There is little to choose from, but the Chef's Special—rib-eye with all sorts of fixings and complementing side dishes—look like a last meal if I were to have one. Though I've decided on what to order, I keep my menu in front of my face, avoiding the tense silence and cold stares.
It seems like only a couple of minutes pass by before the woman in black returns to the table. She has her hands folded behind her back, and her gaze fixes on me first, summoning my order with just a slightly raised brow.
"I'll have the Chef’s Special, please."
The men give their orders, straightforward and quick, allowing the waitress to leave as precipitously as she arrived. Without our menus—my only source of hiding—I’m forced to lift my gaze, noticing that the last of the patrons who were eating here have gotten up and are leaving. Unfortunately, I believe, we now have one-hundred percent privacy at our back table.
"I assume if your intention was to kill me, I'd already be dead by now too, so what did you want with me?"
Axel folds his hands neatly on top of the table before offering a response. "First, we ask that you do not mention a word of our business outside of our workspace. Second, the position changes daily, so it’s hard to specifically explain what we want from you." The grizzly doorman has his head cocked to one side, staring at me with a blank expression. What the hell is with these two? "There is no real answer to your question, so if it is a deal breaker, you have no commitments to us. We are all here because we are doing something we believe in," Axel says, accenting his final words to offer a definitive end to his non-explanatory explanation.
He may be done answering me, but I'm not through asking questions. "Forcing someone to kill herself?" I question. "I told you I wasn't up for anything illegal. Never mind inhumane. So, what’s your explanation—are the paramedics on their way to handle the dead body that’s sprawled out in your office, or will she just rot there?"
The doorman throws me a witty look as Axel glances around the restaurant before settling his baleful gaze back on me. He unfolds his hands and straightens his suit jacket. "Keep your voice down," he demands. "Again, I’ll remind you ... you didn't force anyone to do anything; you merely highlighted the reasons that low-life murderer needed to move forward with a decision she had been struggling with after selling her child and killing her husband."
A murderer? "She was a murderer? You locked me in a room with a goddamn murderer?" They could have mentioned that to me before I felt the guilt burning in my stomach as I didn’t help her overcome the demons she was fighting. Still, she obviously needed help—murderer or not. "I didn't highlight anything," I argue.
"You're right," Axel says. "So, tell me. How did you persuade her to make that decision?"
Needing a pause in the building pressure, I wrap my fingers around the ice-cold glass of water, feeling the condensation drip down my palm as I press the thick rim to my lips. I take small and slow sips, feeling the seconds tick by as the sensation of glaring looks tries to break through my thoughts. Axel clears his throat and tilts his head to the side, doing his best to make me more uncomfortable, I assume.
It's hard to consider I did anything different from anyone else in my situation would have done. I rest my glass of water back down on top of a cocktail napkin, keeping my gaze set on my blurry reflection against the water as I gather the necessary words to summarize my actions. "When I walked into the room, I noticed how badly she was sweating, as well as her knees bouncing up and down. Then, when one of her hands scratched the other, I noticed the track marks covering her arms. Considering her apparent anxiety of going through detox, I assumed what her weakness was." My words come out on their own, as if pre-rehearsed from the case studies I took part in throughout my education. I clutch the glass of water back into my hand and replace it against my lips, needing more water as if it will offer a surge in confidence and bravery.
The grizzly doorman snatches the glass from my hand, causing a small splash to land on my lap. "Finish what you were saying," he says.
"Everett," Axel snaps. "Take it easy."
Everett—the bearded, grizzly doorman. He must be Axel's right-hand man.
"I was doing what was needed to stay alive," I hiss, repeating what I already said. "What else do you want me to say?"
Axel shifts his weight around in his seat, resting an elbow on top of the table as he scratches his coarse shadow of facial hair. "For some reason, I can't help thinking it was all a coincidence," he says.
"A coincidence?" I question. "A woman slicing her wrist with a blade you left in the middle of the table—I'm not sure I'd call that a coincidence, maybe more like a setup."
"Sure," Axel agrees with a grin so slight I may be imagining it.
A male waiter, also in full black attire, arrives at our table with two armloads of plates. He places each one down in front of the appropriate person, then takes the folded napkin from in front of me and whips it out to the side before draping it over my lap. Embarrassed for forgetting dinner table etiquette, I offer the waiter a quiet apology.
The scent of food makes my stomach gnarl in pain, and I do my best to prevent drool from seeping out of the corners of my mouth. I take a large bite of the mashed potatoes, followed by three more before my throat tightens around the food. I may choke, but this is going down one way or another.
"Take it easy," Axel hisses. "You don't want to get sick."
I wash the first few bites down with water and cut into the steak. While ravenously eating as fast as the food will go down, I forget I'm not sitting at the table alone until I need more water. Since their focus is on me rather than their food, I realize I’ve probably been a fun form of entertainment for the two of them.
Everett, and his arrogant simper, is making me uncomfortable—more uncomfortable than I already was. He doesn’t need to be looking at me the way he is. Freak. "Damn, girl. Where are you putting all of that? She eats like you, Ax," Everett says.
Axel shifts his focus to Everett and nods his head. "I'm not the one who forgets to wipe food off my face," he argues, but without any inflection in his voice.
I grab my napkin and drag it across my mouth before peering over at Everett for his reaction to Axel's low blow. Everett doesn't seem to care as he casually grabs his napkin and cleans up the splattered sauce from his chin. "Touché," Everett says against his napkin. "Well played, my friend."
The joke between the two of them eases my nerves a bit, but only because it shows a small glimpse of their human side.
"There's a case file you need to pick up downtown by eight tomorrow," Axel tells Everett. "There's also a body on Harvard Avenue you need to tend to, as well."
"No way," I tell them. "I’m willing to bet this job doesn’t even really come with room and board, does it?" I know this is coming to end because I’m making it come to an end, so I take the last bite of my steak.
"Yeah, we have a room for you," Axel says before leaning to the side and retrieving his phone from an inner pocket of his suit.
Just tonight. I need a place to sleep. Then, I’ll leave. "I’m not hurting anyone else or watching anyone hurt themselves."
"Twenty-eight is awake," Axel says, ignoring me.
"I figured he'd be out for another hour or so," Everett mumbles with a mouthful of food.
"That's not the problem," Axel says. "I'm going to go handle it. Philips is waiting on us for this one."
Axel stands from the table and neatly pushes his chair in. "What do you want me to do with her?" Everett asks, nodding toward me.
"She's coming with me," Axel says.
Everett seems confused by this, which should probably concern me. "She is?" he questions.
I have a not-so-subtle hunch that Axel doesn't like to be questioned by anyone.
"I need to see if the last test was a coincidence or if she is truly capable of handling the dirty shit that goes down. Twenty-eight is the perfect case to find out."
No. Not happening. No way. I’m lost between their back and forth banter, but I’m not doing this.
"I disagree," Everett argues with a distressed hitch in his voice.