Darkest Perception_A Dark and Mind-Blowing Steamy Romance

by Shari J. Ryan

  I hear a snide chuckle come from within the darkness. "Interesting. Something tells me a pretty girl like you, who has a degree wouldn't be knocking on unknown doors looking for a shady, unlisted job."

  "I told you I was desperate," I plead, while trying not to shiver against the harsh wind blowing up the back side of my sweatshirt.

  A moment of silence becomes irritating, and I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable standing here as the sunlight inches away, stranding me in a dark alley alone with whoever this guy is. Bad idea. While I’m standing here waiting for this ass to give me some information, I’m drawing a conclusion that this probably has something to do with sex trafficking or drug deals.

  "You're in," he says sharply, surprising the hell out of me, and not so much in a good way.

  "Excuse me?" I ask. Maybe I didn’t hear him correctly, and if I did, I’ve decided it’s best that I run like hell.

  "Meet at Hotel Long Wharf in an hour. Axel will find you." A hotel? Desperation comes with a price to pay, and I’m not sure I’m there yet.

  "Thanks anyway," I say, fleeing the conversation and running toward the nearest intersection.

  As I’m running, I hear the glass door slam. I look over my shoulder and feel relieved to see no one following me. What the hell was that? Months of looking for a job led me to nothing—and now this? I know well enough that an easy offer won’t come without consequence.

  2

  Axel

  Five Days Earlier

  I remember those crazy blue eyes and her small nose that seemed almost too perfect, even for her symmetrical face. She also had these imperfect clusters of freckles running alongside her cheeks and up between her eyes, which she tried to cover with makeup. That, and her hair looked like it was made from a combination of chocolate and caramel. She was so unique with her contrasting features, yet perfect at the same time. That version of Isabelle is incredibly different than the one I believe I’m standing behind.

  I caught a glimpse of her while turning down one of the aisles in this small mart. The familiarity struck me like an electric shock, but I’ve been wrong before. I grabbed a pack of gum and stepped into the checkout line where she was waiting. She turned and looked over her shoulder, appearing nervous as if someone were after her. It gave me the chance to notice the marbled blues in her eyes and that overly perfect nose. Her freckles, though, they’re prominent—not covered by makeup at all, and her hair is jet black without the hints of auburn. The woman I remember never wore her hair up once in the three months I sat beside her in class. So, I’m having trouble understanding how she, if it is, in fact, her, looks so much like Isabelle Hammel, yet she could pass as a completely different woman.

  Isabelle was not only clean cut and perfect, but she also had more intelligence than anyone I had met before. I must be wrong again—people can look alike. Though, after searching for Isabelle for almost a year, I can't cross this chick off my list until I'm sure whether she is or isn't the woman I need to find.

  With impatience setting in, I continue to wait in the slow-moving line, holding onto the pack of gum I don’t need. The Isabelle-lookalike places a box of cereal onto the counter along with a can of generic iced-tea. Her hands are covered in oversized sleeves with holes for her thumbs torn through the cuffs, and her jeans are so faded, it’s a wonder there aren’t tears along the areas where the fabric pulls the tightest. "That'll be two dollars and sixty-five cents," the store clerk tells her after ringing up the two items.

  The woman digs into her pocket, reaching around before trying her other three pockets. She drops a dollar and a quarter into the man's hand, then leans forward, lowering her head in defeat. "I won't get the drink," she says. Her voice has a familiarity to it as well. Six months of looking for her, hoping to find her somewhere—anywhere—but I sure as hell wasn't planning to spot her in this random, rundown store of all places. However, I suppose there’s a reason people say you always find what you're looking for when you aren't looking.

  Watching her as intently as I am, I can’t help but recall living through similar days of scraping pennies to survive. Therefore, I’m obviously not thinking clearly when I raise my hand up to the store clerk, silently calling for his attention. As he glances over at me, I point to myself and mouth the words, "I'll take care of it." The woman doesn’t notice my gesture, which was my intent, when I didn’t announce make my offer out loud.

