— Chapter 45 —

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I'd been so busy in the last few days that things had gone by in a blur.

Noah's fever had finally subsided after a couple of restless nights. He hadn't been sleeping, but I'd managed to get him to eat and stay hydrated. The gash in his side was beginning to heal, too, the stitches holding up nicely. He'd let me change the the gauze for him a few times.

Jesse and I had sorted out the details about my new job with her over the phone. I was still getting the hang of things, but she'd been more than helpful in the two shifts I'd had so far. Jesse was quite patient with me—her eagerness to help and bubbly energy wasn't something I saw often in other employers. Not at Joe's.

And surprisingly enough, a college had called at one point to set up an interview. It was one of the smaller colleges in Boston, one of the last few that I'd applied to, and they were willing to consider me. It was embarrassing how much I'd stammered on that phone call. I was meant to be meeting with one of the admissions officers sometime in the next week.

I hadn't been seeing as much of Noah in the last few days. Between Joe's and working with Jesse, I'd hardly been at the apartment.

But at least he'd been supportive of me. That was nice.

It was a Saturday afternoon when I arrived at Joe's Bar for my usual shift. As usual, bikers were already loitering out in the parking lot or chatting inside, with Eve serving drinks up at the counter. She waved to me as I came to join her.

Noah's whereabouts had been the subject of focus down at the bar since the night he'd been arrested.

Chief had been busy doing damage control for the most part, and Chains occupied himself by firmly telling people to mind their own while the grown-ups handled business, as he put it.

He was quite a respected figure, Chains. Dependable. Intimidating, but good with people. It made sense why Noah put his trust in him.

Chains and Angela had turned up for the night, and the two of them came by me at the counter while I worked. It had been like that lately; apparently I'd earned some standing with them. Dare I say it—maybe we were even friends.

Chains had a small stack of papers in his hand. He'd been at the noticeboard by the door, pinning up flyers and greeting bikers as they walked past.

"What are the posters for?" I asked him out of curiosity.

"List of events for the next few weeks," he answered. "Meets, rides, shoots, fairs—things like that."

"Fairs?" I asked. "I didn't realise the Stray Dogs took part in that kind of thing."

"Uh-huh," Chains nodded. "There's a fair down by the beach every year sometime in spring. The Stray Dogs like to go from time to time to drink and meet people from other groups. It's probably the only time a year that we get along."

That actually sounds... kind of fun.

"Speaking of Noah, how's he doing?" Angela asked me, a kind look in her eyes. "Is he taking care of those stitches?"

I gave her a nod, polishing some glasses with a spare rag. "He's alright. The stitches are doing fine. I made sure to get him to change the bandages like you told me to."

"He still sick?" Chains asked.

"A few headaches, but nothing too bad," I told him. Angela and Chains didn't know about Noah's panic attack, and I didn't say anything about it either. That was something for Noah to talk about on his own terms. "I think he's just got his own things going on."

"At least he's taking care of himself," Angela sighed. "I'll be over in a few days to pull the stitches out."

Chains pointed out, "Not the worst thing he's been through, though. He can handle himself."

"What's worse than being shot in the side?" I couldn't help but ask, slightly bewildered. Angela smiled at the question.

There was an amused look on Chains' face. "Hah. If only you knew."

I opened my mouth to speak again, but the sight of Chief walking to us at the counter stopped me. Tossing his worn cap onto the counter, he scratched his scruffy beard and passed me a look.

"I don't know how he did it—managing to get Lieutenant Kessler to drop his case," he said. "It could've gone a lot worse than it did. We got lucky this time."

"We need to get people in line. Everyone needs to be watching their backs now," Chains muttered. "One slip-up and the police are gonna be right back here to keep digging... and I don't think Noah can get lucky with them twice in a row."

Chief shook his head. "If the idiots racing on city streets keep up with what they're doing, the cops are going to be the least of our problems."

I sucked in a breath at the gravity of the situation.

But someone's familiar figure walked into a bar before we could continue the conversation.

