— Chapter 1 —

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No mail.

How is there no mail?

I dropped the lid of the old mailbox, listening to the clang of the cold metal as it shut closed. After dusting its chipping green paint off my hands, I shoved my hands into my pockets and nervously bit the side of my cheek.

How long has it been since I sent in an application? I thought bitterly to myself, gazing up at the starry night sky. Surely someone from somewhere would have gotten back to me by now?

I'd finally reached the point where I could afford to go to college, though much later than anybody else I'd known growing up in Boston. I was twenty-three, applying to what was probably every college in and out of the state. Everyone that I'd graduated with had probably finished with their degrees already... and here I was, five years after senior year, praying to God that I'd get some kind of luck to get accepted. At this point, I wasn't picky.

I'll go to the public library tomorrow, I planned, shoving my hands in the pockets of the old bomber jacket that hugged my shoulders. Nowadays, you could see your acceptances with an easy click of a button. But between having a busted phone and zero Wi-Fi connection at home, waiting for the news felt similar to watching paint dry.

Biting nervously on my lower lip, I assured, I'll check tomorrow.

I trudged up the beaten path to the porch of my old house. Everything about the place was old. The mailbox. The blistering front door. The dying plants in the garden. The fading, white paint, and the stained windows obstructed by dark curtains. Nothing about this place felt like home—and certainly not my own father.

Walking into the cold place, I didn't expect to see him standing in the kitchen. With the open floor plan, the only rooms that were kept hidden behind doors were the bedrooms and the shared bathroom. It didn't leave me many options of escape when he decided to take his anger out on me in his drunken hazes.

"Did you pick up any of my mail earlier?" I asked my father quietly. "There wasn't anything in there when I checked."

His voice was cold as he answered me. "Why would I do that?"

I must've forgotten who I was talking to.

My father was never the same after my mother's death. He hardly ever showed compassion. And while I knew that mourning was a different process for every individual person, this didn't feel like mourning anymore. It just felt like anger. Maybe with me. Perhaps with himself.

Mom's passing six years ago was something I tried not to think about. Because, while I continued to convince myself that I'd come to terms with it, the loss still felt like a tender scar over my chest. Time hadn't healed it at all, because I didn't only lose her that day. I lost my father, too... and he served as a constant reminder.

Ironically, he'd worked as a policeman—a tough job, though he dealt with the stresses and the back pain with alcohol and football on the old TV. But with the mortgage paid off and the fact that he was getting on in years, my father retired several months ago.

Now, he just... stayed home. And when he wasn't home, he was out, expressing the simple misery of his life through cheap alcohol and younger women. I figured all of it functioned as a method to fill the hole Mom left in his chest.

Every now and then, I'd look at him—observe, analyze... truly noticing the way his years showed in his demeanor. I hardly saw him in anything other than worn-out pants and fraying, beige sweaters. There was always some kind of drink in his hands, which I figured was why his cheeks always looked so flushed. He had obvious crow's feet by his eyes, and deep lines running across his forehead. That, and the clear five-o'clock shadow that seemed perpetual on his face.

He was rarely sober. Though, him sober was arguably worse. He was a loose cannon, which I had to learn the hard way. Hell, I even had the scars to prove it.

My gaze found the chilled beer in his hands, with the hairs at the back of my neck immediately standing on end at the sight of it. Don't piss him off, Elliot, I reminded myself. It's not worth it.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "My mistake."

"Yeah, you seem to make a lot of those."

Digging my nails into my palm, I decided to try my best at ignoring him. Instead, he continued, and the chilly tone as he spoke forced me to listen to him.

"A friend of mine is coming in an hour," he said. "If you're smart, you'll leave for the night."

"What?" I blurted in response. "But I just got back. W-Where am I supposed to go?"

He snapped, "I don't care. But if you keep talking to me like that, you'll be crawling there. You understand me?"

"But-"

Whatever I was going to say in protest was cut off by a sudden smash of glass by my head, making me flinch noticeably in shock.

He'd picked up the half-empty beer bottle and had thrown it in my direction—now, glass littered the floor, the pungent beer trickling down the wall. It was a damn miracle that I hadn't been hit. But the warning had certainly gotten through to me.

"For fuck's sake, you're insufferable," he spits, the venom in his hoarse words making my heart thunder in my chest. But maybe that was the adrenaline.

Without another word, I picked my black backpack up off the wooded flooring, swinging it around over my shoulder.

Bolting out the door, I didn't give him the chance to escalate the situation.

