TW: physical abuse, strong themes.

— Chapter 3 —

=||=||=

Three hours into the shift, I'd finally settled that Noah Black wouldn't be gracing the bar with his presence after all.

Truthfully, I was disappointed.

The rational part of me knew I was better off pretending that our encounter never happened. But the other part of me—the part that was so charmed by him? It just couldn't seem to conform. I just wanted something... wanted to talk to him, or at least see him. Perhaps this time in better lighting.

It didn't make sense. The bar was packed—I wouldn't have been surprised if every member was present tonight. Even the group's leader, Chief, was here—and he only showed up on the best of nights. So where was Noah?

I must be going crazy, I thought, somewhat huffy with myself. You hardly talked to Noah, anyway. Why the hell should you have anything to do with him?

Mind disarray with thoughts, I poured a pricey bourbon into a glass and bit gently on the side of my cheek.

That's right, I thought as I passed the glass to a customer. You shouldn't. Just be thankful you didn't piss him off and move on with your life.

The bar was busy tonight–everyone with some kind of importance in Stray Dogs had shown up and were now drinking carelessly and laughing heartily with one another.

It was impressive just how much the bar's atmosphere improved when others were present. No longer dull and boring, the place was lively with people, and the loud music from the fluorescent jukebox seemed to vibrate the ground beneath my feet.

At least the inside of the building was better cared for. The checkered flooring shone and sparkled under the brilliant lighting. The walls, which were admittedly chipping wallpaper in certain places, were adorned with old photographs and posters. There was even a photo of Eve, Dean, and I hanging somewhere in one of the corners.

The bar counter itself was made of black marble, its small particles of glitter shimmering proudly despite its years. Hundreds of polished glasses were suspended from fixtures in the ceiling, too, with the small lights between them making the entire display similar to an intricate chandelier.

Perhaps the best thing, though, was the wall of alcohol behind the counter. It wasn't much different from many other bars, but the only difference was that I'd set it up and organized it, entirely on my own. I figured it was one of my best achievements—and it probably shelved half a liquor store. There was everything from cheap tequila to hundred-dollar bottles of champagne. Hell, there was even pink vodka sitting up there too... somewhere, at least.

"Whiskey, neat," someone said from behind me, after noticing that I wasn't serving anyone.

"Any preferences?" I asked.

"Uh, Jim Beam."

Turning around with a rocks glass in hand, I almost dropped it at the sight of the person before me.

When the hell did he come in?

Noah Black was sitting at the counter, resting himself up on his arm with his hand in his hair. He wasn't paying attention at first, but within a few short moments, his striking gaze became locked with mine.

Maybe it was the lighting–or maybe it was his good genes–but his eyes seemed so lightly colored at that moment. Rich, like honey, but bright enough to make shivers travel down my spine. They seemed to pierce through me—vivid and unwavering.

The ambiance of the night before certainly hadn't done him any justice. I could hardly take my gaze off him.

"Elliot," Noah realized. His earnest smile caught me entirely off guard.

As the words left his lips, I pushed his glass across the marble counter to him. After I poured the liquor up, he muttered a soft 'thanks' in return.

For some reason, I needed a pep talk just to convince myself to chill out. Noah Black is just another customer. You can talk to him, right?

"Hi," I tried for polite.

Not really knowing what to do, I just watched as he took a sip, skipping the whole sniffing thing that the older guys liked to do. It gave me the chance to get a look at the small, pretty tattoos that marked knuckles—minimalistic Roman numerals.

I hadn't noticed them before. It made me wonder just how many more he had hidden underneath his sleeves.

He didn't even wince, I thought to myself as he swallowed the alcohol, both impressed and somewhat concerned. "Yikes."

"Yeah," he said, sucking briefly on his teeth. I immediately noticed the small piercing on his tongue, finding the manner in which he spoke to be quite endearing.

"Rough day?" I asked, noticing that he wasn't in the friendly mood he was in during our last conversation.

His face pulled into a soft smile. "Heh. You probably don't want to listen to my shit."

I eased up slightly, resting my elbows on the counter. "Please. Listening to people's shit is probably the best thing about this job."

He grinned, briefly twirling the shimmering glass glass between his fingers. It felt as if I was entranced, fixating on his handsome features. His eyes were so lightly colored that I almost didn't believe they were real. That, and the few tiny freckles spread across his nose and cheeks.

And his hair... it wasn't black like I'd originally thought it was. Instead, it was just an intensely dark brown—anyone could've made the mistake.

"Funny, I would've thought it would be the tips."

"Oh, yeah," I joked, "that too."

He gave me a genuine chuckle.

Noah talked in low tones, gentle and well-spoken. His mannerisms and charm made him feel almost ethereal, like some kind of dark angel clad in leather. It made me wonder why I'd never noticed him in such a way before.

"Well... thanks for the offer," he said nicely, "but I think I'll take a rain check on that."

I nodded. "Suit yourself."

