"So, why are you still here?" I ask him.
He looks at me for a long moment, as if he's trying to figure out the answer, but instead of answering, he continues eating from the plate he’s already ravaged. "Will you need anything today?" he asks.
Between large bites, I answer with a mouthful. "Lunch," I tell him.
Everett leans to the side and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, rummaging through it for a minute before tossing a black credit card at me. "That should cover it."
"Seriously?" I ask, my mouth still full, and my eyes wide with shock.
"I trust you'll only be buying lunch with it and not a new Mercedes or something stupid. If you did, I'd be forced to stop my ever-so-busy schedule to find you and teach you how to dispose of a vehicle, which would be sad if it was a nice car." He's smiling, yet his words are a little frightening.
"Lunch is all I need," I tell him. "Maybe cab fare too."
"There’s this thing called Uber now, you know?" He pulls out a fifty and tosses that to me, as well. "In any case, are you going anywhere fun?"
"Thanks for the tip. I heard the Uber drivers are nuts, though, so I just stick with the crazy cab drivers in this city. Besides that, who knows where the day will bring me."
"Hey hey, easy on the Uber drivers—just saying. Anyway … look, can I trust you or what? You don't seem like the type I'd have to hover over," he asks in a leveling manner.
I think about his question for a long minute, mentally scrolling through some of my memories. I don't think I've ever been untrustworthy—possibly unethical, but those are two completely different things in my head. "I have nothing to gain by breaking whatever kind of trust this is. I'm hungry and you people are offering food and a place to sleep."
"Well, we also give you hot guys to look at too. Plus, the endless credit cards and a ton of questionable excitement!"
"Right," I agree with an annoyed nod. I'm a little disappointed in myself, not being able to take on another plate, but my stomach feels like it may explode if I eat any more.
"You gonna eat that?" he asks, pointing the tip of his fork at another plate.
I stand up from the bed and glance at the mirror hanging over the writing desk. "Axel said I'd be taken care of, and I have no other clothes. Will something be brought to me or should I— "
"Use the card. Get comfortable clothes that allow you to be physically active … like tight yoga pants," he says, but keeps his focus on the food.
As hard as it is, I ignore his attempt at flirting, or annoying me, and lean against the wall for another few minutes while watching Everett polish off the remaining crumbs. He grabs a napkin, cleans his face, stands and walks past me as if I weren't curiously watching his every move. "Well, it's been real. I'll see you at six tonight. Don't do anything stupid. And ..." he looks back at me while opening the door. "Don't go running your mouth. It could literally get you killed."
"Okay," I respond with only a short breath.
"Later, dude," he says. How nice.
I look down at the money and credit card in my hand, debating what to do with my free day. It's not like I haven't had plenty of free days in the past year, but today feels different. Today, I need an agenda.
Today, I need to pay someone a visit.
I'd normally take the bus to this side of Boston, but the last few times I did that, I ran into some people I wanted to avoid. Since I have the funds now, a cab is a much better way to get here.
I step out of the car, asking the guy to return in an hour. Whether he will or not, I don't know, but if I can prevent standing outside of this prison for longer than I need to, I should.
I go through the security check and wait a good fifteen minutes before they allow me into the visiting area, where I sit in front of a thick plastic window covered with scratches, smudges, and bodily fluids I’d rather not think about.
"Harley, what are you doing here?" Mason asks, sitting down on the other side of the window.
"It's been almost three months," I tell him.
He studies my face, likely trying to piece together what I have to say before I have a chance to talk. "I was worried this might happen to you," he says. "Are you eating? Taking care of yourself?"
"I'm getting there," I tell him.
"You're not living on the street, are you?" I've never could understand how a person living in prison can still be overweight while being fed the crap I've heard they're forced to eat. Mason doesn't look like he's lost a pound of his extra baggage. He has stopped shaving, however, giving himself a helmet of thick, white hair. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than they were the last time I saw him, too. He shifts his weight around in his seat, appearing uncomfortable, but probably not as uncomfortable as I am right now. I shouldn't be in here. I'm basically looking the devil in the eye and admitting to my sins.
"I'm not on the street," I tell him, knowing how close I came to responding differently.
"You're not finding trouble either, I hope?"
I smirk a little and narrow one eye. "Define trouble."
"Harley, you know what trouble causes. You're looking at it," he says through a loud exhale.
"Yes, but it was an accident," I remind him. "You’re innocent."
"It doesn't matter. This is where I need to be."
I nod my head, only semi-agreeing as I peer down at my fidgeting knees. "Harley, did you get a new job?"
"Yeah," I say, sounding short, even though I wanted to make it sound casual.
"What are you doing?" he presses.
"What I love," I say, looking up at him without an expression to define the truth behind my statement. He doesn’t need further explanation, though.
He closes his eyes and squeezes his fingers around his temples. "You can’t trust anyone, Harley. You have to remember that."
"Trust me, I don’t trust anyone," I assure him. "I'm not doing anything wrong—I’m doing things for the good." Am I?
"Time's up!" an officer shouts.
"Harley, don't forget what I told you," Mason says with anger laced through each of his words.
"I know," I tell him.
12
Axel
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.