— Chapter 7 —

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"That bruise on your forehead," he spoke lowly. "How'd you get it?"

His words caught me entirely off guard.

Shit.

Shit, I panicked, instantly adjusting my hair to cover it. It didn't make me look any less suspicious. Shit, shit, shit.

I hadn't realized it was noticeable—the soft fringe of my hair covered it up fine earlier. It looked perfectly normal when I'd left home. Had it grown more purple in the last few hours? Just how obvious was it?

Noah didn't back down, giving me a deep look that only stressed me out. "Well?"

Dropping my head, I let my hair fall and shield my eyes. I was terrible when it came to excuses—I could never come up with them. Not ones that were realistic, anyway. Should I say I walked into a pole? That it's a birthmark? That it's a skin condition?

"I-It's a birthmark," I stammered.

Fuck me, that was terrible.

My nails dug into my palms as I hoped he'd leave it alone. Noah shoved his hands in the pockets of his fading leather jacket, staring me down with pursed lips. There was a subtle frown on his face.

I was never a good liar.

I couldn't believe I'd let him catch that. It wasn't something meant to be noticed. Especially not by the kind of guy who thought with his fists rather than his head. Noah Black. God damn it.

Finally, he spoke up, putting it simply for me.

"I don't buy that shit one fucking bit."

Crap. Fuck me.

I chose my next words carefully. "It's nothing. Thank you for the tea."

Grabbing the bag, I kept my gaze down and got away from him as calmly as I could, before he had the chance to grill me any further. Disappearing into the back room, I figured Eve could hold it down for a few minutes while I got my shit together.

It was happening all over again. Noah was never meant to notice anything. We were never meant to know each other at all. So why the hell couldn't he just mind his own business?

I can't slip up like that, I thought to myself.

Slumping against the painted wall, I gently opened the plastic bag in my hands. The room was softly illuminated by an old lightbulb hanging in the middle of the room, giving me just enough to see the tea sitting patiently in the bag. The deep, emerald-colored velvet of the pretty box almost mocked me.

But it was the marks on the inside of my hands that caught most of my attention. I'd pressed my nails in too hard... again. Enough to cause four tiny incisions on each palm. I sighed.

Noah was going to be a problem.

After the bikers had left and Eve had finished her shift, I'd locked up the bar for the night. It was no later than two-thirty in the morning, with thin flakes of snow floating down from the dark sky.

I balled my hands in the warm pockets of my coat. It was early March, with snow blanketing the ground in thin layers. The chill of the wind prickled my face, snowflakes landing softly on my light-brown hair and tickling my nose.

I found myself taking the long route home, the rest of my body following the guidance of my feet. Taking the back roads, I got some time to think, breathing the fresh winter air through my nose.

James had been on my mind more and more often lately. I wasn't sure why—maybe because of the photo he shared the other day. Maybe because of the soft smile he had. Maybe because, despite how much I wanted to hate him, I still hadn't managed to let him go.

It was pitiful just how attached I managed to get with him. I can't even hate him, I sighed to myself. Why do I still miss him? After all these years?

Was his hold over me really so strong?

Eventually, I found the place I'd wanted to see. Something felt heavy in my chest as I rested my focus on it, the lights on the top of the building providing enough ambiance to see clearly.

It was the back of an abandoned property, chipped up and graffitied countless times throughout the years. But what stood out to me was the fading red, black and white paints that took up the most space.

, was the word spray-painted in large letters over most of the side of the building. My breath got stuck in my throat at the sight of it.

I hadn't come to see it in a good few months. Truthfully, I was surprised it hadn't been scrubbed off ages ago. But it was still there. Another constant reminder.

I could still remember the night we'd marked the letters on, nearly six years ago.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" He smirked at me, leaning against the mostly unmarked, grey wall. He tossed about a red-colored can of spray paint in his hands.

"I got it, Kato," I deadpanned, standing on my toes to reach where I wanted my next stroke to be. "Not my first time, you know."

"Well," he grinned, "you had a good teacher."

I offered him a small smile. "Uh-huh."

The hissing sound as I marked the building felt addictive. The wet, black paint sparkled as I moved my arm in long, quick strokes, halfway through the word I was writing.

James spoke up beside me, pushing himself off the wall so that he could get a better look. "Are you going to tell me what you're putting on there?"

"I'm just messing around," I answered, adjusting the mask over my face. "It's nothing."