As the words left my mouth, a collective groan broke out amongst the bikers in the small bar. Tilting my head up and following Noah's turned gaze, I found the source of the commotion. A man was standing by the jukebox, blissfully ignoring the people who criticized his choice of music.

Someone's complaint was most clear over the others. "Christ's sake, that's the sixth time he's played the same damn song!"

Noah turned back to me, shaking his head with a disappointed sigh. "They're fools," he said, busy pulling his wallet out from his back pocket.

I smiled gently at his words. Noticing that Eve wasn't around and that the biker wasn't letting up with the jukebox, I slumped my shoulders.

"Looks like I gotta go deal with that," I said, nervously scratching the back of my neck.

Sliding me the cash and his tip, there was a friendly expression on his alluring features. "Yeah. I have to go find Angela anyway. Thanks for the drink, though."

That's right, I recalled, watching him walk off. Angela. The girlfriend.

"Where the fuck were you?!"

My father's voice thundered in my direction almost as soon as the front door shut behind me.

Even though I was exhausted from the shift I'd had, pure fear shot through my body at the sight of him. He'd already closed the gap between us—I had hardly a second to process the situation before he had taken grip of my hair, yanking shockingly on the strands.

The pain forced a shrill yell out of me. I instantly regretted it, though, as my father struck me across the face for it.

"I-I w-was w-working, I-"

"Bullshit!" He roared at me. "I fucking called you a dozen times, why the fuck weren't you answering the fucking phone?!"

He shoved me back in the direction of the living room. Aside from the scorching pain on my scalp and face, the only thing I could focus on was the pungent stench of beer. It came off my father in waves, so much so that the scent made me gag. Of course he was drunk.

"What the fuck were you doing?!"

He grabbed aggressively on my jacket collar, throwing me into the wall. The pain soared through my back upon impact, scorching through me like electricity. It was comparable to nothing I'd ever felt before. And if it weren't for my father pinning me to the wall, I knew for sure I would have doubled over.

I could hardly form a coherent sentence. "I-I told y-you..."

A horrible punch to my gut made me choke on my words. It felt like my heart had leaped into my throat, the aching flowing through my body making me cough and splutter.

I was convinced that the pain couldn't get any worse when he landed a powerful blow on the side of my face. From the familiar sting it left behind, I knew immediately I'd be waking up tomorrow with a black eye.

"Answer the damn phone when I call you, you useless shit!" He bellowed. "Instead of stranding me on the fucking road!"

So that was it. All of this... all of it was because he'd needed a lift. Because I wouldn't answer the phone once he'd finished drinking through the stocks of whatever pub he'd gone to. Because I must've embarrassed him by making him stand there waiting. Because he had to spend cash for a cab to get home.

"I-I'm sorry, I d-didn't-"

He hit me again, but this time, there was less effort, and it landed just below my ribs. Yet, I couldn't help the cry of pain that escaped my lips.

Small... cracked... full of anguish. The torment never seemed to end. Whether it was through scars, bruises, or trauma—it all seemed perpetual in the small life that I had. And no matter how hard it got, I had nobody but myself to rely on. There was nobody who could save me from this-not my mother, not the police, not even the damn neighbors.

It was just me. The pain was mine to deal with. And it fucking sucked.

I felt the tears burn my eyes, but I was determined not to let them fall. Perhaps a side of me believed there was some sort of dignity to be had in being indifferent... in keeping the sorrow to myself.

I wondered if there was a limit to how much more of it I could take.

"Are you even paying attention to me?"

In all my pain, I'd managed to entirely zone out of the scolding he was giving me. But it wasn't scolding, not really... such a word implied that there was a lesson to be learned. But my father wasn't teaching me anything... I was only a mechanism for him to deal with his own troubles. I knew that much.

The strikes continued to land. They weren't as focused on my head anymore, most of the blows instead landing on my sides and below my chest. I knew the bruises left afterward would be swollen and purple in a matter of hours, but considering all I'd been through, a few bruises didn't seem so consequential anymore. They were the least of my problems, rendered only simple reminders of the mistakes I'd made and the life I could only dream of leaving.

I'd slumped over so low that my father had no choice but to slam his knee into my stomach. A final blow, leaving me to sink to the floor, convulsing in pain.

My entire body seared with pure agony. I couldn't breathe, and whatever air did find its way into my lungs, I exhaled in short, unstable bursts.

The focus in my gaze was blurred, though I knew that my father had deserted me on the ground, having stormed off somewhere else in the house. I didn't know whether to be thankful or fear his return... I could hardly keep my trembling hands still.

The skin of my scalp felt fiery hot, singeing with the pain of having the hair so forcefully tugged on. I could only hope that nothing had been too noticeably torn out. Aside from the eye, I didn't think I'd have any serious marks on my face, either... I'd somehow gotten away with it.

I never wanted people to be clued in on my injuries, or the fact that it was my father who'd afflicted them. I'd made that mistake before, and needless to say, it ended in the worst possible way. The memories, as old as they were, still felt like a fresh wound over my heart.

James...

My heart ached just at the mention of his name.

=||A/N||=

:(