— Chapter 46 —

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"Your father's outside."

I couldn't even speak. It was as if her words had cut me across the throat.

I was so. Unbelievably. Fucked.

My father never came to Joe's. Not once. He hated the place with a fiery passion and found the Stray Dogs to be—in a word—revolting. At one point he'd even referred to my job as 'being the dedicated bitch for a pack of fucking animals'.

So the fact that he was here willingly shook me to the core.

I hadn't even bothered to reply to Eve. With my eyes shot wide open and adrenaline filling my veins, I dropped what I was doing without hesitation. My conversation with James was cut short—he slipped my mind entirely. The bar itself suddenly felt like an afterthought.

Not here. Not here. Anywhere but here.

Escaping out the front doors, I left everything behind to go confront my father.

I spotted our car out in the parking lot before I saw him. He was by the driver-side door, his back to me while he fiddled with the wallet in his hands.

Horror churned in my stomach. No other person would be able to tell like this, but I could decipher his fury from the subtleties in his demeanor. The way his veins popped in the sides of his neck. The clenching of the muscles in his upper arm. The tightness in his jaw. But to anyone else? He was just a casual stranger, probably on his way for a drink.

Not to Spooks, though.

I spotted him heading down the lane, his teeth gritted and his fists tight. For someone who'd just gone on a tangent to Noah about the Stray Dogs consorting with police, it was the worst possible time for my father to be hanging around Joe's Bar.

It must've been like salt in a wound for Spooks, because he stopped by Malcom and spat down at the retired officer's feet.

Fuck.

I headed down to the parking lot in an instant, speaking my prayers to god while my father's face contorted into a rage-induced scowl. But Spooks had made his point, and perhaps I found some relief as I watched him walk away. It didn't change the fact that the biker's actions had just added fuel to the fire.

Forcing out a few broken words when I finally stopped by his side, I uttered, "Dad, I..."

Malcolm turned around at the sound of my voice with a look in his weary eyes that was nothing short of petrifying. I could feel my blood run cold at the sight.

"Well, would you look who it is!" He hissed, clearly uninterested in keeping his voice down. "Are you satisfied, Elliot? You think you're all high and mighty now, huh?"

Smoking bikers had already begun to stare.

"I can explain, just—"

"Explain what, huh?" He snapped, prodding his finger at my chest. "Where the hell have you been? Gone for fucking weeks without so much as a word! Leaving me to fend for myself, is that it? Where's your damn sense of responsibility?"

I couldn't tell if he was slightly drunk or just unbelievably angry—maybe both—but there was a slurred tone to his words.

"I've been living with a friend," I said quietly, in an attempt to calm him down. "You kicked me out, so I had nowhere else to—"

"I was teaching you a lesson! Not telling you to go bother the first person you could find! Who the hell have you forced into helping you? Because I promise you, Elliot, nobody willingly wants to put up with your shit like I have," he said through gritted teeth. My lower lip trembled. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself? You're being a fucking burden on everyone! Friends? Please!"

"Dad—"

"Oh! But that's not even the worst part!" He cut me off. "Imagine my fucking surprise when I get a call from the Lieutenant telling me my brat of a son was seen with a cheap thug at the fucking station! What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you have any sense of shame? Are you trying to ruin my reputation? Do you only think about yourself?"

It all finally made sense. Lieutenant Kessler had recognized me back at the station. No doubt he'd rubbed it in my father's face that I'd been caught helping Noah—a Stray Dog.

"I wasn't trying to—"

"A police officer's son, running around with a fucking Stray Dog! Was it not enough for you to be serving them drinks, you wanna join their fucking escapades now too?" My father continued. "Don't even—don't tell me that's who you're living with! You're living with that bastard, aren't you?"

His finger jutted out accusingly at a figure in the distance.

Noah. Standing a good few feet from the entrance of the bar, he had Chains and the chief of the Stray Dogs in tow. I could see the rage in his eyes. His anger, though controlled, was directed solely on my father.

