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 revealsitself 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.
46
JULIET
It takes far longer than I would have hoped for Bea to return. At the fifteen-minute mark, I hear Murphy on the other side of the door.
“Miss Donovan, are you almost finished?”
“I’ll be right out,” I lie, my eyes flashing from the door to the mirror. “I have to redo my makeup!”
He seems to accept my explanation as he doesn’t knock again. I pace back and forth, my gaze moving all over. From the well-lit vanity for a woman to do her makeup to the cushions and plush chairs that don’t look even remotely well used to the floor to the ceiling windows.
Outside, the night sky is dark above the lights of the city. Once, I used to think coming to places like this was all I could look forward to. The pills that kept my nightmares at bay weren’t the only thing I used to dull my ugly memories.
Thirty minutes after Bea left, I hear the soft swish of the mirror and turn and release a low breath. Almost a sob, but not quite. I swallow that part back and straighten my spine as Paris flashes me one of his million-dollar megawatt smiles.
“Hey, girl,” he greets. “It’s been a while. Nice hair.”
Dressed in a pair of black jeans and a plain black t-shirt that reveals the long stretches of black ink that decorate both of his arms, Paris Troyan is a beautiful man. A damaged man. And the only one who knows my secret shame because I know his.
