— Chapter 2 —

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My dreams were rarely pleasant.

It wasn't common for me to dream. When I did, it was usually triggered by something, as I'd come to notice. Usually, the triggers were feelings of stress that had accumulated over the day. Sometimes, though, they came from a change of scenery, like the park bench I'd woken up on that morning.

Nightmares may have been a better word. Mostly fragments of old memories, replaying in a jumbled and convoluted mess like a broken record. Memories I did my best to forget in the daylight.

Good dreams, though, were much rarer—and so much worse.

Blinking my eyes open, my eyes adjusted to the blaring sunlight that comforted my cheeks and blurred my vision. For a moment, I'd completely forgotten the events of last night.

But with the frown of a nosy jogger as they passed by me, everything rushed back, and I found myself snapping up on the bench.

Shaking out my hair, I took a squinted look at my surroundings. Kids were already playing about on the playground only a few yards away, with early-rising joggers doing their morning run on the path in front of me. The sun blared in the distance and melted the snow from the night prior, its position telling me it was sometime before midday.

How the hell did I sleep for so long? I cursed myself, immediately checking to make sure nobody had taken my stuff. I can't believe I slept here. Jesus. What was I thinking?

Thankfully, my fraying bag and all its contents remained untouched by my side. While I owned nothing of significant value, I didn't have the nerves nor the finances to go and replace things.

I'd even spotted some spare change stuck underneath the bag as well, no doubt left by some misinformed passerby with a habit of jumping to conclusions.

Do I really look homeless? I sighed to myself, choosing to leave the cash on the snow-covered ground. I didn't need anybody's pity, and especially not their help.

How embarrassing, I thought, getting to my feet.

As I started the walk of shame back home, my mind drifted to the strange encounter I'd had with the infamous biker a night earlier. I did my best to recall as much of the conversation as I could, shuddering with embarrassment at how I must've looked to him.

Scolding myself, I thought, when Noah Black asks for a lighter, you get off your ass and go find him a damn lighter. Do you have a death wish, you idiot?

Part of me wondered if that was really the case. The person I'd talked to last night wasn't cruel, neither cold. In fact, I could've almost called him friendly... even though our conversation was largely brief. It was just confusing. I didn't know what to take from our encounter in the slightest.

He wouldn't be annoyed with me, right?

Christ, look at me, I thought, worrying if I made an enemy out of someone I barely talked to. Shaking my head, I scoffed at myself.

I'm an idiot.

My father was nowhere to be found when I arrived home, which considerably soothed my nerves. I didn't think I could handle getting tormented twice in the same week. My shoulder still ached from the last fight I'd had with him.

I took it as an opportunity to shower and scrub off the filth I'd no doubt gathered in my hair the night before. I smelled terrible, like a foul mixture of rainwater and smoke. I figured I owed the latter to Noah, who seemed to radiate the scent in waves. At least it worked for him.

Him and that fancy cologne he wears, I considered. I bet the women love that.

After getting dressed in fresh clothes and scarfing down a modest breakfast, I spent that morning in peaceful silence. The chores got done—laundry, dishes, vacuuming, and the like. I didn't mind the work. It gave me something to do, and time to think.

The place wasn't much—with Mom gone, the small home had developed a hopeless energy, no longer as vibrant or cozy as it once was. But it was all I had, and I took care of it regardless of my own dislike.

I didn't much care where my father had gone off to. Though, I absolutely didn't want to be there when he returned. Moreover, I'd promised myself that I'd go to the public library the day earlier.

So I did just that, hopping on the nearest bus to the city. The trip wasn't long, but I got to admire the beautiful features that the city had to offer.

My corner of Boston certainly wasn't the prettiest, but it was enough. I was born and raised on the outskirts of the city, and for the twenty-three years I'd been alive, it was all I'd ever known. I knew the streets and winding alleys like the back of my hand—I knew all the good restaurants, the best museums, all the places with the most breathtaking sights. But part of me longed for more... longed for some kind of change.

The public library stood proudly on beige-colored foundations in the heart of the city. It was still a popular hotspot regardless of its age and the modernizations of the growing world—but most of all, it was comforting, safe, serene. Words I could rarely associate with the other parts of my small life.

I didn't get the chance to visit as often as I'd liked. Bartending usually had me up well into the first beams of light into the mornings, and I had a habit of sleeping extensively during the day. Aside from that, my life was largely uneventful.

Sometimes, on good days, I'd hole myself up in some deserted corner of the library and read. It didn't matter what the genre was, as long as it gave me an escape from the solemnity of my own little world. Most often, though, I'd come for the public computers and the free Wi-Fi.

After multiple failed attempts at logging in, I finally figured it out, proceeding to find my way to every college website I could remember.

I wasn't surprised to find written in bold letters over every college application I'd sent in.

Great.

Slumping over the desk, I rested my head on my arms and let out a heavy exhale. Patience wasn't really one of my stronger points. There was a good chance that the waiting was going to be the death of me. I could picture the gravestone already: 'R.I.P Elliot Taylor, you won't be missed.'