This was a disaster.

"Elliot, get back in the bar," Noah uttered to me from a distance. The calm tone of his smooth voice chilled me to the bone.

"It's fine," I stammered. "Everything is fine, just..."

"So you are!" My father yelled at me. "Well, isn't that just fucking perfect? Get in the car. We'll finish this back home where you fucking belong. I can't stand to look at these bastards. Let's go, Elliot."

"No!" I blurted out. "I don't want t—"

I felt the impact of the blow before I could finish my sentence.

My father slapped me across the face.

The sound of his hand forcefully colliding with the side of my cheek cut through the crisp night air. Everything and everyone fell silent afterward—the shock seemed to extend past me alone. My head had lurched to the side purely from the force of it. The collision had caused a scorching pain to ripple through my skin and was enough for thin tears to form uncontrollably in the corners of my eyes.

I bit the bottom of my lip hard. My nails dug deeply into the tender muscle of my palms. I couldn't hear anything past the hammering of my heartbeat and the ringing in my ears.

So... that was it, then. He wanted a reaction out of me.

My father wanted me to fight him out here. He wanted me to object, but... I had nothing left to give. What was the point of trying anymore?

My father was a broken man. He never listened. I was just a burden on his life, his greatest shame. And maybe he was right—maybe I'd made a mistake by staying with Noah. I was selfish, right? I was selfish again.

There was no point in arguing anymore. Of making the effort to be what my father wanted in a son. Things would never change. He hated me. Someway, somehow, I'd failed us both when Mom died. Because I didn't just lose her that day—I lost whatever love my father had for me too.

Years and years of clawing so desperately for some kind of affection from him, yet none of my efforts ever mattered. And there was no reason to fight with him. There was nothing to be gained by giving him the reaction he wanted.

Nothing ever changed.

"Get in the car, Elliot," he snarled. "Hanging with these fucking gangsters... living with one... working for them! It makes me sick. Have you no shame?"

My reply escaped as a whisper. "They treat me better than you ever did."

And I saw it in his eyes. The way my answer seemed to function like gasoline, igniting the raging flames of anger in his pupils. I watched in defeat as his hand rose to strike me one more time, and my eyes shut tightly in expectance of the blow. But it never came.

When I opened them again, I was winded by the scene in front of me.

James had a tight grip on my father's hand, which was caught just inches away from my face. His nails were digging cruelly into my father's skin. The emotionless face he usually had remained, but the wild look in his obsidian eyes told me he was burning with hot fury.

My father was an even stranger sight. Never had I seen an expression like this from him before.

He was... scared?

"What's the matter, Malcom?" James taunted my father, his words as deadly as venom. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

My father's eyes widened.

This was the first time he'd seen James in years. He always thought that James was a bad influence, but I never would've thought he feared him. What was there to be so afraid of?

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. James contracted his grip on my father's wrist, and I began to fear that he was hurting him.

"Stop," I said, but my voice lacked both conviction and influence. "Stop it. We're leaving now—we're leaving."

"K-Kato," my father stuttered, his focus narrowed entirely on the man beside me.

"Dad, please. Let's go."

I took a hold of my father's arm, giving cause for James to reluctantly let go. Clutching his wrist, my father slowly turned his stunned expression to me while I made an effort to get out of the situation.

"We're leaving, okay?" I said softly, in an effort to calm his temper. "We're going home."

After a moment of hesitation, my father finally conceded. I watched as he got into the passenger side of the car, rubbing the place where James had gripped his arm.

"Don't go with him," James spoke to me. "He'll only end up hurting you."

The words made me swallow hard.

I stepped away from James and wrapped my arms around my torso. Ignoring his plea, I walked over to the car where my father was sitting impatiently, passing James a frustrated glance.

"You didn't care five years ago," I said through gritted teeth, forcing the syllables from my lips. "It's too late for you to start caring now."

"Elliot!"

