walk at a sedate pace as Bea leads me into the next room, which is wider than the first room and more luxurious. Windows line the back wall that have a similar, albeit slightly altered view of the city skyline.
Whipping the halter off as quickly as I can, I don’t even bother to cover myself from the other woman’s gaze as I change. The red silk material drops to the floor to be replaced by a black bra-like contraption and a see-through overshirt that glitters with what I’m sure are diamonds. Probably real.
Once that’s done, I face Bea and reach into my back pocket, thankful that I thought to bring one of the ‘gifts’ Morpheus had left in my closet. Holding up the ruby bracelet, I hand it to the manager. Her brow lifts as she takes it into her cupped hand.
“I’m afraid I don’t accept tips like this,” she states, her tone icier than before.
Swallowing past the hard lump that’s formed in my throat, I take her hand in mine and close her fingers around the jewelry. “Please,” I say. “I have to talk to Paris if he’s here.”
Her eyes widen in surprise and she immediately tries to hand the bracelet back. “If Mr. Troyan has decided not to contact you after?—”
“No!” My eyes shoot to the door, noting that the lock isn’t turned. Murphy could still walk in here if he thought I might be taking too long. “No, that’s not what this is about. Paris and I never had that sort of relationship,” I assure the woman.
“Then, I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re?—”
“ I need help .” Loath as I am to admit it, it’s the truth. I am so out of my depth with Morpheus’ threats and I have no actual power of my own. No amount of self-defense and training with Cory can help me face the problems that come with money and authority.
Tilting her head to the side, Bea looks at me. “Mr. Troyan is not in the business of helping women in trouble,” she says. “What makes you think he’ll listen to you?”
Because I’m a friend? Or I was… sort of.
With a sigh, I push the ruby bracelet closer to her chest. “Just… if he’s here, tell him my name—Juliet Donovan—if he comes, then you know I’m not lying and if he doesn’t, then…” I’m fucked.
I don’t voice that last bit aloud, but instead let the words hang in the air between us like a noose ready to wrap around my throat.
In many ways, my love for the Scorpion Kings is the same.
Without them, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
Also, without them, though, I wouldn’t have a reason to get myself out of it.
“I will see if he’s available.” Despite her words, Bea carefully extracts her hand from mine, leaving the bracelet behind.
“This is?—”
“I am well paid, Miss Donovan,” Bea says. “I don’t need the tip.”
With that, she turns and heads not for the door that leads back to Murphy, but to one of the mirrors along the opposite wall.
I watch as she reaches up to what looks like a security box next to it.
Once more, she types in a code and the mirror reveals itself to be a door that cracks inward and she disappears beyond it.
Now, all I can do is wait and hope… that the boy I found a year after my own nightmare came to life is a man that can help me now.