Darkest Perception_A Dark and Mind-Blowing Steamy Romance

by Shari J. Ryan

  "Use the card. Get comfortable clothes that allow you to be physically active … like tight yoga pants," he says, but keeps his focus on the food.

  As hard as it is, I ignore his attempt at flirting, or annoying me, and lean against the wall for another few minutes while watching Everett polish off the remaining crumbs. He grabs a napkin, cleans his face, stands and walks past me as if I weren't curiously watching his every move. "Well, it's been real. I'll see you at six tonight. Don't do anything stupid. And ..." he looks back at me while opening the door. "Don't go running your mouth. It could literally get you killed."

  "Okay," I respond with only a short breath.

  "Later, dude," he says. How nice.

  I look down at the money and credit card in my hand, debating what to do with my free day. It's not like I haven't had plenty of free days in the past year, but today feels different. Today, I need an agenda.

  Today, I need to pay someone a visit.

  I'd normally take the bus to this side of Boston, but the last few times I did that, I ran into some people I wanted to avoid. Since I have the funds now, a cab is a much better way to get here.

  I step out of the car, asking the guy to return in an hour. Whether he will or not, I don't know, but if I can prevent standing outside of this prison for longer than I need to, I should.

  I go through the security check and wait a good fifteen minutes before they allow me into the visiting area, where I sit in front of a thick plastic window covered with scratches, smudges, and bodily fluids I’d rather not think about.

  "Harley, what are you doing here?" Mason asks, sitting down on the other side of the window.

  "It's been almost three months," I tell him.

  He studies my face, likely trying to piece together what I have to say before I have a chance to talk. "I was worried this might happen to you," he says. "Are you eating? Taking care of yourself?"

  "I'm getting there," I tell him.

  "You're not living on the street, are you?" I've never could understand how a person living in prison can still be overweight while being fed the crap I've heard they're forced to eat. Mason doesn't look like he's lost a pound of his extra baggage. He has stopped shaving, however, giving himself a helmet of thick, white hair. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than they were the last time I saw him, too. He shifts his weight around in his seat, appearing uncomfortable, but probably not as uncomfortable as I am right now. I shouldn't be in here. I'm basically looking the devil in the eye and admitting to my sins.

  "I'm not on the street," I tell him, knowing how close I came to responding differently.

  "You're not finding trouble either, I hope?"

  I smirk a little and narrow one eye. "Define trouble."

  "Harley, you know what trouble causes. You're looking at it," he says through a loud exhale.

  "Yes, but it was an accident," I remind him. "You’re innocent."

  "It doesn't matter. This is where I need to be."

  I nod my head, only semi-agreeing as I peer down at my fidgeting knees. "Harley, did you get a new job?"

  "Yeah," I say, sounding short, even though I wanted to make it sound casual.

  "What are you doing?" he presses.

  "What I love," I say, looking up at him without an expression to define the truth behind my statement. He doesn’t need further explanation, though.

  He closes his eyes and squeezes his fingers around his temples. "You can’t trust anyone, Harley. You have to remember that."

  "Trust me, I don’t trust anyone," I assure him. "I'm not doing anything wrong—I’m doing things for the good." Am I?

  "Time's up!" an officer shouts.

  "Harley, don't forget what I told you," Mason says with anger laced through each of his words.

  "I know," I tell him.

  12

  Axel

  One of the many parts of this gig I could do without is the flying back and forth from D.C. on the same day. I figured I'd get used to it with as much as I fly, but nope. At least I probably managed to miss most of the rush hour. I see my car up in front of the pick-up line and toss my bag over my shoulder. The trunk pops open when I get close, and I drop my bag inside, then slide into the backseat. "Hey, man," I say.

  "Axel," Chuck, my driver, greets me blindly as usual. "Did everything go smoothly out there?"

  "As smooth as it could have gone," I tell him.

  "I thought things were going south this morning when Norm started mouthing off to you on the way to the airport," Chuck says.