At this point, I needed to get into college. Because the longer that I stayed here, in Boston, with my drunken father and his anger issues... the less of a life I had.

The cold wind ruffled my hair as I ran further and further away from the house of horrors. Truthfully, I didn't know why I was running in the first place. It wasn't like he was going to chase after me, anyway. Maybe because it gave me a way to expel the adrenaline that had spiked at the situation he'd put me in only moments earlier.

I'm so tired.

My legs twinged with pain, reminding me that I was in no way capable of running long distances with so much energy. Eventually, I slowed my pace.

Somehow, I'd ended up by the park—a place only a few streets away from where I'd started.

It was usually a lively place in the daytime—but now, it was entirely deserted. Illuminated by tall lamp posts, the trees swayed in the gentle breeze. All I wanted was to pass out on the nearest flat surface. After not having slept a wink the previous night, I'd been awake for at least a day and a half.

I couldn't afford a motel, and even if I could, there wasn't one around for a few miles.

The park bench looked flat enough, though.

Sighing, I walked over to it, dropping my backpack on the ground. After wiping off the thin flakes of snow and resting myself down on the chilly wood, thoughts began to whirl around in my mind. About the incident from earlier, mostly. How could I have been so stupid? What was I expecting, trying to argue with him like that? I was damn lucky he didn't hit me for real.

James would hate the fact that I'm still living with him, I thought to myself. Immediately, however, I rub my cold cheeks and shake my head. No. You hate James. You hate him, remember? He's the one who ditched you, you sad idiot.

"Lighter."

I was so deep in thought that the sudden uprise of a voice made me jerk upwards in alarm.

Snapping my head to the origin of the sound, I almost jumped in fright again when I saw a man leaning on the back of the bench. Standing with his arms resting on the splintering wood and his eyes somewhere else from me entirely, he waited expectantly for my response.

I took my hand off my beating chest, but the rest of me refused to loosen up.

"Huh?" Was all that I managed to blurt out.

The man turned to look at me, gesturing to the cigarette between his fingers. "A lighter. You got one?"

Falling off the bench would've been a fair reaction after I finally recognized the guy standing confidently beside me.

In Boston, there were a few biker groups separated throughout different sections of the city. The 'Stray Dogs' happened to be the largest of all of them, but at the same time, the most exclusive. Their group usually frequented Joe's, the bar right on the edge of the city—a place only big enough to fit half of them all on the best days. It was also where I happened to work.

Out of their group, there were only a select few names I could remember. Noah Black was one of them. The Vice President, and truthfully, probably more known than the group's own leader.

According to the rumors that seemed to follow him, Noah was a walking hazard. Unapproachable to others. Untrusting of strangers. And quite frankly, incredibly reckless. He had more charges on him than anyone I'd ever met—while most of them were for illegal racing and traffic violations, he'd definitely had a few assault cases over the years. Needless to say, he wasn't much of a people person either.

But tonight, here he was, asking a random stranger on a park bench for a lighter.

"Uh..." I tried to reply, trailing off. "N-No."

Listening shyly to his extended inhale, and even longer exhale, I felt all the hairs on my arms stand on end. "Oh, for fucks sake," he cussed, running his fingers through his hair to push it out of his face.

He was... certainly the most attractive person I'd ever laid my eyes on. His warmly toned skin seemed to perfectly match the dark hair on his head. That, and his fashion sense—clad in almost all black, his clothes certainly made him appear more intimidating. He'd dressed in an old, leather jacket that reached just above his knees, combined with a tighter-fitting black shirt and black cargo pants. The most obvious thing to notice was the silver chain around his neck, though, as it sparkled under all the different lighting.

There was a thin band hanging off it too, engraved with words that were too small for me to make out. Perhaps it had some kind of importance.

Looking at him at that moment, I suddenly wished that I'd had a lighter. Not so that I could help him—but so that I could set myself on fire.

Rigid, I shamelessly stared with beady eyes his every move. Noah Black shoved his cigarette back into its labeled box, before pocketing the stuff into his jacket. Climbing over the back of the bench to take a seat, it was a few moments of blank silence before he passed me a raised brow and a troublesome smirk.

"What, I got shit on my face or something?"

Was I still staring?

Reddening with embarrassment, I jerked my head away and shoved my hot face into my cupped hand. I must look like such an idiot!

He smelled subtly of old cigarettes, though it wasn't noticeable with the no-doubt expensive cologne he was wearing. Vanilla, I determined, as his scent washed over me with the winter breeze. I tried not to notice it, but damn... he smelled good.

