— Chapter 9 —

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For the first few seconds after I'd woken up the next morning, I was only aware of the sharp pain in my left wrist. The nightmare from the night before slowly faded out of my mind, until eventually, I'd forgotten entirely.

My father had cornered me to the wall just before sunset the night before. He'd slammed my wrist to the wall. I'd tried to make an effort to get away, but he only shoved me back—effectively clipping my elbow. And, just when I thought the pain couldn't get worse, I'd felt a shooting pain soar down my arm.

I realized quickly that he'd injured a nerve. I'd spent most of last night rubbing my left hand, trying to calm the numbness in my palm and little finger. Perhaps I should've been glad that an injured wrist was the extent of it this time.

But my wrist hurt like a bitch, and I'd run out of painkillers. Not that I would dare go back home, even if I'd had a few left.

I could still remember the petty argument that caused all of it. When I recalled it, I couldn't help but feel fury welling in my chest over how trivial it was.

"Lend me twenty bucks," were the first words my father had said to me after I'd walked into the kitchen. I hadn't realized he'd come home.

I nervously balled my hands into fists behind my back. "I don't have that on me right now," I lied, knowing well that 'lend' was just a meaningless word in his vocabulary.

Knowing him, he'd run out of cash, having spent it all on alcohol already. I didn't plan to endorse him with buying more, especially not when I couldn't afford it.

"You're a fucking liar," he snarled to me. "I already took it out of your wallet."

I spoke carefully, "if you already took it... w-why did you ask?"

"Because I knew you would lie to me! Did I fucking raise you to be like this?" He yelled at me, "don't you have any gratitude for all the shit I do for you?"

"You can't take that money," I pleaded. "It's all the cash I have for food this week. Can't I give it to you another time?"

With what happened next, I realized quickly that I should've kept my mouth shut.

All of that over a small amount of money. It made me angry—so much so that I had to take a heavy breath to calm myself down.

Eventually, I passed my attention came on my surroundings. The park worker that had woken me up the other day hadn't yet found me, thankfully. I really didn't feel like listening to another scolding. Not with the headache at the back of my mind.

I was starving, I was sore, and I wanted to get a decent sleep on a comfortable bed for once. But, unfortunately, things never went my way. My cash for food this week was gone, too, meaning that I'd have to live off whatever was hiding in the fridge back home. I cringed at the thought of it.

Thankfully, there was still another ten-dollar note in the fold of my wallet. Enough for painkillers and a few instant noodle cups. I could make do for a little while... hopefully.

As I sat up on the bench, something drew me out of my thoughts. A pile of leather, having fallen off my shoulder with my movements.

Someone had draped their jacket over me while I was asleep.

At first, the presence of it annoyed me. Thoughts began to swirl through my head—that some righteous soul with a heart of gold had decided to boost their ego through an act of charity. Did I need to start sleeping with a giant sticker on my forehead saying 'leave me the fuck alone'?

But the more I looked at it, the more I thought that it was familiar. It was comparable to an old army jacket. The faded, worn-out look of the leather, the bronze buttons on the cuffs, the thin layer of ivory fleece lining the inside. The size of it, too—the jacket would've reached just above my knee if I were to wear it.

Then it dawned on me.

It was Noah's jacket.

I'd seen him wearing it before. Actually, quite often. It was his jacket. Noah's signature, defining feature whenever his helmet was on. Most obvious, though, was the large, white embroidery along the back of it. , it read, in all capital letters. The group's logo of a black dog baring its teeth rested just below it.

Of course it was so familiar. The only other person with a similar jacket was Chief, the president of the bikers—and I strongly doubted that it was his. There were no other jackets like it, either, considering that the rest of the bikers wore vests instead. So why had Noah entrusted his to me?

What was it about him that made me so curious, yet so intensely perplexed?

