"I'm not giving you anything. Call the police. Go ahead." That may have been a bit pushy, but she won't call them. I'm almost positive at this point.
She walks over to the phone and places her hand down on the receiver. "You work for the fucking cops, don't you?" she asks again. I’m sure she knows I don’t work for the police department. She’s just eliminating options from a list of possible professions I’m in.
"No," I tell her. "Feel free to check me over for a badge."
"If that's your way of trying to get me in your pants, try again," she says. Her words throb through my cock, and I fight against the reaction I don’t want to give her.
"I don't need to try and get you into my pants," I tell her.
"Why are you so goddamn arrogant?"
"Why are you lying?" I argue.
"Why are you lying?" she repeats.
"Coercion," I admit.
"What do you want from me, Axel?" Music to my fucking ears.
"I need to find Isabelle Hammel." The stress running through me has my heart pounding, and I take a seat on the guest chair in the corner of the room, pulling my ankle up to my other knee as I scratch the back of my neck.
"What's so important about her? What do you need from her?" she questions.
I look at Harley for a long minute, deciphering what to say—what information to barter with. "We used to date. She was the one who got away."
Harley sits down at the edge of her bed, her hand still pressed against the phone receiver. "You used to date Isabelle Hammel?" she repeats, questioning me.
"Yes, losing her has made me ... a bit crazy ... and that's why I've accidentally called you by her name a few times."
"So, I look like your ex-girlfriend, and that’s why I’m here?"
"Exactly," I tell her.
"What was so great about her that you can't seem to let go of? How long ago did you two break up?" Either she's playing along with this as well as I am, or I've been dead wrong this whole time. Why can’t I figure this girl out? I’ve never had such a fucking hard time peeling layers away from any woman.
I run my fingers through my hair, releasing a long exhale while I rest into the back of the chair. "She was beautiful, smart, witty—everything a man could want in a woman. She had passion for her interests, and it showed on her face. Her confidence was more than I had ever seen a woman have. It was like she wasn't afraid of anything, and yet, it made people afraid to have a conversation with her. She was kind and devoted—the type of person who can hold a conversation and show understanding and care as she listened. All her qualities drew me to her, and I had a hard time looking away. Not only was she the most gorgeous woman I had ever laid eyes on, but her personality added to her beauty in so many ways. She was like a drug, Harley—an obsession, and I realized over time I would never be good enough for her, so I let her go, and I don't know where she is now. She never came back for me, but then again, why would she?"
Harley eyes are dovelike, her lips are slightly parted, and she’s speechless. "Wow, where did you meet her?"
Okay, that wasn’t the verbal response I was expecting. "School. We were in class together for a semester, and that’s when things started up."
"What class?" Harley continues.
"Cognitive Neuropsychology," I tell her.
"Well, it seems you were obviously as intelligent as she was if you were in a class like that," Harley says.
"Whatever," I tell her. "I just need to find her."
"Well, good luck with that," she says, lifting the phone to her ear.
"You're calling the police because I'm trying to find an ex-girlfriend?" I question.
"I'm calling the police because you’re a fucking psychopath," she says.
"And when they look up your name and find there is no record of you, then what?" I question her.
"That won't happen," she says, sure as day.
I lean forward and place my elbows into my thighs, folding my hands under my chin. "So, here’s the thing, Harley—there is one Harley Salem living on the East coast. There are only three total in the entire country. One of them is a fifty-four-year-old man—that's the one living on the East coast. As for the other two, one is a ten-year-old girl, and the other died last year. Which one of the three are you?"
Harley places the receiver of the phone back down carefully, softly, slowly, and obviously bewildered. "I'm the one who is unlisted for reasons you don't need to know about."
"Nothing is unlisted in my records," I tell her.
"Right," she says. "I forgot. Axel Pierce was arrested for homicide three years ago, placed in a psychiatric hospital for one year, followed by another year in an anger management rehab center, then your records disappeared."
"Are you playing with Google again?" I ask her. That shit isn’t on Google. How the hell did she find all that out?
She huffs a sarcastic laugh. "No, I have my ways too."
My mind spins with questions as to how she would locate any of that unclassified information, and like an atom bomb exploding within my head, I realize I handed her the spare phone that wasn't cleared of the governmental apps I had access to. I unlocked my phone with my fingerprint, which unlocked the apps. She must have done it while she was searching for that music on YouTube.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"Your records might have disappeared, but you're not dead, so what gives?" she asks.
Running down the list of tactics to use on her, I'm down to pure distraction—a method that may just be the end of me and my ability to maintain this disposition I'm wearing like a mask without any strings attached. There's only one weakness I have found in Harley, and it's the only one I can exploit, even if it's my only weakness, as well.
I stand up from the chair and slowly make my way over to where she's sitting. As I approach her, she doesn’t move—calmly wearing her bravery and confidence without blinking.
The tension in my chest is overwhelming—the wrong fighting the right, and everything in between—knowing what I shouldn't be doing, versus the feeling of what I want to do because this isn't Harley. This is Isabelle, and that woman didn't have to say more than a hundred words to me in the three months’ period of time I knew her, yet I wanted to be a part of her life more than I wanted to get out of my imprisonment. I was invisible. I was nothing. Now I'm standing right in front of her, and she can't avoid me any longer.
I lunge forward, pressing my knee between her legs and clasp my hands around her cheeks, urgently pressing my lips into hers as I push her backward onto the bed. She gasps but doesn't fight against me. I kiss her hard, nipping at her bottom lip from a loss of control running through me. Her mouth parts, complying with my force as I sink my tongue into her mouth. My cock hardens against her, and I entwine my arms tightly around her thin body as she wraps her legs around my torso.
We’re both clothed and kissing as if we were fighting for air rather than a truth, and I give up all restraint as I tear her shirt off, careful to avoid the wound on her eyebrow. I toss my jacket onto the chair behind us and unbutton my shirt faster than I've managed or have wanted to before. Part of me is afraid she may begin to fight against me, though the moment I'm shirtless, her gaze skates down the length of body, and I watch her chest respond with the rise and fall of heavy breaths.