— Chapter 16 —

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"Let him through. He's with me."

As the bouncers hesitantly stepped out of my way, Noah nodded for me to follow behind him. Passing an awkward look to the bouncers, I stepped past them and began ascending the marble staircase with Noah just ahead of me.

"You guys got bottle service?" I asked him in surprise, after seeing a waitress walking past with a tray in her hands.

Noah smiled.

"Yeah. Not my idea, though," he explained, his tongue piercing shimmering under the lights as he talked. He added, "I'm glad you could make it."

As we got to the top of the staircase, I said, "me too."

Following behind him as he led me to the lounge, I couldn't help but side-eye his tattoos. I could only see the extent of the ones he had on his arms. They weren't in any specific theme, just different pieces marking his skin like patchwork. I couldn't help but be fascinated by them.

The piece that first caught my attention was the two snakes curving down his left upper arm in crisp ink, with one baring its fangs at the top of Noah's forearm. Barbed wire was tattooed at his wrists, too, and there were quite a few phrases and Roman numerals that I wasn't close enough to read clearly.

I really liked the intricate roses on his right forearm. They took up quite a bit of space, drawn with dark thorns and small butterflies to match. The same arm also had an impressive figure of a wolf etched into his bicep, with what I figured was Stray Dog marked beside it.

Though the black shirt he was wearing covered some of it up, I could also spot the bolts of lightning he had tattooed on his left left shoulder and lower neck. It looked almost like a virus, spreading through his skin. The strikes branched off into more strikes, traveling over his tendons and just visible beneath the dark fabric of his top.

The simplest one that I could make out clearly was a digit marked into his inner wrist, on his right arm. It was the number , written in a bold font and slightly more faded around the edges than the rest of his tattoos.

They were all easy enough to hide with long sleeves—I still couldn't believe I'd never gotten the chance to see them before now. Had he never really displayed them like this in front of me before? Or was I only truly noticing them now?

My thoughts trailed off as we made it to the biggest lounge, where bikers were chatting loudly and laughing with each other amongst glasses of alcohol and bottles of booze.

The group looked to be made up of predominantly Stray Dogs—but there were quite a few others I didn't recognize. The only person I knew by name was Chains, but we'd never really been acquainted before.

The realization that I didn't know anyone immediately made me feel out of place. The glances that were passed in my direction as I arrived with Noah definitely didn't help, either.

I definitely should have stayed home.

Resting my gaze to the bikers, I noticed the subtle frown that flashed on Chains' face when he spotted me. I didn't think it was anything spiteful, though; if anything, he was probably confused as to why I was here.

You and me both, I thought to myself, fiddling with my fingers in the pockets of my jacket.

The lounge itself was more than lavish—large, leather sofas were aligned neatly beside ice buckets on glass tables and illuminated by blue and purple lighting. Velvet ropes and security sectioned the area off while the bikers got the best seat in the house, overlooking the dance floor and the DJ playing on stage.

Stares settled in my direction as Noah introduced me to the group. "This is Elliot."

"Hey," Chains greeted first, moving over to make room on the sofa for Noah and I.

I took a seat beside him, but not before passing a hesitant gaze to Noah. He'd already turned his attention away to greet someone, giving them half a smile and paying little attention to the fact that I stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Here," Chains said, passing me a shot glass filled with liquid. I couldn't tell what it was under all the lights, but I took it from him regardless.

"What is it?"

He shrugged with a light smile and answered, "Does it matter?"

I guess not.

Pouring the liquor into my mouth, I cringed at the sensation as it ran down my throat. Tequila. Definitely tequila. Top-shelf stuff, too, from the taste of it.

"Good, huh?" Chains chuckled, before taking a shot himself. He didn't have as strong of a reaction to it as I did, but Chains wasn't as lightweight as I was, so it wasn't much of a comparison.

"Never seen you around before," someone said, and my gaze quickly landed on a man sitting at the corner. He spoke with a stumble in his words. "You're a Stray Dog too?"

He had a slim build, with freckles spanning every inch of his face and scars at his eyebrow and jaw. Dark, ginger hair fell down the sides of his face, though considering that he didn't have a Stray Dogs vest on, I didn't think he was one of Noah's bikers.

Noah himself had walked off somewhere, which didn't exactly make me less nervous. I didn't think I'd be on my own with the other bikers when I'd accepted his offer to come tonight.

Drawing my mind from the thoughts, I shook my head and answered the question. "No. Just a friend."

The glass table before us was littered with empty shot glasses and two half-full bottles of alcohol. Chains had his legs propped up on the glass, narrowly avoiding kicking one of the drinks. A bowl of gummy bears rested near me on the table, too, which I thought was a strange addition to the picture.

The most... concerning part were the three thin lines of white powder arranged at the edge of the table, beside a frayed health insurance card. There was evidence of two other lines as well, ivory residue staining the table.

Cocaine.

"Fuck. Didn't think Edge was in the market for friends," the ginger-haired man pointed out with a smirk, making Chains snicker in his direction.

"You jealous, Ash?" Chains asked, looking up from his phone as he fluffed his nose instinctively.

Ash ran his hand through his fiery hair and snorted. "God, no. Edge is high maintenance enough as it is. You have fun with that, though."

"Don't listen to him," another biker smiled at me, leaning over the lounge beside Ash. "Last time he saw Edge, he fuckin' pissed himself. He's shit scared of the guy."