  I rest my head back against the seat, wanting sleep more than anything. "Eh, it was gibberish. He had no clue what he was saying," I tell him.

  "True," he says, glancing over his left shoulder before switching lanes. "Well, considering the condition we got him in, I didn't think you were going to have that guy comply so quickly. I figured it was going to take you a week at least."

  "I got lucky, I guess." Or, Harley's stupid YouTube video/music thing worked. I'm not ready to hand her that win just yet, though. Plus, I'd love to know how many people she has used that method on in the past, being a poor, homeless girl with nothing more than a cereal box to her name.

  "Nah, I think you’re getting somewhere. Your timing has improved, so I’m sure Roberts will be happy with your progress." Progress would be having an identified Isabelle Hammel in my possession. All other jobs are supposedly just training me how to deal with her when it’s time. Of course, my brainwashing accomplishments are also helping Roberts and the other schmucks who don’t want to handle the dirty shit I’m constantly putting up with, but it will clear my tarnished name in the end, which is all that’s supposed to matter. "How’s that Harley character doing? Have you gotten any intel yet?"

  We pull up in front of the hotel before I’ve thought of a good response to Chuck’s pressing question. I know he’s looking for more information on how last night’s interrogation went, but until I’m sure who Harley is, I’m not saying a thing yet. I slap my hand down on Chuck's shoulder. "Thanks for the ride. I'll catch you later."

  "Axel?" Chuck questions.

  "See you later," I respond, closing the door. I watch him shake his head with annoyance, but he’s going to have to deal with it.

  Despite telling Everett to have Harley meet me in the lobby at six, I'm hoping to catch her off guard. People are at their weakest when they aren't expecting questions, and I certainly don't need this chick hanging around if she isn't Isabelle.

  I make my way up to her floor and shout her name through the closed door before tapping my knuckles above the doorknob.

  The sound of shuffling feet grows louder and the silent muffle against the door tells me she's looking out the peephole. I would too if I were her. She opens the door with a confused look.

  "I thought you said six?" Harley asks.

  I ignore her question and move in past her, taking an uninvited seat on the edge of her bed. Her gaze follows my movement as if she's inspecting me, or maybe she’s just checking me out. I've never been a good judge of knowing the difference.

  "So ..." she says, trailing off with the sound expectation. I’m sure she’s following up on her last question about the time change.

  "Did you go shopping today?" I ask her, spotting a small pile of bags leaning against the far wall.

  "Everett said … " God knows what Everett said to her, but she's in clean, fitted clothes, and her hair is down, draping loosely over her shoulders. She looks more like Isabelle now than she did before.

  "It's fine; I told him to send you shopping," I tell her. "You clean up well." A little too well.

  "Here," I continue, switching gears from the last comment that probably shouldn't have slipped out. I drop a cell phone down onto the bed. "I figured you might need this so we don't have to keep banging on your door."

  She timidly reaches over and takes the phone. "Thank you."

  "Ready for dinner?" I ask, standing from the edge of the bed.

  "Where were you today?" she
asks without an ounce of hesitation.

  There’s no way she thinks my whereabouts are any of her business, but it’s not exactly a secret, seeing as she took part in the interrogation.

  "Delivering our confession," I tell her. "It was all over the news. You didn't catch it?"

  I can only imagine how confused I have made this woman in the past twenty-four hours, and I don't know what she honestly thinks of me or the business I'm conducting, but she hasn't put up too much of a fight about it yet either.

  "Glad it worked out," she says, ignoring my question.

  "The music tactic you used last night was interesting," I tell her.

  "Tactic?" she repeats. "It's not a tactic."

  I hold my hands up in defense against the defensive tone she’s taking. "I see. Well, what do you call it, then?" I ask. "I’ve just never seen music used in that way before. I'm intrigued."

  "I don't know," she says. "It's—it's just some—an old YouTube thing I heard about once." She’s stumbling over her words.

