Page 2 of Just Until You Love Me

“Sit down,” the policeman tells me.

Two of the benches are already occupied. One by a woman in a sequined dress, her face streaked with mascara from the tears pouring down her face. The other by a guy in a black vest that barely covers his stomach. He’s snoring with his mouth open, every third breath sounding like a death rattle.

The officer gestures toward an empty bench and releases the handcuffs. My skin almost sighs with relief. Then I sit exactly where he points. The chill of the metal bench seeps through my shorts, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Don’t move,” he tells me. “Wait here until I call you for processing. It could take a while.”

“Wait!” I say, my brows pulling together. “Don’t I get a phone call?”

“After you’re processed, yes,” he tells me, like I should know. Like I’m a seasoned criminal.

God, I’m such a rookie at this.

He pinches his nose again before disappearing through a door at the far end of the corridor. And I lean my head back against the wall with a soft thud, listening to the hum of voices in adjoining rooms competing with the buzz of a radio. Followed by a loud clang that sounds scarily like a cell door closing.

Why didn’t I just take a flight directly to New York? Oh no, I had to be a good girl, and make the trip as ecologically friendly as possible. Taking trains and buses, because my carbon footprint is already way too big.

Right now I could already be on Liberty, the small island I once called home. Instead of here, covered in ugly red paint, feeling the panic rise inside of me because I am in so much trouble.

I shift on the bench, trying not to cry and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

Think, Eden. Come on, you have brains don’t you?

You’ve been arrested. You’re in Las Vegas. You’re almost certainly going to be charged.

And after that I get a phone call. But who the hell do I call?

I mentally scroll through the Fitzgerald Rolodex of family disaster responses, grimacing as I picture each of them.

The obvious option is my brother, Hudson, but there’s no way I’m calling him. He’s the oldest of the six of us, the most intense. He’ll yell at me, bail me out, then lock me up in a dungeon until I’m sixty.

Asher might skip the yelling, but he’d probably burn the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department to the ground, all the while calmly explaining why it was the only logical choice.

Zach’s somewhere across the world buying art nobody understands, and Wyatt’s probably charming tourists off the North Carolina coast. And let’s face it, neither of them would answer their phones.

Which leaves Autumn. My bossy but level headed sister. The only one whomighthelp without telling Hudson.

I let out a long, low sigh that turns into a growl because I’m so annoyed with myself for getting into this position. I was already dreading going home. Now I’m rethinking all of my life choices.

“Is that… blood?” the crying woman across from me whispers, pointing at my top.

“You should see the other guy,” I joke. She looks away, like she’s not sure whether I’m a liar or a psychopath.

I’m not sure either, to be honest. All I know is that right now I’m supposed to be heading to Liberty Island, to see my pregnant sister. And as much as I hate the way that place makes me feel, I think I’ll hate being in jail more.

I blow out a breath, rub my aching wrists, and look up at the paint-peeled ceiling. If this isn’t rock bottom, I’m not sure what is. Things can only get better, right?

And as my name is called, and I’m lead to the booking room, I do the only thing that’s left to do.

I start to pray.

WEST

Taking a deep breath, I swirl the bourbon in the cut crystal glass, painting an easy smile on my face. I’m tired. So damn tired. But right now I need money more than I need sleep. Or more specifically I need cash flow. And I’m sitting opposite the only man I know who has more cash than he could spend in ten lifetimes.

And every so often he likes to put it through the wash.

Vin Marchetti is a man who has his fingers in more pies than he can count. He grew up destitute in New York, got in with the wrong – or right, depending how you see it – people, and now he owns hotels and casinos across the country from Las Vegas to Atlantic City.