Picking the jacket up by the bottom of its collar, I noticed the warmth of the fleece lining. It smells like him, I thought, getting a whiff of the scent that clung to it. It was subtle—a slight smell of cigarettes, but mostly the fragrance of his expensive cologne. The same cologne he was wearing the night we met... the one that held such alluring undertones of sweet vanilla. It was definitely Noah's.

Had he really cared that much about me sleeping here?

...The jacket didn't seem to make me feel so irritated anymore. Instead, something warm settled in my chest—and no matter what I tried, I couldn't get the feeling to dissipate.

But I'd already made up my mind. The jacket was going back to its owner tonight. I didn't want it confusing me any more than it had already...

...and I didn't plan on getting any wrong ideas.

I'd stopped by the pharmacy a few hours before heading to Joe's. It was another long shift tonight, and I could hardly afford to call in sick. I was already short on cash as it was. Hell... a second job was even a possibility at this rate.

The painkillers were helping with the wrist, but not by much. My hand still felt numb, and I still had a subtle pain in my side from the beating I got last week. I hadn't slept too well the night before, too, considering the amount of tossing and turning I did on that bench. The nightmares didn't help that situation, either.

It really wasn't my week.

Suck it up, I thought, unlocking the back door to a closed Joe's. I was working the shift alone tonight after Eve had called in sick. It was a Saturday, though, which wasn't great considering that it was usually our busiest night.

Retiring out of the Boston cold, I walked in and dropped my bag behind the bar counter. It wasn't really supposed to be there, but what Eve and Pete didn't know wouldn't kill them. Noah's jacket was folded neatly inside—though I felt guilty for not finding the time to wash it.

I'd gotten the counter, booths, and floors cleaned up, counted the cash in the drawer, and restocked the alcohol in the bar by the time I was supposed to open. Nine p.m.

And, just as I unlocked the front doors, engines hummed in the distance—right on time.

Taking a breath for the night ahead, I returned to the bar counter and peeked out the windows. The very ground seemed to stir beneath my feet with the number of engines arriving in the parking lot—but I hadn't spotted Noah's jet-black Kawasaki yet.

A small part of me really hoped he would show. I convinced myself it was only so I could get his jacket off my hands.

That's all it is, I swore to myself.

After a while of fawning over each-others bikes, the group slowly began to pool into the bar. The first few groups eagerly filled the booths, and while they got settled in, a few would come to the counter to start requesting their drinks.

I did my best to keep up on my own, and despite the wrist, I was actually doing a pretty decent job. Although it wasn't the best career in the world, I did happen to like bartending. In fact, I quietly hoped to own my own place someday... though I could only dream. But I would be one step closer if college turned out in my favor.

While I was distracted with serving bottles of beer to a biker and his friends, the front doors of the bar swung open. Four people strolled in. Chief, who led the group, with Chains following close behind, then Angela, and lastly... Noah.

My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. His locks of dark, raven-brown hair, which he pushed back with ringed fingers. The pale-grey jacket he wore over a black hoodie, as well as leather boots and ripped, black jeans. That, and the thin chain around his neck. The same one he always wore... the one with the small band hanging off it.

His voguish clothes fitted his tall figure so breathtakingly well, and he clearly knew how to layer them. Noah stood a bit over six feet tall, I estimated, considering I reached just about 5'8. Not to mention his build—I figured the guy was just pure, lean muscle.

I'm staring again, I scolded myself, but it was too late to look away. Noah's striking, light-brown eyes had already locked with mine.

He kept the moment short. Offering me an amicable nod, he then turned his attention away to his group as they took their seats in the usual booth.

Noah looked... tired. There was a subtle shadow beneath his eyes that I'd come to notice, and he didn't look to be paying much attention to the others around him.

How am I going to get the chance to talk to him? I then questioned myself, realizing that I hadn't entirely planned it out. What am I going to say?

Why is this so complicated?

Chains had come to cover drinks for their booth. Politely requesting three beers and a glass of neat whiskey, I figured quickly that the whiskey was for Noah. Jim Beam it is, I thought, though I knew he wouldn't care either way.

