"Red-Headed Slut," the hipster shouts in return, handing Harley a shot glass.
"Excuse me?" Harley snaps back, ready to throw the shot back into the guy's face. "I don't have red hair! What the hell?"
The guy laughs and points to the shot. "That's the name of the shot."
"Oh!" she giggles, taking the shot with one swig. "That's a good red-headed slut!"
That's about enough of that. I clamp my hand around her arm and pull her away from the booze-feeding turd. "You know you’ve got work to do tomorrow, right?" I mutter against her ear.
"Having fun?" she responds with. "Lighten up. Having fun isn’t all that bad."
I laugh out of irritation, and maybe to prove she isn’t getting on my nerves. "Do you always take shots from random men at a bar? How did you even survive college?" I ask.
She shrugs me off, clearly not giving a shit about what I think of her. "I'm alive, aren't I?"
I swing her around to face me. "Come on, Isabelle," I say. The name slips from my mouth, and I immediately try to cover it up, but it's clear by the look on her face, she heard it loud and clear. "Harley, look, I need you to be smart if you're going to work with us."
"Did you just call me Isabelle?" she asks.
"My mistake, you just look like a woman I once knew," I tell her. She's looking directly into my eyes as I try to cover up my mistake, and her burning stare makes my chest constrict.
"My name is Harley," she tells me. "I've managed to remember your name, and I'd appreciate the same respect from you."
"I said, I made a mistake," I tell her pointedly, lowering my head to bring my face closer to hers. "People make mistakes."
"I need another drink," she tells me as she takes a step away.
"Well, it looks like that guy is over you. He’s on to the next chick, so I guess you missed your opportunity there." I smile, feeling one eye squint from frustration.
It doesn't take long for me to realize we're smack in the middle of a pop-up dance party, being shoved in every direction as a shitty song blares through the bar's ceiling speakers.
"You know, you're really uptight," she tells me. "You look like you should be some kind of secret service agent. I mean, you even look like you’re uncomfortable in casual clothes. Plus, have you not noticed that every woman in this bar has been ogling you since you walked in? Maybe if you got laid or something, you'd loosen up a little."
I want to look around to call her bluff, but I don't pay attention to the shit she's talking about. I get what I need when I need it, and it isn't going to be from some skank at this bar. If she knew why I’m uptight, she may not be busting a move on the dance floor right now. "Oh yeah? Maybe I should," I respond to her analysis, possibly a few seconds later than I should have.
With frustration reeling from her eyes, she yanks my hands and throws them up into the air. I'm not interested in playing this game, so I drop my hands back down to my sides. Of course, as I should have known, she doesn’t give up. Harley’s hands reach for my shoulders and she tries to sway me around as if we were at a seventh-grade dance.
The warmth of her hands burns through the thin fabric of my shirt and I'm unwillingly losing a sense of control with her. "Here," she says, laughing as if she’s truly enjoying herself. Guilt is hovering over me like a dark cloud, knowing I’m most likely going to destroy her life. "Dancing won't kill you. I promise." The anger that had been rising through me fades as I focus on her smile, the freckles lining her nose, and those eyes that used to look at me with passion while she was explaining whatever the hell was going on in the class we shared. She has no clue who I am, but I'm more positive than ever that she is Isabelle.
There were so many times during the weeks of that class that I wanted to ask her out, but she was on a different level than me. She was out of my league. Plus, if she found out why I was in that class, she would have changed her seat, so I kept my mouth shut and responded with simple answers when she chose to make small talk or say a thought out loud. Her desire to learn was a turn-on for some reason, especially since I initially planned to ignore everything being taught. Isabelle was the one who made me want to learn more about psychology—the human mind and its intricate capabilities, but she didn’t know that class was just the beginning for me. I craved more knowledge after that course and continued to dive into the subject matter by taking similar classes in rehab. Though, at that time, I didn’t know the skills I was learning would eventually be the key to clearing my name from criminal charges.
