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“This is my room,” the woman on the bed protested.
Below their feet, there was a heavy thud, then gunfire.
“Oh, I’m sorry, let me rephrase,” Juliette said. It was getting very hard now to stay serious. For the most absurd reason, she had laughter bubbling up into her throat. “Get. Out!”
The man recognized her first. He was probably a Scarlet, judging by the speed at which he pulled his pants back on and hightailed it out of there, nodding to Juliette on his way out. The woman was a slower case, begrudgingly stepping off a bed that took up half the room. There was one window above the bed, but it was too small to push a cat out, never mind a person.
“Move faster,” Juliette snapped. She could hear footsteps thundering up the stairs.
The woman brushed by and exited, throwing a glare back. Juliette tugged Roma into the vacated room and slammed the door shut.
“I don’t think she liked you very much,” Roma said.
“I don’t care to be likable,” Juliette replied. “Get under the blankets.”
Roma visibly cringed. Screams reverberated into the second floor. “Must I? Do you know what people get up to under those—”
“Do it!” Juliette hissed. She reached into her dress and pawed through her money pouch, digging out an acceptable amount. It was rather difficult given that she couldn’t really read the numbers anymore.
“Fine, fine,” Roma said. Just as he stumbled onto the bed and drew the blanket over himself, an earth-shattering banging sounded upon the door.
Juliette was ready.
She opened the door a sliver, not enough for the officer to barge in but enough so he could get a good look at her face, at her American dress. That was usually all it took to put the dots together, and she waited—she waited for that millisecond when the realization set in.
It set in.
“This room is empty,” she instructed him, as if she were putting the officer under hypnosis. He was Chinese, not British, which was fortunate for Juliette, because it meant he was more likely to fear the Scarlet Gang. Juliette passed the cash in her hands, and the officer inclined his head, tipping at her the coat of arms of the International Settlement on his dark-blue peaked cap.
“Understood,” he said. He took the cash and then he was on h
is way, marking the room off as examined and leaving Juliette to shut the door and lean against it with her heart thudding.
“Is it safe now?” Roma asked from within the blankets, his words muffled.
Sighing, Juliette marched over and whipped the blankets off him. Roma blinked in surprise, eyes wider than saucepans, his hair flopped in all directions.
Juliette started laughing.
The giggle bubbled up from the warmth in her stomach, spreading all over her chest as she plopped down on the bed with her arms wrapped around her middle. She didn’t know what was so funny. Nor did Roma when he sat up.
“This is… your… fault,” Juliette managed to hiccup.
“My fault?” Roma echoed in disbelief.
“Yes,” Juliette managed. “If you could handle your alcohol, we would have left when Archibald Welch did.”
“Please,” Roma said. “If I hadn’t fallen over, you would have.”
“Lies.”
“Yeah?” Roma challenged. He gave her shoulder a hard shove. Juliette’s entire, unstable body teetered backward onto the bed, her head spinning wildly.
“You—”
She came at him with her two hands, though she didn’t quite know what her intent was. Perhaps she was to throttle him, or pluck out his eyes, or go for the gun he had in his pocket, but Roma was faster even in his inebriated state. He caught her by the wrists and pushed, until she was on her back again and Roma was hovering over her, smug.
“You were saying?” Roma asked. He didn’t move away once he had proved his point. He remained—his hands holding her wrists down over her head, his body hovering over hers, his eyes strange and dark and on fire.