At least he wasn't picky like me, who rarely deviated from ice-cold vodka.

Noah hardly ever drank too much, either. While he definitely had a good tolerance, he never rode home on his bike intoxicated, usually catching a ride back home with his friends in a cab. Sometimes, though, when he planned to drink heavily, Angela would come with him in her old Jeep and be his sober companion. It was much more common sense than I usually noticed with the other bikers if I was being totally honest.

I found it both confusing and interesting. How did someone with such a notorious reputation for being reckless turn out to be a responsible drinker? Was he that worried about getting caught by police...again?

Just what is it about him that gets people talking?

Forcing the thoughts out of my mind, I got back to work, quietly serving customers and trying not to put too much strain on my wrist. It was working, for the most part, but my arm still felt numb and the painkillers were slowly wearing off.

The peace didn't last long, though, as my attention was drawn quickly to the sound of glass smashing on the polished floor.

Crap.

One of the younger bikers had nudged his glass off the table, unfazed as it broke to pieces by his feet. He didn't even call my attention to it—instead, he just snickered with his buddies, too drunk to care.

I groaned internally, heading to grab the dustpan from one of the bottom cases behind the bar counter. With the blue plastic in hand, I walked over as the younger man shrugged in my direction.

"Didn't even touch it," he said jokingly, giving no effort in sounding remorseful. I did my best to keep my annoyance in check.

I mumbled as I bent down to sweep up the glass. "I'm sure."

"Whatever, man," he rolled his eyes, slurring some of his syllables. Running his fingers through dark hair. "Just clean it up. Shit."

I picked out the larger shards, noticing the pang in my wrist. Keeping my voice quiet, I uttered, "you could have at least apologized."

His friends burst out laughing at my words. The biker, too, snickered with them, and I figured quickly that I made the mistake of taunting them.

"Hear that?" The biker laughed to his friends, an amused smile on his crooked lips.

Just when I thought I was about to hear a mouthful from his buddies, a blonde-haired man sitting across from his friend picked up his empty bottle of beer...

...and dropped it off the table.

Time felt slow as I watch it fall, and my first instinct was to shield my head from the inevitable splintering of glass. Anger bubbled in my chest as the crashing sound filled the air. Snickers followed quickly after.

Strangely enough, the situation gave me déjà-vu. It didn't take much thinking to figure out why—my dad was the first thing that flashed to mind.

"Sorry," the blonde-haired biker smirked after I'd looked up, mocking me. His buddies found him fucking hilarious. "My hand slipped."

While my nails dug deeply into my palms, a female voice spoke up. My gaze slowly landed on Angela, who was glaring from the next booth.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" She snapped at them, successfully drawing most of the attention in the bar. "That could've gotten in his eyes—fucking assholes."

I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Ignoring all of them, I went back to picking up the glass, hoping my silence would get them to back off. I didn't want to escalate the situation more than I already had.

The younger biker who'd broken the first glass answered Angela with a smug smile. His slurred English was barely legible. "Yeah, babe, but it didn't."

As Angela opened her mouth to say something else, the blonde-haired man cut her off and shoved some glass in my direction with his shoe.

He sneered, "you missed a spot."

I'd clenched my fist so tightly that my knuckles had turned pale white. But I kept my mouth clamped shut, choosing to express my anger through a scowl in his direction.

"What the fuck are you looking at me like that for? You wanted an apology and I apologized," he chuckled. Leaning over to cast a cruel look in my direction, he added lowly, "unless you want me to stab those pretty eyes out..."

My breath got caught in my throat.

"Well," another voice spoke up at that moment, "I think I've heard more than enough."

Stepping out of the next booth, a commanding figure decided to take matters into his own hands. With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he rested his irritated gaze on the bikers that were causing so much trouble.

There was a cold, intimidating look in his tired eyes. It wasn't even directed at me, yet fear settled heavily in my chest at his authority.

Noah Black.

Of course it was him.