  The clerk presses his lips together and nods his head with understanding as he drops the woman’s change back onto the counter before completing the transaction. "You're all set, ma'am," the clerk says to the woman.

  "But I can't afford—" she argues.

  The store clerk glances over at me again, and I gave him a quick wink to urge him along. "It's all set," he repeats.

  The woman quickly looks over her shoulder, but not far enough back that she sees me. It’s mortifying being that person who needs help. At least, that’s how I felt. She scoops up her box of cereal and drink and brings it up to her chest, holding it there as if it were a life raft. "Thank you very much," she says while heading for the door.

  The woman jets outside, racing away faster than I’d expect, again as if she were on the run or hiding. She left the store silent except for a jingle from the bells clattering against the glass door.

  "That was very nice of you," the clerk says as he rings up my pack of gum. I hand him a twenty and follow the woman out the door, heading to the right where I saw her go. I slow my speed as I spot the woman huddled in a brick crevice between two storefronts, watching as she tears open the cereal box. An unfamiliar sensation in my heart gnaws at me for a moment. Then, my moment of weakness opens my mind to torturous memories of a past I'm still trying to erase from the hidden cracks of my mind. In any case, until I find Isabelle, those memories will continue to haunt me. I won’t have any sort of closure to my past until I complete this task.

  I watch the woman for just a couple of minutes before she begins walking again. I’m careful to keep my distance as I follow in her footsteps at least six blocks down Commonwealth Avenue. With a quick glance in both directions, she bolts up a set of cement stairs to the entrance of an apartment building, then reaches into her sweatshirt pocket and retrieves a key just as the main doors swing open.

  I duck into a small nook a few feet away, waiting for her to disappear inside so I can check out the names on the mailboxes. If this is where Isabelle Hammel lives, it will be my best bet at finding out for sure.

  Before the woman can step inside, a man takes up the doorway and steps out in front of her and moves in real close. "Harley," he shouts at her. She looks up at him as if she were a beaten dog and takes a few steps backward, almost falling down the steps she had just climbed. "Your rent is due, and it was due three weeks ago, and four weeks before that too. I can't let this keep going on, kid. When are you going to have the money?"

  "Soon," she mutters. "I promise."

  Harley. Not Isabelle.

  "I don't believe you," the man says. He must be the landlord. The woman—Harley—stares at the guy for a long minute, appearing to plead with only a pathetic look. During the quiet exchange, my discomfort grows and I feel like I should be doing something to help her, but I realize now that I don’t actually know her. Maybe that shouldn’t matter. The man finally looks like he’s about to break his silence when he leans toward her. In a hoarse whisper I can hardly hear, he says: "I can't keep lying for ya. You're gonna pull me down into the trouble you're in, and I can't have that. I got bills to pay too, so I'm gonna need you to handle this situation, you hear?"

  "You don’t know anything about my life," she responds with a hiss. "Nor am I in any kind of trouble aside from being jobless." Harley shakes her head and ducks out of his sight, running through the door that another tenant has reopened at just the right moment.

  The conversation between the landlord and Harley restores an ounce of hope that she could still be Isabelle Hammel. Still, I like to be certain before acting on a hunch, s
o following her around for the next few days will have to offer me enough insight on whether I need to approach her.

  3

  Harley

  Current Day

  A bad instinct dragged my ass to Hotel Long Wharf where that freak told me to go. I’m at such a low point in my life that I have little care for my well-being in comparison to the necessities I need. Even though I didn’t agree to meet this Axel person at the hotel, I’m going to scope out the situation and see what he looks like. Plus, after freezing to death for the last hour, the idea of being inside a hotel carelessly carries me through the revolving glass doors where I find an empty bar and an inviting place to sit for a while.

  This hotel is nice, upscale, and looks like it was built with hands made of gold, which means I stick out like a puddle of mud on a shiny clean floor.