"Tell me," he urged curiously, a shine in his eyes. I couldn't help but give in at the sight of his genuine smile.

"Happiness," I said, painting the last stroke of the final word. It was still only a rough outline of what I was planning to do.

James blinked his gaze from me to the paint. I watched as he did so, noticing the way his dark-brown eyes sparkled at my answer.

"You asked me if I was happy once," I began to mumble, "and for some reason, it stuck, so..."

He cut me off, softly speaking, "It's nice."

"You think so?"

"Yeah," he promised, shaking the can of paint in his hand. "Come on, I'll help you finish it. You can take the bottom."

I whined, "I always take the bottom."

"It's because you're so short," he chuckled, ruffling my hair. I grinned brightly at him, watching as he covered his mouth with the black mask he had on.

"I'm average height, asshole."

Beginning to color in the letters with the red paint, James took care not to drastically change what I'd put down. His strokes looked much nicer than mine, though, and I couldn't help but admire him as he worked. He had experience and was much more artistically inclined than I was.

After a little bit, he swapped out the red paint for the white can in my hands. With his focus on the wall beside us, he smirked, "You're staring at me again, Eli."

"Am not," I answered quickly, returning to my work at the bottom of the wall. "Shuddup."

I listened to his quiet laugh as he adjusted his arm. Watching him curiously, I paused as he made a few extra marks above the word we'd painted.

.

I said, "Cheesy."

He scrunched his nose and smiled at me with his eyes. "Well, you haven't thought of a tag for yourself yet, so it's better than nothing. 'Cheesy' my ass."

By the time we had finished, paint covered our hands and stained parts of our clothes. But it had turned out miles better than I had expected.

Unfortunately, before we had the chance to admire our work, sirens blared in the distance.

"Shit—" I called out—"cops!"

"Go, go!" He answered, taking a firm grip on my hand. Breaking into a fast run, James dragged me behind him, and I did my best to keep up.

But we weren't worried. Instead, we laughed—pumped full of adrenaline and moving as quickly as our legs could carry us. We had each other. That was all that mattered.

It was a bittersweet memory.

I sighed, tracing my fingers over the features of the paint before me. It was all still there—faded, but visible. still marked the top of the wall, a reminder of the promise that he'd broken all those years ago. The word, though, taunted me.

I could faintly remember James's voice, and the question he'd once asked me before it all went down the drain. 'Are you happy?'

No.

Turning away, my head hung low and my hands balled into tight fists. Maybe I was once, I thought, but not anymore.

I was so naive.

It didn't take long to arrive home after that. Walking back to the house, I did my best to ignore the emotions I'd mistakenly stirred up in my chest.

My fingers couldn't help but tremble as I inserted the old house key into the lock, popping the door open with a heavy click. The house proceeded to welcome me with a hollow silence.

Kicking my shoes off at the door, I spotted my father passed out on the couch. A four-pack of cheap beer sat on the coffee table, three empty cans littered by his feet. Drool dribbled down his chin.

Christ.

I moved quietly to the kitchen, resting my backpack on the small island in the middle of the room. Pulling out the plastic bag of tea that Noah had gotten me, my gaze lingered on it for a few spare moments.

Why did he go out of his way?

A heavy exhale leaving my lips, I opened up one of the cupboards above the sink and stashed the bag as far back as I could. The bruise on my forehead still felt sore—needless to say, coming home empty-handed and with an empty wallet the other day didn't do much to please my father. Especially considering I'd forgotten to stop for his beers before came home that night.

The fridge didn't have much in terms of real food—leftovers as far as the eye could see, but nothing that looked remotely appetizing. Old Chinese food, half a pizza that had gone off, and some kind of sandwich... needless to say, I opted for the latter. I'd have to clean the rest of the fridge out tomorrow.

I swallowed down the food and took a painkiller with the bottle of water I'd found. I just felt like passing out somewhere. I wasn't picky.

As my father stirred on the couch, I took refuge in my room. I would have locked myself inside it in the past, except I didn't even have a doorknob anymore. He'd broken it clean off during one of his weekly rampages.

Basically diving into the bed, I didn't care to take off any of the multiple layers I was wearing. I didn't bother to crawl under the covers, either. I was just exhausted, and the shooting pain at the back of my head and the tightness in my stomach didn't help.

As my heavy eyes blinked shut for the night, I hoped the memories I'd unearthed today wouldn't trigger any new nightmares.