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?"

I swallow my fear while trying to convince myself he’s being sarcastic. I’m not left with any other option other than to walk past him, down a metal-grated stairwell that leads into a warehouse-looking space. I’m surrounded by vast, empty space, and it feels like my breath is are bouncing off of the nearby walls. Awesome.

We continue on into another area; this part has finished floors, but the walls are battleship gray, and there’s a lonely set of dark, modern furniture and a desk settled in the corner. I think this look is the result of alpha-male interior decorating. "Have a seat," Axel tells me.

I point to the couch. "Over there?" I know I shouldn’t be giving either of them an attitude, but I don’t have much hope of leaving here alive tonight, so I refuse to give them the impression that I’m scared of whatever it is they have planned.

"Do you see another place to sit?" he asks.

"The ground looks just as inviting," I respond. "So, I figured I’d ask."

"Please, have a seat on the couch over there," he says, agitated.

With slow strides, I make my way over toward the couch but take a seat on the cold floor instead. I’m not a huge fan of commands, and if this is a job application, he should know I’m not looking to be used like a puppet.

"Give me a break. What are you doing?" Axel asks, running his hand down the side of his face. "Are you always a smartass?"

I shrug. "Are you always such an ass?"

"Fine, sit on the floor. I don’t give a shit."

Axel removes his suit jacket and hangs it up on a lone coat rack behind the empty desk. He rests complacently on the corner of the wooden framed workspace and carefully folds his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing sleeves of tattoos on both arms. The artwork looks similar to the bearded doorman's display.

"Before we make things official, we're going to be testing your skills, and depending on the results of the test, we will discuss what's next."

"What kind of test?" I ask. "I'm not up for anything illegal." I almost laugh while saying that. We’re underground, beneath a hotel. There is nothing legal about what’s going on here.

"Desperation doesn't come with questions," Axel counters. "Also, definitions of legal practices are variable, so it’s hard to agree to your requirement." I’m not surprised by his statement. I’m also not feeling concern like I should be.

"Well, you must be desperate too," I tell him. "An interviewer typically asks for the interviewee’s name. Oh, and maybe considers a non-disclosure agreement to protect whatever undefined practices we’ll be discussing."

"We need to weed out the wrong people for this job, in hopes of finding the right person. Desperation has a different meaning to everyone," he says with a straight face. "Plus, your name has no relevance to this position." He stands from the corner of the desk and slips his hands into his pockets. "I don’t believe in non-disclosure agreements. We’ve never had an issue with anyone running their mouth, and I doubt we’ll have trouble with you."