  "Can I help you, Miss?" a man, decked out in a bellhop uniform, asks me. "Are you lost, maybe?"

  "I'm just waiting for someone," I tell him and look away to avoid any further communication.

  With an overwhelming sensation of displacement and unease, I spin around, taking in more of my surroundings as I enter the bar area. Maybe I could just sleep in one of the corners of this place tonight. God, the thought of sleeping at a shelter terrifies me. Before this past year, I never imagined the possibility. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed to dodge that bullet for so long now that I have to try my best to find another solution.

  "There's a coffee shop next door, Miss. I might recommend you wait there." The bellhop sneaks up behind me while I’m deciding where to sit in the bar area. Was he following me? Do I look that bad? It’s bad enough to be viewed the way I am, even after living this way for so long, but to be followed and given the look this guy is giving me, I just give up without a fight.

  "Thanks, that’s actually what I was looking for," I lie. I turn on my heels and rush through the connecting doors into Starbucks. The problem here is, I don't have money to buy anything, which qualifies this visit as loitering—especially in this area of Boston. The shelter is becoming more of a reality every additional minute longer I try to deny the inevitable.

  I make it twenty minutes before one of the staff asks me to either make a purchase or leave. At least I lasted here longer than I expected I would. I stand up from the comfortable leather chair I was lounging in. When I grab my things, and turn toward the door, a man steps in front of me. He’s taller, and close enough that it’s obvious his proximity is purposeful. The line to order is on the other side of the shop and no one else is in this little corner except for me.

  "You must be the desperate degree." His voice is deep and guttural, but placid.

  I glance up, finding a solidly sculpted man in front of me. He's dressed in what appears to be an expensive midnight-blue suit—one that shimmers under the cool ambient lighting. In contrast, his white dress shirt nearly glows against his lightly tanned skin. I feel frozen as I continue observing every one of his features. His eyes are unmistakably green, but like early spring grass with a hint a yellow, and his dark hair is shaven short on the sides with a bit of length on top. If this man is Axel, he doesn’t look anything like I expected him to.

  "Are you Axel?" I ask him, pointedly while feeling the nerves zing through me as I twist my knotted bracelet around my wrist over and over as I wait for him to respond.

  "No, I'm John, and I enjoy looking for random, desperate women with degrees in the middle of Starbucks. Of course, I'm fucking Axel," he says with a slight twitch in his right eye.

  "Okay then, John, or whoever you are, what do you want with me? Wait, let me guess. I’m told to meet you at a hotel because you can’t convince a chick to go upstairs with you on her own free will? How much does this pay, anyway?"

  He cocks his head to the side as if he’s trying to figure me out. "First, I’m not searching for a good time, honey. Second, I don’t need to pay for a woman’s time. Third, I’m interviewing prospective employees for a business proposition."

  "What’s the position?"

  "Well, since we wouldn’t want to waste a degree on prostitution, I’m sure there’s a better title we can come up with."

  "Awesome," I chide.

  "Follow me over to the hotel," he says, taking a step away.

  "That hotel?" I point to the connecting door between Starbucks and the lobby. "I’m not going into that hotel with you. I don’t care what title you come up with. I’m not into that shit."

  "Fine. No interview," he says, straightening his jacket.

  "Just so you know, I’m almost positive men don’t interview prostitutes. So, you sound ridiculous."

  "Jesus. I’m not looking for sex. I’m interviewing for a business position."

  "Fine. Then we can have the interview either here or outside," I tell him.

  "On the street?" he questions.

  "Yes, unless you’d like to take a seat and interview me right here."

  "I didn’t ask for you to meet me at Hotel Long Wharf so we could sit in the loud coffee shop next door, nor did I intend to freeze outside," he says.

