— Chapter 37 —

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Not once did my eyes didn't waver from that old television.

Sure, Noah had told me not to, but I couldn't look away even if I'd tried. The events unfolding on the screen kept me at the edge of my barstool, fingers trembling around the glass of vodka in my hands.

The two street-racers were still being broadcasted, making me wonder exactly what Noah was planning by leaving so abruptly.

I heard a few whispers behind me as I pulled Noah's black baseball cap further down my forehead. His jacket on my shoulders had been garnering attention, and not for the best reasons.

Someone muttered, "Why is he wearing that?"

"He's not even one of us," another agreed, their voice hardly above a whisper. "What is Edge thinking?"

Tugging on the hem of my sleeve, I felt the embarrassment in my bones and bit the side of my cheek. The double shot of vodka in my hands didn't feel like enough to calm my unstable nerves.

"Hey!" Someone called out. "That's him!"

My focus quickly centered on the TV screen. Trying to spot whatever had caught the biker's attention, I squinted slightly, making out the figure of a third motorcycle in the broadcast.

White sweater, black helmet, obsidian Kawasaki... Noah.

And from the looks of it, Marcus was right behind him on his dirt bike, with his scarlet helmet clear in the helicopter footage. The rain made the scene fuzzy, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was the two of them.

Noah and Marcus were going after the racers personally.

The realization made me worry plague my thoughts. He's going after them? But the storm is still raging... what if he gets hurt?

"Fuck yes!" Shooter called out behind me to everyone else in the bar. Gesturing to the TV screen, he added, "That's the Edge we know. Those pricks are done for."

"How fast are they going?" I asked Chains, who was sitting beside me calmly.

He had a beer resting on the bar counter, watching the screen with a critical gaze. Something about him felt off... like he was annoyed. But I couldn't decipher much. His expressions were typically impossible to read, and he just never seemed fazed by anything.

"At least one-fifty," he answered, before taking a swig of his beer.

My mind repeated the absurdity back to me as I watched Noah's dark figure on the screen. 150 miles? An hour? It's suicide!

"I got fifty bucks that he catches them," Splitter's voice called out somewhere in the back, cutting me quickly from my thoughts.

Leo scoffed. "In this rain? Hah, he'd have better luck catching a cold. You're on."

Eve rolled her eyes, polishing a glass not far down from me. "Do those two have nothing better to do?" She asked, her voice slightly hoarse.

"Apparently not," Chains muttered.

I sunk into the comfort of Noah's jacket, hoping the lingering scent of his vanilla cologne would calm my nerves. The newscasters continued to commentate over the helicopter footage, and I found myself hanging on their every word. The female news presenter took an analysis of the scene.

"The two new riders seem to be keeping up a good pace with the other racers," she spoke. "It begs the question if the four have planned this beforehand, or if the new riders are merely making an attempt to mimic the reckless behavior of the original two."

The male presenting beside her quickly added his perspective. "It's truly disappointing, Carol—scenes like this are the reason motorcyclists who do the right thing are so often grouped into the same negative light."

Considering how lightweight I was and the vodka in my system, I had to focus really hard to understand what they were saying.

"The four are now heading onto the freeway," the female, Carol, announced. "The police seem to be pulling away—it's clear that they're now relying on the helicopter to track the riders, perhaps while police determine the best way to intercept them. That may very well not be until they run out of gas... and we are now also seeing that the black Kawasaki has now reached a top speed of 164 miles per hour."

Eve shook her head off to the side. "Jesus... that's a man who's not afraid to die."

I didn't want to think too hard about her statement.

"The Kawasaki is gaining on the first two—his partner has fallen behind," the second newscaster pointed out. "I haven't seen a chase like this since the '90s. It reminds you a lot of the old Stray Dogs, doesn't it? Motorcycle gangs were infamous for reaching these kinds of speeds on public roads back in the day. They used to max out at 140 though, I believe."

Chains scoffed.

"What, on third gear?" He rolled his eyes, a critical pull on his lips. "Try 200."

A prickly Chief grumbled in accord from beside him. "Shows how much he knows."