If she is Isabelle, that’s the best reason to turn off any memories of her before I let them get the best of me. I have to stay focused on the end goal.
When I come back to my senses, realizing I'm still being pulled around by her, I shrug out of her grip. "Look, I don't dance ... especially with my employees."
Harley couldn't care less about anything I’m saying as she continues to dance around in circles as if she’s having the fucking time of her life.
"Dude, stop being such a dud," Everett says to me, pushing past me. "If the girl wants to dance, let her dance."
I'm about three seconds away from losing my damn shit. Everett takes the dance floor by storm and grabs Harley, pulling her to the center of the crowd as they dance like fools for the rest of the song—and the one after that. The rage growing within me isn't going to subside; and I need to get the hell out of this place.
As I make my way through the group of people, I watch Everett's hands slide down Harley's waist, locking around her hips as they move together in unison, grinding to the music.
I grab the back of Everett's shirt and yank him away from Harley and toward the front door.
"Dude, what the hell is your problem?" Everett shouts, straightening the seams of his shirt over his shoulders after I nearly ripped it off him..
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" I ask him.
"You need to lighten up for five minutes. We'll get this all sorted out. Don't worry that pretty little face of yours," Everett says, pinching his fingers around my chin.
"What's the problem?" Harley asks, breathlessly.
I point a finger at her and grit my teeth. "You need to sober up."
She takes a long look at me, dragging her glare from my head down to my toes. "Yeah, and you need to relax," she says.
I take her by the elbow and drag her toward the door, cornering her at the entrance. "If I'm hiring you to work with us, you must act responsible at all times. Do you understand?"
"I don't remember signing a contract agreeing to be responsible twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week," she argues.
She didn't sign any kind of contract because she isn't my goddamn employee.
"Then leave," I tell her, knowing she has nowhere to go.
"Fine," she rebuts. She's bluffing. "I'll go find a nice park bench."
"Harley," I bark, shaking my head in disbelief.
"What's the problem, Axel?"
"Nothing," I tell her. "Go ahead and keep dancing with Everett. I don't give a shit." I really shouldn't give a shit, but I was hoping my alcohol-induced coercion would extract answers from her tonight—answers I'm getting gun-shy about.
Instead of running back off toward Everett, she takes another second to stare me down. "Yeah, except you do care, and I'm not sure why." She folds her arms over her chest and looks around the bar. "Don't go thinking I'm not aware of what kind of bum I am. I know I'm not worth fighting over, so obviously, there's something else you want from me, and you're welcome to let me in on your secret agenda whenever you're ready."
13
Harley
The lights in the bar are blinking, so it must be closing time. I spin around, looking for Axel or Everett. Everett went to the restroom about five minutes ago, and I know Axel is still acting pissy somewhere around here, but everyone is making a beeline for the exit. "Ready?" Axel's voice echoes in my ear. "You look a little lost, but I suppose I would feel that way too after drinking my weight in alcohol."
"Very fun
ny," I tell him, feeling a crackle in my voice. Axel's hand grasps my upper arm and he tugs me toward the exit again. He hasn't been shy about wanting to leave for the past hour, but why drag us here in the first place if he's just going to be a sour ass and make everyone leave the second we start having fun? I don’t get it.
I'm still looking around for Everett, but the place is almost cleared out and I still don't see him anywhere. "Where's Everett?"
"Don't worry about it," Axel snaps.
"Well, is he okay?"
"Yeah, Harley, he's fine," he says. As we continue walking out to the front curb, I notice a black SUV, parked, with hazard lights blinking. "Get in."
"How about a please or something like that?" I scoff. "I'm getting tired of his shitty attitude. I didn't agree to be your puppet for free room and board yesterday."
"Please, Harley, would you slide across the leather seat?"
Now that he's asked nicely, I hop in, finding Everett already in the vehicle. His head is resting on the back of the seat and his eyes are closed. "Are you okay?" I ask Everett with a chuckle as I poke his dimple.