  I stand up from the bed and take a few steps toward her with the intention of causing discomfort and intimidation. She's short, and I'm not, making it easy to hover over her. "Well," I say, keeping my voice soft. "I'd love to hear more."

  "That’s all there is to it, really," she says.

  "Okay," I say through a breath. "Well, today was a win with the confession, so we’ll just relax tonight, but tomorrow’s another day full of unsuspecting criminals." I don't expect my words to scare her after what she witnessed yesterday, but her jaw swivels from one side to the other as she releases a soft exhale.

  "Okay," she replies.

  "Ready?" I ask.

  "Sure," she says, grabbing a leather coat from the guest chair. I’m glad she got what she needed today at least. I can’t have her walking around looking homeless. She slips her arms through the sleeves and zips it up, allowing the leather to accentuate her perfect curves in contrast to her thin waist.

  We leave the hotel and walk out into the dropping temperatures. Winter is coming early this year. There’s no doubt about that. Damn.

  After walking a few blocks, we step inside of Rookies Tavern—the joint Everett and I frequent many nights after a long day of being tied up or tying someone up.

  I wave Harley forward into a growing wave of lounge music and the scent of beer. It's early, so the place is still somewhat empty, making it easy to spot Everett in the far corner at our normal booth. I stretch my arm out over Harley's shoulder and point in Everett’s direction. "We're over there."

  She moves a little quicker, now knowing where we're headed, and stays ahead by a few feet. The distance between us offers me a good look at her ass, which I wouldn't recognize if it were Isabelle since I never got the pleasure of watching her walk away, but if this is her, I’m positive I wouldn’t forget it. She fills out the pants nicely, and I do what I can to look away from her ass bouncing with each step so I don’t lose focus.

  "Look at you, dressed up like a true city girl now," Everett says to her as she takes a seat beside him. I can't stop the cold glare I'm giving Everett, but he doesn't notice it because he's too busy checking out Harley. Everett doesn't hold back. If there's a chick he finds interesting, she finds out quickly that she’s been noticed. He doesn't play the guessing games, which is probably why he doesn't sleep alone most nights. He also doesn't have a ticking clock in his ear reminding him of an impending sentence if he doesn’t follow through with an agreement.

  Harley lifts one of the menus from the metal clamp at the end of the table and scans the drink list, but Everett, being such a lady’s man decides for her by hooting out a request for two pitchers of Sam Adams to the bartender just across the way. Everett has never been known for having tact. If I were that bartender, I’d probably dump both pitchers over his head in return.

  Harley doesn't put up much of a fuss with the order, which makes me wonder if she appreciates a man taking charge like that. She doesn’t strike me as the type, though I suppose she could have the same weakness for Everett as most women have.

  A waitress who’s dressed in next to nothing approaches our table with the pitchers and pulls out her order pad. "What can I get for ya guys? You trying to catch the game tonight?"

  "Nah, no rush," I tell her.

  "I'll have the loaded burger," Harley speaks up.

  Everett orders the same thing, and I’m not up for making any more decisions today, so I order the loaded burger too, making it easy for the waitress. My head is full of questions without answers about Harley, I don’t think I am going to be able to relax until I figure this shit out.

  I take one of the pitchers and fill three glasses. "Cheers to another fucking day," I say with as little enthusiasm as I can muster.

  Harley and Everett lift their glasses quickly, and I watch Harley down her beer as if she were racing someone. God, she's making this too easy. I'll have her talking in no time. The thought of a burger soaking up the beer and blocking some of her buzz was an unnecessary passing thought, I guess.

  "Why have you been so quiet?" she asks me through a fit of laughter in response to whatever Everett just said to her. "Oh wait, never mind, you're always quiet. You're the quiet, moody, mysterious type of man." She's making fun of me, squinting her eyes like she's trying to read my face.

  "Being quiet makes it easier not to say things that shouldn't be said," I respond.

  "I don't say things I shouldn't say," Harley quips.

  "Oh yeah," Everett plays along. "I bettttt I can get ya to say the word beer." As their sobriety level declines, the crowd grows heavier around us, making it harder to hear everything being said.

