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 actually 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.

"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."