He grins and laughs through a snort. "Yeah," he mutters his response but keeps his eyes closed. He's done, but cheerful, unlike Axel, who slides in on the other side of me, completely disgruntled and displeased with our behavior. How fun is he?
"You know, the hotel is only three blocks away," I tell Axel.
"Do you want to carry Everett home?" he asks.
"No," I say, trying to hide the humor I’m finding in the situation. I didn't think Everett was as drunk as he clearly is. I mean, it’s not like I'm sober, but I could have made it the three blocks, I think.
We head in the opposite direction of the hotel, navigating through the downtown streets of Boston and into a residential area, which I assume is where Everett lives.
"Wait here," Axel tells me before hopping out of the SUV.
He jogs around to the other side and drags Everett out. Maybe he was right. Everett is hardly coherent as Axel pulls him in through his apartment doors.
Well, this is awkward. The driver rests his hands on the steering wheel, causing the cuffs of his pressed, white shirt to rise above his wrists. It looks like he has the same tattoos as Everett and Axel, but what would I know, being half in the bag and all. Still, it makes me a little uncomfortable that these three are apparently in some kind of gang.
It feels like twenty minutes passes by before Axel returns and slides back into the SUV. Once situated, he rests his arm on the door and stares out into the street with a contemplative glare in his eyes.
"Go ahead and take us back," Axel says to the driver.
"No problem," the man replies.
"Is there going to be an issue having you on board?" Axel asks without breaking his stare from out the window.
"Me?" I snap.
Axel and the driver seem to exchange a look through the rearview mirror, and their silent conversation pisses me off. "Well, I'm not talking about Chuck," he snorts. "Chuck, here is trained with every weapon, close combat, and evasive-driving technique. When things go south, Chuck points things back north, usually before any of us get to help. When our lives are at stake, Chuck has one-hundred-and-ten percent of my trust. To answer your question, yes, Harley, I was talking to you."
"What do you mean then?" I ask snidely. "What issues could I cause?"
Axel sighs and shifts his weight around. "Look, I can't have you and Everett acting the way you did tonight, and then carrying on with business as usual the next day," he says simply.
I twist in my seat, facing his profile. "I'm sorry. I wasn't aware I had to conduct myself in a certain manner while in a bar. Maybe next time you take me out to a public setting, you should outline the ground rules first."
"It's easy," he says before a long pause. "Don't fuck Everett. I need him to be thinking properly at all times. We all need to be thinking straight, even if we let loose a little." He shouldn't be saying this. He shouldn't care who the hell I choose to fuck, and by the discontented look on his face, I assume he's thinking the same thing.
"We were just dancing," I say, hoping to resolve his assumption.
He chuckles demeaningly. "You may have only been dancing, but I think we both know if you didn't have clothes on, you might be pregnant after what I watched tonight."
If I weren't buzzed from the amount of alcohol I consumed, his words would be a cause for either rage or embarrassment—neither of which I feel right now. Instead, I spit something ridiculous out. "Jealous?" He totally is. I'm not sure what there is to be jealous of, considering I look like some sick woman after starving for far too long, but maybe it's my charming personality he's enamored by. This is dumb.
He glances over at me with a squint to his eye. "Just stop talking," he says, obviously irritated by my mere presence.
The SUV pulls up to the hotel and I sort of expect Axel to dump me here and head home, wherever home might be for him, but instead, he follows me inside.
I feel him on my heels as I head to the elevator, and I have the sudden urge to swing my head around and whip him with my hair so he knows not to stand so close, but being the masochist he clearly is, he probably wouldn’t learn his lesson. I huff my hair out of my face as I wait for the elevator doors to open. "You can go now," I tell him.
No response, of course, but when the elevator doors open and I walk in, he follows. "Okay," he finally says.
"Axel, what are you doing?"
"Making sure you get to your room?" he says, matter-of-factly.
