Page 128 of Played
"Really?" The word tumbles out, disbelief coating every syllable.
"Really. Judge had a cancellation. We got lucky."
Lucky. The word feels alien in the context of everything that's happened, but I'll take it. "Thank you, Mark. God, thank you."
"Get some rest tonight, okay? And be there early."
“Yes,” I reply, eager.
Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m.
I just have to make it through one more night.
The courtroom smells like old wood and stale air. I sit in the back, fingers knotted in my lap, watching the proceedings unfold like a bad dream I can't wake from. The prosecutor rattles off the charges, and each word feels like a punch to the chest. Assault. Battery. Potential manslaughter if Daniel dies.
But then Julian's attorney steps up, laying out the evidence: the escalating threats against both me and Julian, the restraining order, the letters, notes and black roses, the handcuffs still bearing the marks on my wrists. Self-defense. Protection of another person in imminent danger.
The judge listens, stone-faced, flipping through documents.
Finally, she speaks. "Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars."
Julian's attorney, a tall, confident-looking man dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit that probably cost more than my month's wage, with a beautiful head of salt-and-pepper hair swept back from his high forehead, is already moving with practiced efficiency.
He's got paperwork clutched firmly in one manicured hand, his leather briefcase tucked under his other arm as he strides toward the clerk's desk with the kind of purpose that says he's done this a thousand times before.
Within the hour, Julian walks out.
He looks utterly exhausted, his eyes shadowed with deep circles and hollow in a way that makes my heart clench painfully in my chest. There's a weariness etched into every line of his beautiful face, like he hasn't slept in days—and he probably hasn't. His shoulders sag with the weight of everything that's happened, and I can see the toll this nightmare has taken on him just in the way he carries himself across the courthouse lobby.
But then his gaze finds mine through the crowd of people milling about, and something shifts in his entire demeanor. The exhaustion doesn't disappear, but it's suddenly overtaken by something else—something raw and powerful. Relief floods his face, softening those tense lines around his mouth and eyes. His pace quickens despite his obvious fatigue, and I can feel his overwhelming relief at seeing me standing there waiting for him.
I don't think. I just run.
He catches me, arms wrapping tight around my waist, and I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in. He smells like sweat and something unmistakably Julian.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper against his skin, tears spilling hot and fast.
"Don't." His voice is rough, hoarse. "Don't apologize."
"This is all my fault—"
"Liza." He pulls back just enough to look at me, cupping my face in his hands. "None of this is your fault."
I want to believe him. God, I want to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
We barely make it through the door.
Julian's mouth is on mine before the lock clicks, hands tangled in my hair, backing me against the wall. His kiss feels like desperation, like too many hours apart, like everything we almost lost.
"I missed you," I gasp against his lips. "I missed you so much."
He doesn't answer with words. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, rough and insistent against my skin. He yanks it over my head in one swift, impatient motion, breaking our kiss for only the briefest second before his mouth crashes back against mine.
The fabric catches on my hair, pulling it hard, and I don't even care—I'm already reaching for his leather jacket, my hands trembling as I fumble with the zipper, tugging it down with clumsy urgency. He makes a frustrated sound against my lips and shrugs it off himself, the heavy jacket sliding down his arms and hitting the floor with a soft thud. His hands are already back on me, hot palms spreading across my bare ribcage, thumbs brushing the underside of my bra.
We stumble toward the bedroom in a chaotic tangle of limbs and heated breaths, neither of us caring about coordination or grace as we shed our remaining clothes along the way.