I could feel the weight of the tension hanging in the air as the bar quickly silenced, a few stray whispers traveling back and forth between surprised bikers.

Edge.

The infamous Vice President of the Stray Dogs, standing in the doorway like a ghost.

My God, how I got breathless at the sight of him. Dressed head-to-toe in what I figured were the darkest pieces of clothing he could find in his closet, Noah slowly walked into the bar with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket.

His gaze was shadowed by wavy locks of dark hair that had fallen down the sides of his face. A black beanie sat on his head. His piercing irises were emphasized by the scarlet tones of irritated skin beneath his sunken eyes. And the stares of onlookers did little to phase him.

Noah headed right in the direction of where the four of us were standing. I was flabbergasted when, without care, he simply stepped behind the counter and decided to help himself to a fine bottle of whiskey sitting on one of the shelves.

I stammered, "You can't just—"

But he cut me off.

"Yeah, I can."

Lips parted slightly, I realized that I knew better than to argue. In all honesty, Noah was kind of right. The only reason Joe's stayed open was because of the Stray Dogs. Because Noah made it that way. So if he wanted a drink... who was I to stop him?

"Chief," Noah spoke, catching the attention of the older biker.

Nodding his head, Chief followed his Vice President, stepping aside so that they could have a private conversation.

Chains mentioned to Angela when they were out of earshot. "Tell you what—he reminds me more and more of his old man every day. See that look on his face when he walked in?"

Angela nodded in agreement.

"What happened to him?" I asked before I could think it through. "Noah's father?"

A silence fell between the two of them.

I couldn't help but notice the way that Angela shifted nervously in her seat, but said nothing. Chains was stiff with his reply.

"He was, uh, in a motorcycle accident when Edge was a kid," he told me, voice strangely monotone. "Street racing."

I was somewhat surprised by the answer. "Street racing?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" He muttered, covering his mouth with his hand. "It's why Edge is so against people racing in Boston—he learned the hard way just what it costs."

Angela dipped her chin to her chest and twirled her bottle of beer, refusing to meet my eyes. Was there something she wasn't saying?

The two of them didn't discuss it further. I figured with the tension that had been created in the air, it was best to leave it alone. But it felt like something had been omitted from the answer I'd gotten.

Don't pry, I reminded myself.

"Alright, listen up," Noah called abruptly to the people in the bar.

He took a sip straight from the bottle of whiskey in his hands before passing a look to the bikers.

All of them had turned immediately at the sound of his voice. Watching him. Waiting. Like wolves.

Noah finally spoke, "I want everyone who isn't a Stray Dog out of the bar. Now."

He didn't raise his voice. He had no reason to. And yet, his authority rippled in waves through the air, demanding the compliance of the people around him.

And after a few spare moments of hesitation, people began to move.

Getting out of the booths, leaving their drinks on tables, or taking bottles of beer with them, everyone who wasn't a biker swiftly began to leave the building.

Angela finished off the bottle of Corona in her hands and gave me a somewhat entertained glance.

"I guess that's me," she said, getting off the bar stool. "I've gotta be at the hospital in the morning, anyway."

Chains and I offered her a polite goodbye before she left, following the group of people leaving through the front doors.

I tossed the rag over my shoulder and set down a glass that I'd been polishing. Noah passed me a glance—and I expected him to tell me to leave with the rest of them—but instead, he gave me a brisk nod and turned away.

I guess I can stay, then?

Not like I could really leave the counter, anyway.

After a minute or two, there wasn't anybody left in the bar who wasn't proudly donning a Stray Dogs vest over their shoulders except for me.

And for a bit, everyone was silent. So I was thankful when someone finally decided to cut the tension and address the elephant in the room.

They said, "We heard you were shot. Some bastard pulled a gun on you?"

Noah gestured to himself, feigned enthusiasm in his tone, and deadpanned, "I live to tell the tale."

Another biker called out, "Who the fuck was it?"