  "There’s like no one in here. It’s not loud at all." I shake my head, trying to figure this guy out. I can’t help feeling intrigued by what he has to say, but seriously … this place is probably quieter than anywhere in that hotel. "Plus, I can’t just walk through that hotel. I’m not dressed appropriately." I cross my arms over my chest. "Oh, and maybe if you’d like someone to follow you into a random hotel, you should give them your name or some kind of information on whatever it is you’re looking for. You’re not very good at this whole interviewing thing, are you?"

  "There is a restaurant to the side of the lobby called the Black Diamond. If I try to take you anywhere but there, feel free to scream and make a scene," he tells me, sounding annoyed by my lack of passiveness. "No one will say anything about your clothes while you’re with me."

  "Great," I tell him, still debating on what I should do. If I don’t follow him, I’m walking my butt right down to the shelter because there really are no other options tonight.

  "What’s it going to be?"

  While I can likely cross rape or prostitution off the list of ‘what-if’s,’ I still have no insight into what this job is for. He’s clearly done waiting for my answer as he takes a few steps away. I can either watch a smidge of hope walk away, or I can take another risk—one that will likely end as poorly as the last one did. This time, I have nothing to lose, though.

  "Fine," I mutter, following him outside, rather than through the interior entrance to the hotel. "Just so you know, I can scream real loud, so—"

  He stops short in front of me just before stepping beneath the golden overhang in front of the hotel’s revolving door. "Can you now?" he asks with a wink. "Lose the cereal box first."

  "No," I argue. "It's all I have left."

  "You'll be provided with anything you need. Lose the box." Anything I need? I know well enough that people don't get something for nothing.

  "How do I know you’re telling me the truth?" I argue.

  His patience for my questions has clearly expired as he tears the cereal box from my hands and tosses it into the trash bin behind us.

  "No!" I shout, running to the trash, ready to dig the box back out.

  Axel grabs me by the hood of my sweatshirt and yanks me away from the trash bin. "What the hell are you doing? It’s an empty box. Breathe."

  "I need that box," I tell him. "There are crumbs in there. I need them or I’ll be in trouble." I look the asshole square in the eyes, feeling the muscles in my face clench with disdain. What would he ever know about starving? He’s wearing clothes that probably cost more than six month’s worth of food.

  "I’ll get you food," he says, remaining calm, which makes me angrier. He cups his palm around my shoulder. "Look, come with me so I can interview you. Then I’ll buy you dinner after—courtesy of the business. Deal?"

  I look back at the trash bin again, still feeling the need to dive in after it, but Axel
nudges me forward, past the entrance of the hotel.

  I don’t know a thing about this man, but if there’s a remote chance at receiving a meal at the end of this fucking interview, then I’ll go wherever the hell he’s taking me.

  "Where are we going?" I ask, now that we’ve walked by the glass door on the other side of the revolving one.

  "Inside," he says. I shouldn’t be surprised when he approaches a red, metal emergency door at the corner of the building. He knocks a couple of times.

  "Just as I thought. You said we were going to the restaurant outside the lobby."

  Axel ignores me and knocks once more before a rough-around-the-edges-looking man opens the door. The guy is dressed in casual clothes, covered by tattooed sleeves, and accessorized with a rusty-orange-colored beard long enough to be braided. "Welcome," he says. His voice. This was the man who told me to meet Axel here.

  I’m thinking about how I can get the hell away from them, but Axel is directly behind me and this other guy is less than a foot in front of me. "I guess this is when you hack my body into four million pieces. I never thought I’d be that woman who’d run upstairs when the murderer was chasing me around the first floor, but here I am, walking right into your trap. No wonder you’re offering room and board. I’ll be dead before it’s necessary to live up to that promise." My babbling earns me a slight shove inside the door.

  "You think we’d manage to chop you up into four million pieces?" Axel asks. "We usually aim for about a dozen body pieces since we’re able to fit the contents into a heavy-duty trash bag better. The weight is more or less evenly distributed that way. On the contrary, if we have too many body pieces, the density causes the weight to settle at the bottom of the bag, making it harder to carry. You know?"