His intoxicating scent of cologne and old cigarette smoke washed relentlessly over me with the passing winter breeze. Noah smelled rough, but it suited his demeanor. I tried my best not to notice it, but... damn, he smelled good.

Any normal person would've bolted at the sight of him, I yell at myself, what the hell are you still here for?

"So, what's got you sitting out here?" He asked out of nowhere, as if reading my mind. "Surely you've got something better to do than sit on a park bench at midnight with a total stranger?"

The words just wouldn't come to my lips. Instead, I shook my head roughly, hoping that it would give him a decent 'no' in response.

What the hell is the matter with me?

"Hm," Noah said, resting a confused glance on me for what was might have been unintentionally too long. Eventually, he looked away.

Stretching out, he rested his arms behind his head in support. "Well, I'll tell you why I'm out here."

Chuckling to himself, he explained, "my girlfriend Angela is a pain in my ass. Won't let me smoke in her apartment—so she booted me out. I don't get it though... she can keep her cheap alcohol around the place all she wants, but I pull out one cigarette and suddenly I'm the devil. It's not like she has asthma, for Christ's sake."

...And what the hell is he telling me this for?

Angela... her name felt familiar—then I remembered. She went to the same high school as I did, and was a regular at Joe's. We'd sometimes share brief conversations, but other than that, we weren't really acquainted. I'd entirely forgotten that she and Noah were in a relationship.

It made sense, though. She was fun, extroverted, and somewhat attractive... of course the two of them would be with each other.

"You're lucky, though," Noah continued. "You're not caught up with some bossy chick telling you what you can and can't do."

Had he been drinking?

I could smell a bit on him, but he wasn't slurring his words... and he definitely didn't look similar to how my father did when he was drunk.

Noah definitely spent his fair share of time at Joe's, but the two of us never really had the chance to talk to each other. He was the kind of person who'd get drinks bought for him, so there was never much of a reason for him to talk to me on his own accord. Maybe once or twice, but that was it. We hadn't exchanged many words other than that.

This entire scene was so out of his personality. Or at least, the personality everyone around him had solidified. The Noah Black that I'd heard of was strong and stoic, confident, and dangerous. Not that he wasn't confident or dangerous now... but he was being weirdly friendly.

And it was only making me even more confused.

I'd mostly relaxed though, which was a good sign. As far as I could tell, he wasn't planning on taking out his frustrations on me... physically, at least. But my face was still beet red, and I was hiding my eyes behind the stray hairs that fanned my face.

"Say, don't I know you from somewhere? You look weirdly familiar..." he trailed off, his burning gaze analyzing every feature of me.

Eventually, he struck gold. "Ah! You're that guy who handles the bar where my bikers hang out. But I can't remember your name for the life of me."

"Elliot."

"Right, right—Elliot, huh?" He repeated it to me, getting a feel. "I'm pretty sure I see you at Joe's all the time... this must be your day off or something then, huh?"

I nodded.

My gaze lingered on his full lips as he spoke. "Nice. Well, the name's Noah Black—Edge—but you probably already knew that."

Edge?

Oh, right. It was the stupid nickname his bikers had given him. I had no idea what it meant.

I didn't move. How was I supposed to answer him? I was shy around strangers to begin with, and Noah wasn't an exception... in fact, he probably made it even worse. It was a miracle I'd even found the few words to respond with. Needless to say, I was definitely not a strong conversationalist.

Noah went silent again, staring solemnly into the night. Actually, he looked... peaceful?

Whatever uneasiness I was feeling before that moment had then dissolved. His calm exposure allowed me to relax back into a comfortable position... but the awkwardness still hadn't completely vanished.

"You don't talk much, y'know?" Noah pointed out to me. Letting some kind of thought cross his mind, he shrugged. "Actually... I don't mind that."

Eventually, he stood up off the park bench, his hands shoved comfortably in the pockets of his leather jacket.

Staring into the moon on the horizon, he announced, "That pain in the ass girlfriend of mine must be worried now, huh? I guess I got to go back then."

His manly scent lifted off me the further he drifted from the bench.

Hesitating a moment, I almost felt lonely watching him turn away. It had been so long since I'd had someone really talk to me without harmful intentions. But it being Noah Black, of all people? I could never have thought of that scenario as a possibility.

Beginning a simple walk, Noah gestured a weak wave and shrugged. I couldn't help my lips from parting in surprise as he did so.

"Maybe I'll see you around... Elliot."

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Woo, first chapter! :3