Noah sighed. "Solo rider. No patches. No gang. Just someone with a gun chasing an adrenaline rush."

He poured his whiskey out into a glass while the bikers began to chat amongst each other.

"Honestly, what the fuck is going on?" I heard one grumble. "First this street-racing bullshit, and now we've got the cops knocking on our front fucking door and guns being pointed at us. I just come here to drink, man."

One of the older men snapped, "We can't let them get away with this."

Noah grazed his tongue against his teeth before he spoke.

"What difference does it make?" He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm still standing here in one piece. Isn't that right?"

The bikers broke out into a fit of whispers, talking quietly amongst each other. Their suspicions had been confirmed, but the Vice President's lack of care for the situation seemed to confuse a few. I was one of them.

"You were fucking shot, Edge," someone else repeated as if to emphasize the seriousness of the situation. It was the older biker again—Spooks, I think his name was. "What the fuck makes them think they can get off scot-free, huh? What's gonna stop other people from waving their guns here if we don't do something?"

Murmurs of agreement echoed through the bar. Noah clenched his jaw.

"You know the code we live by," he said sternly. "Maybe fighting violence with violence worked in the old days, but we're not one-percenters anymore. You fucking know that, yeah? So who do you think the police are going to point fingers at if we start waving our fucking guns around?"

Splitter, who was sitting at the end of the counter, asked, "Why didn't the cops arrest you?"

"What does that red-haired fucking outsider have to do with this?" Someone else inquired.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Nobody could read the expression on Noah's face, just the darkness of his tone when he spoke. "Look, the fact of the matter is this: people are out in Boston breaking my rules—my father's rules—and getting people killed in the process. So now we've got the fucking cops pointing fingers at us... while the traitors are sitting right under our noses."

"Traitors?"

"What traitors?" Shooter questioned from somewhere in a booth, perplexed.

Chief took control of the situation.

"There's a mob in our city making heavy bets on races and putting innocent people at risk," he explained. "They're picking bikers from gangs across the city to race for them, and someone in a Stray Dogs cut was caught in one of these races. Which means that there's a rat sitting in this room."

That didn't go down well. The bikers passed each other sideways glances, shifting accusingly at the newfound knowledge.

"So... what?" Spooks spoke gruffly, bringing up what everyone else was undoubtedly thinking. "You don't trust us?"

Noah gave him a look.

"It's not that we don't trust you," Chief said. "All of you have fought to earn those patches. Some of you even bled for my brother's cause—that's a debt that can never be repaid."

"We're telling you this so that the traitor can make it easy for themselves and confess to it now," Noah said. "No fucking violence. No revenge. Just hand in your vest and leave."

Chief added, "Because if we have to catch you ourselves... you'll be wishing to your God that you'd taken this opportunity instead."

Noah passed them all an emotionless glance.

"So?" He asked simply. "What'll it be?"

The Stray Dogs fell into pin-drop silence. Nobody made any movements that would draw suspicion from the people in their surroundings. Of course, all of them were innocent until proven guilty—but the faster the 'traitor' confessed, the faster the Stray Dogs could go back to dealing with the real problem at hand.

Someone in the room had been racing on city streets. Playing games of chance with the lives of people... for money.

I wasn't a Stray Dog by any means, and I wasn't involved in the meeting they were having. But the concept of something so terrible had still left a bitter taste on my tongue.

Nobody in Joe's Bar moved a muscle. Nobody made any movements to speak.

Noah had his arms folded over his chest, focus resting on the group of bikers as a whole. "Well?" He asked, growing somewhat impatient.

Another minute of silence left the tension thick enough to cut through with a knife. And the more time that passed, the more I hoped someone would finally come forward.

Then someone spoke—and I swear people got whiplash from how quickly they snapped their heads to the voice, ready to find their traitor.

"This is fucking ridiculous, eh?" Spooks scoffed, getting to his feet from one of the booths. I watched the scowl set on Noah's face like he'd tasted cold poison. "This damn code's been nothing but a headache since the day it was stuck in our faces. People racing in city streets, guns pointed to your fucking head, and you've got the audacity to call us traitors while the cops pull our fucking strings? Heh, what a joke! Tell you what, we must have gone soft over the years—because the old Stray Dogs would've never fucking rolled over for police."

