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Austin tries to smile but winces. His face is too swollen. “Why are you being so nice to me? You should be pissed. I could have got you killed, boogers.”
“Oh, I’m pissed!” I correct him. “I don’t care if you're almost eighteen or not. You are grounded for the rest of the year. And you’ll go and beg for your job back at the carwash and finish school.” I deliberately press harder on the cut I’m cleaning. “You hear me, Austin. You will make this right.”
“I hear you. I will pay you back. I don’t know how, or when, but I will, boogers. I’ll make it right.”
“I love you, Austin. We are all each other has. We have to stick together.” I cuddle his waist tightly even as he groans in pain. I hold on tight, not wanting to ever let him go. “I can’t lose you too,” I admit, tears prickling my eyes. “No matter how much a pain in my ass you are.”
“I love you too, boogers.”
I lay awake most of the night, tossing and turning, replaying the horrible events over and over. I keep seeing that gun in my fucking face. I may have been calm enough in the moment, but now reflecting on it, I’m a mess. My hands have not stopped shaking; my heart still thumping hard. Never have I felt so scared. In fact, I am still scared.
I get up and take the business card out of my jeans pocket. I was too concerned with Austin before to look at it and then forgot about it until now.
The card has Judge & Sons written in gold bold capitals on the front of a plain black background, and as well as stating on the back the office address, phone number and website, it reads:
Roman Judge
Partner
Criminal Law Attorney
I laugh to myself reading it. Criminal attorney. I read it again and again, shaking my head. Some attorney he is! More like a criminal protector. I knew from him being at the club and knowing Moretti meant he was most likely somehow involved in bad things, but never in a million years did I suspect him to be a lawyer for them.
Pulling out my phone, I type the firm’s website address into Google. As expected from the expensive suit he was wearing, he is a lawyer in a swanky law firm that’s front door cost more than my entire life's wages. Roman’s father owns the firm, but Roman is a partner, along with his brother.
I continue my Google search, this time looking up Roman Judge. News articles pop up about recent cases he has won, grouped with a whole heap of images of him at functions and addressing the press outside a courthouse. Those chocolate brown eyes cause my heart to skip a beat. I should be afraid of this man, yet I am drawn to him in ways I know I shouldn’t.
As I scroll through everything that Google brings up on Roman, it becomes very clear that at only thirty-one years old, he has a very impressive career and life. The guy even has his own Wikipedia page, for God’s sake.
In each of the photographs of him at various functions, all his accompanying women are stunning. Like model stunning. My lips curl up with bitterness as I feel a pang of jealousy and throw my phone across the bed with a frustrated sigh.
I’m sure this is just some kind of joke to him. I mean, why else would he offer to help me? Most likely, he’s bored with his perfect rich life, and this little game of saving the poor girl is simply entertainment. A story to laugh about with his moneyed-up mates. Ten thousand dollars would be spare change to a man like Roman Judge. He probably didn't even blink an eyelid when he told Moretti he’d pay my brother's debt.
I move my attention to Moretti and type in the Night Owls clubhouse. I can’t search for Moretti because I don’t know his first name. There is barely any information on the club or him, which doesn’t surprise me, considering his illegal activities there. I finally find him on the licensee information. Leo Moretti. He’s not owned the club for long, and when I search his name on Google, I get absolutely nothing. No Facebook, no Instagram profiles, no images. Nothing! I don’t know why I thought knowing more about him would help my cause because I think either way I’m fucked. You don’t bump heads with these types of people and just walk away.
STRAIGHTENING OUT MY blouse, I try to flatten the bottom edge that keeps creasing up. I don’t own an iron or a press. The best I could do was try to flatten out the creases overnight using heavy books. That obviously didn’t work out as well as I had thought it would. This will just have to do. I sigh to myself, looking in the mirror. I look ridiculous.
I didn’t have anything suitable to wear, so I found some of my mother’s old blouses that we'd kept all these years in boxes in case she returned. My mom was a slightly bigger build than I, but I found one that fits well enough. The cream has admittedly turned a little bit yellow, but the black poker dots hide most of the discoloration. I've paired the blouse with some black slacks that, thank heavens, are mine and fit properly. Now shoes? I look in the bottom of my closet, shaking my head desperately. Sneakers, converse, and sandals are all I own. I settle on the black sandals, hoping they will look less obvious.
I catch the T to the Financial District and walk the remainder of the way to the office building. Once checked in with security, I receive an entry card that allows me to select a floor in the elevator. Next to floor number seventeen is a silver sign that reads Judge & Sons Criminal law department.
When the elevator doors finally open, I inhale deeply before stepping out. The foyer is so quiet it’s creepy. The reception desk displays a large vase of the most stunning-looking white orchards I have ever seen. Judge & Sons signage in large shiny gold print spreads across the entire length of the white marble desk. On either side of the desk, there are double frosted glass doors, and the thought of what’s behind them has my heart racing a million beats a second.
A pretty dark-haired and unfriendly-looking young woman pops her head up from her computer screen to regard me. Her makeup is caked on her face so thick you would need a jackhammer to get it off. Her lips curl in amusement as her heavily lined eyes look me up and down “Do you have an appointment,” she asks in a tone that illustrates she knows that I don’t.
“My name is Indiana Johnson,” I tell her, trying my best to sound confident. “I am...” I nervously stumble on my words before she cuts me off.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Judge is expecting you.” She stands and walks around the desk. “My name is Amy. Come with me. I have been instructed to give you a tour.”
I follow Amy through the set of glass doors on my left and down a small corridor that takes us into what appears to be the main office. Heads behind cubicles pop up as I walk past. Like I didn’t already feel out of place; their eyes on me make me feel like the new ugly kid in class.
I try to focus on anything but the audience I have and concentrate on the back of Amy. Her pencil skirt is so tight I’m amazed that she can move her legs to walk, let alone those pumps she is wearing could seriously commit a murder. They’re so pointy at the end, they could be considered a weapon.
“So, this is all the associates and paralegals for the department.” She moves quickly, and I hurry along behind her as she points to another room. “This is our archive and file room, and to the left is the lunchroom.” Amy doesn’t linger or give me time to look. She just keeps walking until we are back out in the foyer where she hands me a swipe card. “This will get you into the main office.” Then she hands me another card. “This one will get you into Roman’s office.” I look over at the other set of glass doors, then back at Amy, waiting for more instruction.
She stares at me without blinking for the longest moment. “Through there,” she says and points to the glass doors to the right of the desk, seeming irritated. Something about the way she looks at me, and the way she speaks to me is vilifying. I immediately dislike her.
“Thank you.” I strain a smile and head over to the door, scanning my card and waiting for the door to release.