The table broke out into laughter, and I couldn't help but feel a small tug on my lips at the sight of it. As they continued to chatter with each other, I succumbed to temptation and took a gummy from the bowl on the glass table.

Ash frowned and swatted away the other biker. "Oh, piss off, Shooter."

Shooter, a big, burly guy with dark skin and arm tattoos, offered Ash an amused grin. I couldn't help but notice the studs on his eyebrow, and the black gauges in his ears. He was a Stray Dog, apparently, with the dark vest hanging off his shoulders.

The gummy felt sweet on my tongue, a nice match to the fruity tequila from earlier. Swallowing it, I turned my focus to Chains.

"Why do you guys call him that?" I asked him. "Edge, I mean."

The table passed each other looks at my question. Biting my tongue, I started to overthink, wondering if it wasn't something to ask so suddenly. Was it really that serious of a thing?

"How don't you know that?" Ash asked before taking a shot. Wincing at the liquor for a moment, he forced out, "Everyone knows that."

I bit the side of my cheek, not entirely sure how to reply.

"It started out as a joke at first," Chains began to explain to me. "People used to pick on him for always being 'on edge' back in the days. Y'know, like tense. Always bouncin' his leg and looking around like someone could pull a gun on him at any second."

"Guns?" I asked.

Ash said, "What, you thought the Stray Dogs were just your friendly neighborhood biker gang? Jeez. How do you two know each other, again?"

Chains shook his head and turned to me. "We haven't been like that in a long time. The Stray Dogs are clean now."

"And the cocaine?"

"...Medicinal."

A cheeky smirk had grown on on Chains' face as he replied, the comment earning a snicker from Shooter. I couldn't help the small tug at the side of my mouth.

Shooter got back on topic and continued, "Eventually, the nickname just stuck. I haven't heard anyone use his real name in years. Shit—I don't even think he uses it."

Years?

I frowned to myself. If Noah was so used to being called Edge, why had he never told me off for it before? I never used that nickname. Not alone with him, at least.

"Looks like Tats just showed up," Chains said, nodding his head to someone in the near distance. "Someone should go get Edge."

Taking another gummy from the bowl, I turned my head up to get a look at whoever had just arrived. As the sugary substance dissolved on my tongue, my gaze landed on the man heading to our lounge.

Tats's name hit the nail right on the head. He was definitely taller than six feet, with a muscular build and tattoos covering every spare inch of his skin—even on his face. He definitely wasn't one of Noah's bikers, either. I would never forget a face so intimidating.

"I got it," Ash said, getting to his feet.

Heading away from the group in Tats's direction, I couldn't help but stare at the two burly men as they walked off, no doubt to go find Noah.

Turning to Chains and Shooter, I pointed out after a muffled cough, "Those two aren't Stray Dogs?"

Chains noticed I was referring to Ash and Tats, and shook his head in response. "Nope. They're Mayhem bikers. Tats runs their group—this place is their spot. Edge just has some business to deal with."

I said with stumbled speech, "I didn't realize biker gangs were the type to work together."

"We're not. Not usually," Shooter shrugged. "But the Stray Dogs have been in league with them for a long while so we meet from time to time."

Chains sat up to pour himself another drink and offered, "Another shot?"

Briefly licking my dry lips, I answered, "Sure."

As he poured the tequila into glasses for the three of us, I reached for the bowl again and picked out another gummy bear—aiming for a blue one.

Chains chuckled and passed me a full shot glass. He moved the bowl away, too, but not before picking out a red one for himself.

I swallowed the last of the alcohol in the glass and followed it with the confectionery, letting out a soft cough as I put the glass back on the table.

"Alright, why don't we slow down on the edibles, yeah?" Chains said, putting the bowl of sweets at his side of the lounge. "Think you've had more than enough for one night."

My eyes widened and my gaze snapped to him. "Huh?"

Shooter broke out into laughter, and Chains couldn't help but laugh with him. Passing a look to the bowl of gummy bears, everything suddenly made a lot more sense. My cheeks grew warm with embarrassment.

"You should see the look on your face," Shooter chuckled. "How the fuck didn't you—jeez, kid. How many did you have?"

Counting the number of candies left in the bowl, Chains turned up to Shooter and deadpanned, "This is strong stuff, too. Edge might kill us."

I began, "I don't feel that diff—"

Though my words were quickly cut short when I saw the ground moving strangely beneath my feet. Oh. No, never-mind.

Chains and Shooter continued to laugh between themselves as I sunk back into the lounge, licking my lips and coming to realize just how hazy I'd become. The subtle pang of my headache at the back of my head had become a bother again.

I hadn't had a good high in almost three years. Definitely not from edibles—they'd never been my thing. Blunts and joints usually did it for me, and stoned Elliot was always a mess. Weed had a tendency to get me giggly, and incredibly tactile, which was more than embarrassing around the wrong people.

But high and drunk Elliot?

I'm screwed, I thought, drowning out the loud noise and the lively chatter in the club.

My mind trailed back to Noah again. He still hadn't returned from wherever he'd disappeared off to, and it made me feel like an afterthought.

Maybe it was a stupid thing to think—maybe I'd bitten off more than I could chew. I was nobody to Noah, anyway. He wasn't obligated to spend time with me.

I was so stupid. What could someone like him even want from me to begin with? Being friends wasn't at all realistic. He had a girlfriend, too—and that fact alone trumped all the otherwise romantic interests I had in him. Hell, I didn't know if Noah could see me in that way, either. So what the hell was I doing?

Why did he even invite me?

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