My glance locked onto Noah when he called my name. His eyes swirled with intense concern, darkened by the scene that had unfolded before him. More than anything, I knew that he didn't want me to go. And more than anything, I didn't want to leave.

My legs felt like they would give out beneath me.

"Just... stay away from me," I said to them, keeping my eyes trained on the car door. "Both of you."

That was the last thing I said before I got in after my father and drove away from Joe's Bar.

Earlier...

"As long as you're bending over backward for police... don't expect the rest of us to bend too."

The words echoed in my head for a long while after Spooks left the bar. Standing with Chief at the end of the counter, I listened to the chatter of the bar while tapping my nails against the glass of Jim Beam in my hands.

Elliot's ex was here. James. Kato.

Sitting across from Elliot a few stools down, he had a bottle of wine with him and an unreadable expression as he listened to whatever Elliot was telling him. I stared at his smug face and wished I could throw my fucking glass at his head. Abusive prick.

"Would you stop that?" Chief said gruffly, referring to the incessant tapping. "The whiskey is there for a reason—for God's sake, drink it."

Fair point.

I chugged down whatever was left at the bottom of the glass and left it on the counter with a heavy thud. My ringed fingers brushed through my hair.

"Look, a little rebellion is normal, all right?" Chief told me. "We both knew that going legal wouldn't please everyone, but it was the right choice. Boston is safer because of it. Spooks will come to his senses eventually—once that old bastard finally sobers up."

"Yeah, and what if he was right?"

Chief met my gaze as I continued to speak.

"Ever since my father passed, it's been like everything I say falls on deaf ears. Nobody around here listens anymore. I had to spend an hour the other day explaining to Bones that he can't be carrying a loaded gun around the bar, and you know what he said to me? He said, it's softies like you that are the reason this city's going to shit." Pinching my fingers together, I emphasized, "This close. I was this close to cutting his vest off him and leaving him to bleed out in the mud."

He swirled the bottle of beer in his hands and shrugged. "You plan on fighting everyone who disagrees with you?"

I sighed.

"You know that's not it," I said. "There's a difference between conflicting opinions and just plain stupidity."

"Yeah, well, part of being a leader is putting up with both," Chief told me, itching the scruff of his beard. "In a few months, the Stray Dogs will be yours to handle. I'm not going to be holding your hand through it anymore—if you want people to follow you, you've got to listen to them as much as they listen to you. Your father knew that. And when he moved, they moved."

"Yeah, but I'm not my father," I muttered, scratching the back of my neck. "He did things to help the city. He made a fucking difference. I keep trying to live up to that, but... people know. They know I'm not him. "

He shook his head. "You're right. You're not. But you two are cut from the same cloth, alright? You're a thinker, like him. Resourceful, like him. A fucking leader like him, you hear me? And I'm tired of listening to you think any different—because you don't see yourself like we see you. Hell, the only reason we've made it legit for so long is because the people here trust your judgment. So remind them why they do. Trust yourself for once."

I contemplated his words, bouncing my leg beneath the bar counter.

"Do you think it was ever going to work out?" I asked quietly, "Having us go legit in the first place?"

Chief thought on it for a moment.

"I don't think being legit is the problem, kid. I think... over the years, we just forgot our purpose," he explained. "Your father was a man with ambition. His purpose was to clean up the city, and the Stray Dogs going legit was just a byproduct of that. There's more to being a Stray Dog than all this, after all, and I think you know that too. So if you want things to change around here... give them all a purpose again."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

He chuckled to himself. "I'm here telling you to listen to people, and it's like you haven't been listening to anything I've said at all."

I passed him a flat look.

Chief got off his barstool and held his beer up to me in a half-hearted salute. "Just think about it, alright?"

I watched my uncle walk away and stared after him, reflecting on his words.

Give them a purpose.

Easier said than done. Where was I even supposed to start? With listening?

Shit had been hitting the fan since the street racers first rode their bikes into Boston. That much was clear. So if I was listening to what Spooks said earlier... then perhaps he wasn't that far off the right track. We couldn't expect things to change on their own.

