Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Nine

Lucy

It appears as though a miniature dinosaur ravaged my neck. I dab concealer over the skin at my throat, watching my own claw marks disappear. I'm wearing long sleeves, so the bruises on my arm are hidden. The small bump on the back of my head is obscured by my curled hair. My eyes are bloodshot, but a pair of sunglasses will take care of that.

Considering how I fared in my last encounter with Julian, I'd say I got off lucky. Not that he'd be so bold as to kill me at his own wedding. Are you trying to ruin my life? His question—fired at me with such vitriol—said enough. He sees me as a threat to his relationship. If he stole Natalie from Blake a decade ago, he's been seeing her just as long. He cheated on her with me. He doesn't want that getting out.

My hand trembles as I apply a bold red lip. I correct the outline with a piece of toilet paper, then leave the suite. My heels click, echoing in the empty hotel hallway.

For the first few months after being discharged from the hospital, I was sure I'd run into Julian. Henrietta made it clear she'd expose his kinks if he tried to contact me again, but I still saw fit to move apartments and look over my shoulder when walking alone at night. To whom Henrietta threatened to talk, I never knew. Julian wasn't—and isn't—a high-profile man. At least, I never saw him on television or in news articles like I did a few of my other clients.

While holed up in the bathroom this morning, I did some research. Now that I know his full name, it wasn't hard to discover just who Julian Heathrow is. There was a short exposé in Forbes about him. Julian is the heir to his father's prominent law firm in Philadelphia. The kind of defense attorneys who volunteer to assist notorious murderers or men trying to dodge child support. They have a high record of acquittals. Even if I had complied with police after Julian's assault, he would've walked away with clean hands and a smug smile.

Which leads me to my predicament. I have to act like nothing is amiss. He's no longer a client, but if I tell anyone about my history with Julian and word gets back to Henrietta, she'll consider that a breach of confidentiality. And Henrietta Orlova is not a woman you want to cross. With her ties to the Bratva, my body could wind up floating in the Schuylkill River. She's threatened girls before. Much like a real Mother Hen, she'll peck at her chicks until they either fall in line, or fall down.

I could contact her—tell her Jay is here—but I know what she'll say. To not let a past job effect my ability to satisfy my current one. And there's the kicker. I can't lose this money. Once Henrietta gets her cut, I'll rake in just under a hundred grand. I don't have the financial stability to say no to that.

It all comes down to cold, hard cash. I put my life on the line for it before. The moment I stepped foot in Henrietta's office, I did it again. If I survived in the same city with Julian for three years, I'll survive this hotel for three more days. But I'll need a little courage to get me going, as well as an antidote for the nerves.

"Two shots of tequila, please," I tell the bohemian bartender, giving her Blake's room number for the tab.

She nods, grabbing an amber bottle off the top shelf. As I'm waiting for her to pour the liquid, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Dread floods my stomach, but it's just a text from my sister.

Jade: Has Dad tried to call you?

Ignoring her, I slip my cell into my jeans once more. I only have the mental bandwidth for one existential crisis at a time.

The bartender barely has the opportunity to set the glasses on the counter before I slam them back, grimacing at the burn in my throat. It's been a while since I've had straight liquor. I usually don't partake on the job, but desperate times and all that.