He stood up to leave, but Shooter stepped out from a booth and got in his way. Gripping the older biker's vest, he pointed the man a pissed-off glare.

"Tell you what," Shooter began, "every one of you fucks who just sit and complain while the rest of us are out there shoveling the shit—you've got a lot of fucking nerve. Like it or not, as long as you're wearing that vest on your back, you're one of us. You've gotta follow the code like everyone else. All you've been asked for is some fucking patience, alright? And for a set of bastards who do literally nothing but sit and drink all day, I'm struggling to understand why you're having so much trouble with that request."

"Are you kidding?" Spooks snapped, prying Shooter's grip off him. "This vest used to stand for something. Boston used to be our city, and now what do we do? We waste our time in bars while other people are out there street-racing and getting people killed, undermining whatever's left of our authority. If you wanna play dead while shit goes tits-up, go ahead! But as long as you're bending over backward for police... don't expect the rest of us to bend too."

He let his words sink into the group, and the silence that followed was blood-chilling. Spooks passed Shooter one final glare while he fixed up his vest. And as he headed out of the front doors to the bar, I found myself letting out a quiet breath of air.

But before anyone could even address the silence, the doors to Joe's abruptly opened again.

The Stray Dogs snapped their gazes to the door in unison, as if the movements of one entity as a whole. I followed their stares, feeling shock drop like an anvil in the pit of my stomach when I recognized who was there. Oh no.

Please not now.

Chains passed the visitor a deep scowl and barked, "This is a private meeting."

James.

He was standing in the doorway dressed in suave clothes, topped off with a crème-colored coat and a fancy watch. Just like that, he quickly stood out from the people around him. He didn't look like he belonged in a place like this.

James rested a glance at the ferocious-looking bikers that were glaring in his direction. When he eventually answered, his words were matched with a profoundly disinterested expression.

"The sign on the door said open."

Turning his focus away from them, he began to head for the bar counter where I was standing—but Chains had other plans.

He got up from his stool with annoyance simmering in his gaze, getting ready to kick James out forcibly. "Maybe you didn't fucking hea—"

Noah stopped Chains before he could finish.

"No," he said, after resting a glare to the silent Stray Dogs. "We're done here."

In other words: let James in.

Oh, great.

James came and took a seat where I was standing at the counter, pulling a black wallet from a pocket in his coat.

I passed a glance to Noah, only to see that he was still standing in the same place. Watching me. A deep scowl bad spread across his face at my ex—not jealousy, just a deep sense of distrust.

My voice was cold when I finally addressed James. "What are you doing here?"

He gave me a look.

"It's a bar, isn't it?" he answered. "I'm here to drink."

I swallowed nervously.

There was a cut on his face about the size of my fingernail, already scabbed over and healing. It was the same place I'd punched him... I'd done that.

God, what's the matter with me?

"Try your luck somewhere else," I said, clearing my throat. "I'm not serving you. Now, if you'll excuse me."

I turned on my heels and moved to leave—only James wasn't as eager for me to depart so soon.

"Wait."

My fists clenched by my side at the request.

Watching him through the corner of my eyes, I faltered when he pulled a hundred-dollar note out and left it on the counter.

It's not often you'd see Benjamin Franklin in a place like this.

"I don't want your money," I glared at him.

"No, of course not," James said, and I could've sworn there was amusement glimmering in his eyes. "But it's the best tip you're going to make tonight... so you might as well stay for a minute."

I sucked in a long breath.

"What do you want, James?"

He shrugged. "You know what I like, don't you?"

It was embarrassing how fast my mind recalled James's favorite drink. Cabernet—red wine. And not the cheap stuff, either. It wasn't often that we got to open those kinds of bottles in a bar like this.

But I told him, "That's not what I meant."