"I'm pretty sure I can find my way."
"Yeah, just like Everett," he mutters.
I place my hands on the rail along the center of the elevator's walls and glare at Axel for a long minute. Staring this man down would never work; he'd be inside of my head faster than I'd like to admit. "Why are you so wound up? Have you considered the possibility of enjoying your life during the time you aren't torturing p—"
Axel removes the small space between us quicker than I’m able to understand what’s happening. His hand cups around my mouth as he presses me into the corner of the elevator. Despite the position I’m in, the strong scent of soap mixed with a musky cologne is probably the nicest thing I've smelled in months. Axel's face is inches from mine and our eyes are caught in a burning stare—one that reveals a weakness pooling in the green of his eyes. He slides his hand down the side of my face and his words gently blow into my ear in the form of a whisper: "There are video cameras all over this hotel. Do not talk about our business in public. Ever. Do you understand?" Taken aback by his rapidly changing mood, I find myself still and hardly nodding in an agreeable gesture.
It takes a minute to regain my composure, especially since he hasn't moved an inch. "There are cameras, and yet, they just watched a man nearly assault a woman before sweetening the act with a gentle touch. Smart," I quip in the same volume he spoke to me.
"Some people are into that shit," he mutters.
The doors open while he still has me cornered and his hand wrenches around my wrist, pulling me out and down the hall faster than my legs want to cooperate. We get to my room and he pulls out a key, then shoves the door open. "You are jealous, aren't you?" I ask with a faulty sense of confidence.
"I have no reason to be jealous. If I want something, I take it," he affirms. I'm calling his bluff, though.
"You would think that way, wouldn't you?" I ask him while leaning up against the door to keep him from coming inside.
A cynical grin unfurls across his lips as his hand grazes up and down the side of his lightly stubbled cheek. "I have yet to be given a reason not to think that way."
"We'll see," I tell him.
He inhales sharply through his nose as if a storm is brewing inside of him. We're in a stare-off with nothing to say, yet he isn't moving from the doorway of my room, and neither have I. It’s become very clear that there’s something important going on here that I’m not understanding, and I've obviously gotten wrapped up in this sit
uation too quickly.
"Is there something else?" I ask him.
He appears to pause in thought, staring through me briefly before refocusing on my eyes. "Yeah—a uh—a new case came in. The subject is being transported to our custody tonight. I will meet you here at seven tomorrow morning," he says as he turns to walk out the door. "I wouldn't suggest being hungover."
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Oh, and thanks for a lovely night, Axel."
He turns back and slaps his hand against the door, a couple feet above my head. "I know you think you have me all figured out," he says in nothing more than a hoarse rasp. Then, his free hand reaches for a strand of my hair and he twists it around his finger, lightly tugging on it before releasing his grip. "You're not even close." His knuckles sweep against my cheek, holding me prisoner to the sensation of his touch until reality sets back in, reminding me of how I ended up here.
I jerk my head back, moving away from his reach. "Well, if that’s the case, then I suggest you follow your own advice and don’t mistake me for whatever type of woman you’re used to manipulating."
"Of course," he says, unaffectedly. "However, you should be aware that my thoughts are derived mostly from facts, and very few assumptions."
His words drive through me like a serrated knife, and I move inside my room, hoping he releases the door and leaves, which he thankfully does.
With the door closed, my eyes glaze over while I stare through the peephole, watching Axel walk away as my mind slips to a memory I have done my best to forget. What the hell does he know about me? There aren’t breadcrumbs for him to follow. He’s just tactfully using fear as a weapon, and it isn’t going to work on me.
He called me Isabelle tonight, and I can’t just let that go.
After those drinks, I’m glad I’m not able to think as clearly as I normally do because I would be staring through this peephole in front of me until morning, replaying every little incident that occurred tonight—speculating the truth of what Axel assumes.
Darkest Perception_A Dark and Mind-Blowing Steamy Romance Page 8