  "You're on," she shouts. Oh good, he's drunk too. I told him this wasn't about having drinks tonight, but of course he'd forget I said that since it was a whole twelve hours ago.

  I clear my throat to get their attention and Everett is quicker to meet my stare than Harley is, so I narrow my right eye a bit, hinting at him to stop, but he laughs. The I've had one too many beers laugh.

  "How about ... instead of that game, we get to know each other a little more," I propose. Harley twists her body back toward the center of the table, facing me on the opposite side.

  She smiles widely, rests her elbows on the table and lets her chin fall to her fists. "Sure, Axel, what would you like to know about me?" Harley takes her second half-filled glass of beer and pulls in a hearty swig, or two ... three, before setting the glass back down and replacing her chin on her fists.

  I'd love to just come right out with it and ask her what her real name is, but patience is something I've learned to have while dealing with people who have information I need. "How long have you lived in Boston?" I'll start easy, knowing her answer won't help me much.

  "Hmmm," she laments, bobbing her head from side to side in thought. "Five years-ish." She glances up toward the ceiling as she’s second-guessing herself and counts silently. "Yeah, five. I grew up in Michigan, then came here for school and stayed." No help.

  "Where did you go to school?" I ask her.

  "Aren't these questions you should have asked while interviewing me instead of forcing me to watch a drug-addict slice her wrists?"

  Shit. Not drunk enough.

  Everett, the red-headed bastard with his drunken matching skin color, takes another swig of his beer while blatantly trying to hold back a smirk by covering his face like a little girl. He’s ganging up on me with Harley, of all people, and I’m about to beat the shit out of him. This is obviously not going to work.

  As the waitress passes, I call her over with a wave of my hand. "Excuse me, could I bother you for a glass of water?"

  "Sure thing, doll."

  Everett and Harley don’t even notice the waitress at our table because they’re so caught up in their conversation, which has something to do with the meaning of colors and the difference between the way men and women see them. I would do just about anything to drown my thoughts out with booze right now, but one of us has to actual
ly work here. The waitress is quick to return with the water, and I hand it over to Harley. "Drink this."

  "What?" she asks, laughing as if I just told a joke. "Is that—it's not vodka, so did you just order me a water?"

  "Yeah, Harley, it's a water. I think you need it," I tell her.

  "You know what I need?" she asks, pushing the glass of water back toward me. "I neeeedd to use the resssroom before the line gets any longer."

  I keep my eye on Harley the whole time she's standing in line outside of the women's room, watching the big strong wall hold her up. It appears that she's one of those girls who drink too much while sitting down and doesn't know she's plastered until standing up.

  During the time she's waiting for the bathroom, another crowd pours in, making it clear the dinner portion of the evening is over, and the drunken loons are here to steal the spotlight.

  Once the bar fills up, it never takes long before the tables are cleared and people begin dancing, sucking face, and downing shots. The level of sobriety goes from ten to zero as quickly as it takes a light switch to be flipped.

  By the time Harley is able to claim a spot in the bathroom, the crowd has spilled into the section we’re in, filling up every free inch. After a couple of minutes, I stand from the table, worried I won’t see her when she comes back out. Except, standing doesn’t help because I can’t see a damn thing over by the bathroom doors now anyway.

  "What are you doing?" Everett asks while pouring himself another glass.

  "Waiting for Harley to get out of the bathroom," I tell him.

  "Dude, she left the bathroom like three minutes ago. She went over to the bar. Way to go, Inspector Gadget."

  "Shit. Why didn’t you say something?" I ask him.

  He just laughs, reminding me of how useless he is right now. "Because you’re the boss," he says, in a cartoon voice while shaking his head at me.

  Casually, I make my way over to the bar, spotting Harley quicker than I thought I would. She’s chatting with some guy, and just as I move into hearing range, she shouts, "Thank you!" over the music to the hipster with leggings and thick, black-rimmed glasses.