I bit my cheek at their comments while Carol spoke up again on the screen. She said, "We clearly can't refute the involvement of a motorcycle gang in this chase, Bob. The second rider is openly wearing a vest that seems to identify him as a member of Mayh—"

But before I could hear the rest of it, Shooter's voice managed to distract me.

"Angela, what the hell are you doing here?" He announced.

I moved my head slightly to get a look, keeping the cap low on my face.

Surely enough, Angela had walked in through the doors. Dressed in hospital slacks and a navy hoodie, she looked as if she'd just finished a shift at work. Her dark hair was tied up messily on her head. She walked right up to Chains, Shooter, the Chief, and me.

What is she doing here? I thought to myself, feeling strangely nervous in her presence.

"That's him up there, isn't it? Edge?" She asked us, pointing up to the TV screen. There was nothing but worry in her eyes. "I was finishing up at the hospital when I saw the broadcast."

"You didn't have to come down here," Shooter said. "He'll be fine. Edge has pushed much higher speeds than that."

"But it's pouring outside," she said, anxiously rubbing the back of her neck. "That can't be safe for any of them. They'll get themselves killed—why aren't you guys doing anything?"

Chief shook his head.

"They're on the other side of the city by now," he said. "None of us can catch up to that. Have any better ideas?"

Angela sighed. "No, but—Jesus. You guys should've stopped him. You know he can't be getting arrested. He's got too much on his record as it is. They'll send him to prison."

Chains snickered. "They'll have to catch him first."

Angela looked up at the TV with a hint of sadness in her eyes, nervously scratching her arms. "I'm just worried about him. He hates storms like this. It's too lo—"

Chains passed her his beer and cut her off. "Just sit down. I'm sure it'll be over soon. The helicopter's already lost them."

She grumbled something beneath her breath, plopping down on a free stool and taking a long chug of the beer.

Bob, one of the newscasters, informed, "The motorcyclists have entered the tunnel, and the helicopter is backing away now due to flight restrictions over the airport. It will have to reroute while police continue their efforts in tracking down the offenders."

"Smart," Chief commented. For a moment, a pleased gleam danced in his weary eyes. "No-fly zones."

Shooter nodded. "I guess now we just sit and wait."

I let out a heavy breath. Hopefully, that bought them some time. I hope he's okay.

"Elliot," Angela's voice suddenly addressed me, expression unreadable. "You're... wearing Edge's jacket."

I swallowed, keeping my eyes on the screen. I'd forgotten that his jacket on my shoulders was still clear to everyone in the bar.

"Yeah," I muttered quietly, "He gave it to me."

Angela said quietly to herself, "Edge never let me... never-mind. Sorry."

I wondered what she'd wanted to say. Her stare seemed to bore holes into my head.

Shy, I tucked a stray hair of mine back under the cap and tried to figure out why on earth Noah had made me put on his clothes.

I probably look ridiculous, my tipsy thoughts whined. I'm so embarrassed.

The chattering in the bar had gotten louder since the helicopter had lost sight of the bikers. From the sound of it, everyone seemed to be speculating their theories on what would happen next. And some people were just getting drunker and drunker.

Nearly a half-hour passed with the Stray Dogs still anxiously deliberating tonight's events. Holding on to my stable buzz, I frowned at the empty glass of vodka in my hands.

I sighed.

"Eve," I called gently, getting her attention. "Could I please get another doub—"

But someone else cut me off.

A biker had burst in through the doors. I didn't recognize him, but strangely enough, yelled out for me.

"Is there an Elliot in here?" He called out. "Elliot Taylor or something? Does anybody know him?"

Confusion flooded my thoughts as I got to my feet.

"Me," I mumbled, loud enough for him to hear. All the attention that was suddenly dumped on my shoulders by the people in the bar made me want to crawl into a hole and die. "What's going on?"

"Edge is here, and he's calling for you by name. Get a fucking move on!"

The words instantly got everyone in the bar excited, but nobody more than me. Adrenaline rushed through my veins as I pushed through the crowd to the doors.

Escaping out of the bar, I felt nothing but worry and relief as I tried to spot Noah out in the parking lot. It didn't take long to find him.