In the whirlwind of thoughts running through my mind, I somehow traveled back to the situation I'd had the night before.

Noah Black.

The name was familiar, but at the same time, entirely bizarre on my tongue. I never could have imagined a situation where I'd have to run into someone like him. It was unheard of, and yet, last night proved me completely wrong.

The rational part side of my mind seemed to scold me. I'm reading too much into it.

Yet, I couldn't focus on anything else. The idea of him sent chills down my neck. His soft, brown-black hair... the tiny birthmark just to the side of his left cheekbone... the suave of his mannerisms and confident personality. He certainly knew how to leave a lasting impression.

Part of me wondered why I hadn't noticed him before. He often came to Joe's to socialize with the other bikers, swigging alcohol and playing poker. He was the type who usually got his drinks paid for by other girls, so he never really went up to the bar himself, but still... why had I never talked to him before last night?

Someone like me should have never had anything to do with him, I knew that. But I couldn't get him off my mind.

Maybe he'll show up at Joe's tonight.

A small bar on the edge of the city, Joe's was a lively gathering spot in a small building holding strong for its years.

It was built back in the late sixties, and after the death of its previous owner several decades ago, the place was damn near close to falling apart. It wasn't until the young entrepreneur Joe Mendez came around that the place got its serious renovation—though, with the business doing sub-par, Joe had no choice to sell it off. Now it lied in the hands of Pete Philips, a grouch of a manager and a stingy old cheapskate.

If it weren't for the Stray Dogs moving in, I was sure that the place would've been demolished. They brought in most of the revenue and were probably the only thing keeping Joe's open.

It wasn't the best job in the world, but at least it was something. The long hours were probably the worst of it—Pete was stubborn when it came to hiring, leaving the place to run with only three employees: me, a sharp woman named Eve, and another man I knew as Dean who often managed the finances. Sometimes there would only be one person rostered on for the entire night shift. Those were the damn worst.

The signage at the top of the building already glowed neon yellow by the time I arrived for my shift. written in cursive and underlined with retro green and red bars. The short building could've easily been mistaken as a diner—it wasn't uncommon to have people come in assuming so.

It wasn't the most extravagant place in Boston, but it was functional. Hardly a ten-minute walk away from home, it was in a convenient location and had enough space to store the dozens of motorists who found their way over on good nights. The patch of land was sectioned off by a steel mesh gate that wrapped around both the building and parking lot, though the gate was busted in certain sections and leaned over considerably in others.

Part of me found it somewhat depressing, in that it wasn't as properly taken care of as it could have been. The paint on the sides of the roof, which was once a pristine white, had faded to show through the piss-yellow underneath. The doors too, which were apparently colored bright pink at one point in time, had been neglected for so long that the paint had chipped right off to show the ash brown beneath it. Sometimes, though, it would leave my hands dusted with tiny pink shavings, a reminder of what once was.

"Welcome to hell," Eve's familiar voice jested as I entered through the back door. "Didn't expect to see you here, to be entirely frank."

I offered her a small smile. "Very funny. Hi, Eve."

She was by the register with her thick, yellow notebook, probably counting the cash like was usually done before and after every shift. Twirling a black biro in her fingers, she grinned, "Hi, Elliot. Glad to see Pete didn't stick me on my own for the second night in a row... you know, again. The old tight-ass."

"Careful," I said, after draping my jacket over the coat-hanger. "Pretty sure he's got ears in the walls."

She chuckled. "Wouldn't be the weirdest thing about him."

Eve was somewhere in her mid-fifties, with dark skin, short hair, a bold attitude, and a general dislike for people. But despite her somewhat crabby personality, she was incredibly wise, as sharp as a tack, and knew exactly how to keep people in line—something I deeply respected.

I didn't know much about her history, other than a few spare details. She was a divorcee with two sons, both of whom were in the custody of their father. Other than that, I knew that she dropped out of school decades ago to be a competitive gymnast, which showed through her broader shoulders and athletic build. That, and the multiple medals I'd noticed in an old photo of her. Pictured in a newspaper she'd shown me from 1987, it was something she kept around 'in memory of the good old days.'

How she ended up working at Joe's, I had no clue. I didn't know why she stayed, either. All I really understood was that she'd been working here for much longer than I had. Hell, she managed the place better than Pete did.

A good half-hour after setting up, a familiar roar of motors thundered outside the building. The sounds quite literally echoed through the bar.

Nine on the dot. Right on time, I noticed, passing a glance to the old clock strung crookedly on the back wall. The bikers were nothing if not on time, apparently.

Eve offered me a bored look and asked rhetorically, "do you think Pete would notice if we just... didn't open for once?"

I smiled in response. "Come on. You know we can't do that."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she sighed as she sauntered over to the front door, "but it doesn't hurt to have hopes, kid."

Standing on her toes to reach the top of the doorframe, Eve fished around for a few moments before finding the spare key.

"I suppose I should let those fools in now."