12

JULIET

I’m just putting the finishing touches on my makeup- a sultry smoky eye look with winged liner- when my cell phone begins vibrating on the bathroom counter, the screen lit up with an incoming call. I pop the mascara wand back in the tube and glance down, expecting it to be Kylie calling since we made plans to go out to a club called Hydra tonight after we both interviewed for jobs at Jokers earlier. It’s not her name I see on the screen, though; it’s a number I don’t recognize. I don’t usually answer calls from unknown numbers, but since the first three digits are a Denver area code, I pick it up with a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Is this Juliet Anderson?” a male voice asks on the other end of the line. Wherever he is, it’s loud. I can hear the roar of music and voices, clattering glass, and a cacophony of other sounds I can’t quite place.

“This is Juliet,” I reply tentatively, not recognizing the voice of the caller.

He breathes what sounds almost like a sigh of relief. “Juliet, this