Page 14 of Seduced By the Billionaire
Chapter 8
Juliette
Juliette’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.