Tearing off his black helmet, Noah shook out his soaking wet hair. He'd dumped his Kawasaki somewhere with the other bikes, out of view. Trudging up the path to the bar, he had his head down and was clutching his side, a notable limp in his step. He looked like a walking corpse.

He's hurt.

I tore the jacket off when I saw him, basically sprinting down to the parking lot. It was still raining—I just wanted to get him warm as soon as I could.

"Thank god. Thank god," I repeated.

Wrapping the jacket around him the moment I was close enough to, I listened painfully to his dry cough and watched as he shoved his arms through the sleeves. It was then that I noticed the blood.

His sweater was ripped down at his waist. The fabric was soaking wet—and its ivory white color had been stained a bright shade of red. Blood dripped down his side. It soaked through his clothing.

Noah slung his arm around my shoulder the second I was standing by his side. Giving him support to stand up straight, I couldn't even find the words to express how relieved I was that he was still alive. I didn't even care that his dripping clothes were getting me wet. The only thing on my mind was his injury.

"I told you I'd be back for it," he smiled weakly, referring to the jacket I'd returned to him.

His breathing was entirely uneven. His face had gone pale. I could sense that his mind was whirring in panic just from the look in his piercing eyes.

"Noah, you're trembling," I said, carefully guiding him up to the bar doors. As he took the cap off my head and put it on his own, I added, "You're hurt."

"It's just a graze," he lied.

"I can see the blood soaking through your sweater," I forced out, suddenly feeling the urge to cry. "You scared the hell out of me."

Surprise flashed in Noah's eyes, but it was gone just as quickly. They tended to waver... he was entirely disoriented.

He mumbled with a shaky breath, "I'm okay, Elliot."

"You're not okay!" I yell, forcing my eyes shut. "You could've gotten yourself killed! And you don't even care! Noah, you can't just... you can't..."

He didn't answer. I guess he just didn't know what to say. I couldn't carry the conversation without getting emotional, anyway—I just wanted him out of the rain.

When we entered the bar, everyone fell into audible whispers. Parting like the Red Sea for us, Noah and I made a beeline to Chains and Shooter.

"Fucking Hell, Edge," Chains began, being the first to address the situation. "Do you feel like explaining what just happened?"

"Not now, Chains," Noah muttered.

"The fuck do you mean not now?" Chains argued. "People are out there racing in city streets and you've known all about it the entire fucking time—you and Marcus? For fuck's sake, since when does that little outsider get to know everything and we don—"

"I said not now, Chains," Noah snapped at him, his harsh tone cutting through the air.

Chains's nostrils flared and he crossed his arms over his chest, pissed off.

"The cops are going to be here any second asking questions," Noah told him with a breathy voice, slightly hunched over. "We can talk all about it when I get them off my shoulders, but for fuck's sake, Chains, let's argue another time."

Chains puffed out air and gave a reluctant nod. "What do you want us to do, then?"

Noah thought for a moment.

"Business as usual," he decided, passing a glance to the rest of the bikers. "This is a bar, and we're all here to drink, isn't that right?"

Angela finally showed herself from the crowd.

"Noah, you're bleeding," she pointed out, standing with her lips slightly parted.

I couldn't help but notice the way Noah hesitated at the sight of her.

"Angela," he uttered, almost in disbelief.

She caved in and came up to the two of us, helping to hold Noah up.

"I saw you on TV, racing them... I was so worried," she explained. "I came to make sure you'd be okay. I couldn't imagine what I'd do if you got yourself hurt, or worse."

Noah shook his head but didn't answer.

"What happened out there?" She asked him.

"One of them had a gun," Noah confessed, and I felt blood starting to stick to my fingers from where I was holding his torso up. I moved my hand away quickly. "It's a graze. I'll be fine."

A gun.

"But they fucking shot at you?" Shooter said, jaw falling open. "What makes them think they can get away with that?"

Noah spoke hoarsely to himself, his voice hardly above a whisper. "This isn't going to be the thing that kills me."

It didn't seem that anyone else had caught his words, but I couldn't help but stare up at him, confused by the implications.

