"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.