We could sit here hoping for the police to get their shit together and work it out themselves... or we could get up off our asses, get out there, and do something to fix the problem instead of pointing fingers and giving in to infighting.

How could I have been so fucking stupid?

I was brought out of my thoughts by the sound of a bar stool screeching against the ground.

Tensing at the sound, I followed it until my gaze rested where Elliot and James had been standing earlier. Only Elliot wasn't there anymore, and James was well on his way out of the bar.

You could tell from his rush that something was going on.

What the fuck did he say to him?

Getting up from my barstool, I followed behind the guy, bolting through the front doors to the bar. Chains and Chief must have seen me leaving, because they followed not long after.

The scene I saw unfolding down in the parking lot made my blood burn.

Elliot and his father were standing a few yards away. Elliot had his head down to his chest while his father swore abuse in his face. Fury burned hot in my veins. It wasn't even an argument. Elliot hardly got more than a few words in between the venom that Malcom was spitting from his mouth. I could see him flinch whenever his father got close enough to hurt him.

And the impact came before I had the chance to stop it.

Malcom struck Elliot across the face. Shock flooded my nerves when I saw it happen. Rage overcame my senses, igniting the adrenaline in my veins.

In fact, I was probably standing about three feet behind Elliot with my hand in a tight fist, ready to hit Malcom myself, but someone else interrupted me before I got the chance.

Elliot's stuck-up ex. James.

The fucking nerve on him—it was unparalleled.

He pressed the bottom of his fist against my chest, preventing me from getting any closer to the situation that was unfolding. He must've known that I was itching to hit Malcom in retaliation. The gesture wasn't rough by any means, but I knew James did it in warning: back off.

At least one of us had the common sense not to escalate the argument.

So I decided to let James deal with the situation. Because if I took it upon myself to do it, I was going to fucking jail.

"What's the matter, Malcom?" I listened to him ask, some kind of savage look in his dark eyes while he dug his fingers into the older man's wrist. It was strange how he could portray such cruel sadism in a face that was so entirely inexpressive. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

The two of them had history. Spectacular.

In an effort to calm myself, I found my focus turning to Elliot.

I couldn't even begin to imagine the thoughts that must have been running through his mind. It was all mirrored in his eyes: fear, panic, frustration, pain... the look on his face said it all. That he wanted to escape.

"Just... stay away from me," he said, slowly turning his focus from James to me. "Both of you."

And when he ignored the two of us to leave in the car with his father, a sense of crippling anxiety began to enter the forefront of my mind.

My scowl turned to James, who had his hands in the pockets of his coat with a flat expression to match. The look he passed me was cold. But I didn't tell him off for letting Elliot leave. No.

Instead, I hissed under my breath, "For Fuck's sake."

Disconnecting my attention from him, I looked back up at the parking lot, shaking with rage. Bikers had come outside to witness the chaos, and those who'd already been standing in the parking lot seemed frozen to their places with cigarettes in their mouths. Fucking spectators.

"Don't you all have anything fucking better to do?" I snapped at them. "Get back in the fucking bar."

The scowl on my face deepened as they passed each other sideways glances but slowly complied with my order. While they were busy going back inside, I took it upon myself to address Elliot's ex.

"If Malcom lays a hand on Elliot because you let him go... I promise the Hell I'll drag you through will be fucking biblical."

James let out a light scoff in response.

"You think the threats of a street rat like you intimidate me?" He said simply, a humored look of disbelief flashing over his eyes. "Ha. What a joke."

The piercing on my tongue grazed along the bottom of my teeth while I shoved my hands in my pockets. I found some amusement in his words. He seemed to think of himself as something special, carrying himself so fucking holier-than-thou as if everyone else was expected to bend to his will. And that kind of ego never ended well. Especially not for men like him.

Keeping my gaze trained on the road, my voice came out flat and bitter.

"For someone who was once a street rat himself, you sure do talk a lot."