"Don't tell me you drove your way here with a bullet in your fucking side, Edge," Chains said, incredulous.

Noah muttered, "It went through me."

Angela's eyes filled with an intense amount of concern. "They... they fired a gun at you? You heard it?"

Noah swallowed, but nodded his head. I was the only person who'd noticed that his hands were trembling through the entire conversation. He looked breathless.

"We don't have time for this," he coughed. "Come on. I need the bandages—we need to deal with this before the cops get here."

"I'll help you," Angela said. Turning to me, she said softly, "Help me carry him to the bathroom. We have to clean him up."

Noah turned to Chains and Shooter with a look of urgency. "The cops are on their way, Chains. You guys know what we need to do."

Chains nodded.

I swallowed tightly as I gripped onto the hand that Noah had hanging off my shoulder, beginning to guide him to the bathroom. Chains and Shooter took control of the situation in the rest of the bar.

"Alright, everyone!" Chains called out, gesturing to the bikers in the bar. "Cops will be here any second—you all know how this goes! Let's get a move on!"

"You heard the man!" Shooter said. Mockingly, he ordered the bikers, "Make like Beyoncé and get in fucking formation, ladies! Drinks are on me."

The words alleviated some of my tension as Noah, Angela, and I walked off. It wasn't long before we were walking into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind us.

Propping Noah up against the sink, Angela and I quickly worked to try and fix the problem.

I passed the first-aid kit to Angela with adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Noah had been shot.

It was as if the four words wouldn't fully register in my head.

While Angela began cutting through the blood-soaked fabric on Noah's torso, he looked at me and drew me out of my thoughts.

"Take off your shirt," he told me.

My wide eyes settled on him.

I asked, "What?"

"Your shirt. I need it," he explained. "I can't go anywhere looking like this and I know you're wearing one under all those baggy layers."

"Noah," I stammered.

He hissed as Angela examined the wound carefully with her fingers. Talking to me, he pressed, "When the cops show up here, they're going to take one look at me bleeding out in this damn sweater and realize that I fit the exact profile of who they're looking for. I just need a fucking shirt, Elliot. Please."

My fingers tightened into my palms, but I sucked in a sharp breath and conceded.

"God, Edge. This needs stitches," Angela said, just as I'd begun to pull off the layers of clothes hugging my torso. Crimson blood was well and truly leaking down Noah's tan skin, deeply staining Angela's shaky hands.

Noah disagreed with her words. "It doesn't. Just bandage it up."

"Edge," Angela pressed.

"If you're not going to help then just fucking leave," Noah snapped, frustrated. "For Christ's sake."

A deep frown pulled on Angela's lips when she pulled away.

"I get that you've got shit going on," she spoke firmly. "But if you take that tone with me, this injury is gonna be the least of your problems. It needs stitching, Noah, whether you like it or not. I'll bandage it up for now but I can't promise you won't bleed out to death. Reckless idiot."

Noah pressed his lips into a tight line and let out a sharp breath from his flared nostrils. He didn't answer—I figured he knew better than to keep on arguing with her.

Biting the side of my cheek, I finally got down to the only shirt I was wearing. Noah was holding my jacket and sweater for me.

Shy, I couldn't help but look up at him while I hesitantly took grasp on the hem of my shirt.

Noah's irritated eyelids had fallen half-shut, honey irises staring off blankly at nothing in particular. I couldn't tell his sweat apart from the rainwater dripping off his hair. He was worryingly pale. His breathing was nearly silent, though slow and deep enough to exaggerate the movement of his chest. It was as if he were on the very cusp of falling unconscious.

"I'm not going to look if that's what you're worried about," Angela commented, having noticed that I still hadn't taken off my shirt.

It's not you that I'm worried about looking.

But her words had resorted in Noah slowly resting his eyes on my figure.

I let out a heavy exhale. Fuck it.

Turning around, overwhelmingly self-conscious thoughts filled my head while I pulled the cotton shirt off. The cold air of the bathroom had begun to claw mercilessly at my sensitive skin.

I didn't even have the nerves to turn and face them. Sticking the shirt out for Noah, I felt as he took it and lumped the rest of my clothes back in my hand for me.