— Chapter 53 —

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I paid for my cab ride home that night, leaving James on his own with the knowledge of what he'd so forcefully uncovered.

For the life of me, I didn't understand what happened between us in that club.

My arms never once stopped hugging my torso since the minute I left him. Nobody was ever meant to see those bruises. Not my father, not James, not any set of eyes that weren't my own in a mirror. My wounds were the worst part of me, and they were mine. But last night, for a few short moments... James had stolen them. He pulled open the curtains and forced me to display the most vulnerable side of myself.

But he'd finally given me an apology.

A genuine expression of remorse over the pain he'd caused me since the day he left. I hadn't forgiven him for what he'd done, but hearing him apologize was a good starting point in trying to mend our fractured connection. We weren't on the best of terms with each other, but... we could be civil. And my soul deserved a little bit of repose from the resentment I'd been carrying for him, I supposed.

I'd managed to drink last night without going overboard. I wasn't stumbling out of the car when I finally got back to the apartment. Finding my way inside after fumbling a bit with the keys, I ended up collapsing on my bed without even taking off my shoes. Every part of me was exhausted.

My bed was so soft. And it smelled so much like vanilla.

Like Noah.

I passed out the minute my head hit the pillow and didn't wake up until long after the first few rays of sunlight had filtered through the window.

My limbs were still asleep—one of my legs tingled from an intense wave of pins and needles, making me grumble incoherently into my pillow from the nightmarish sensations. The sun blared in my face and scorched my retinas, fuelling the headache at the back of my skull.

But something was wrong.

Shuffling to get a better understanding of the blurry shapes within my vision, I squinted, unable to register anything in my groggy daze. Did someone change the bedsheets? They were crisp, white, and freshly-cleaned, but smelled overwhelmingly of vanilla. And every time I pulled the blankets up to cover my shoulders for warmth, they snagged on something and slipped right off again.

"Make a wrong turn last night?" Someone's deep voice purred beside me, making me jolt up on the bed in alarm.

Noah's bed.

With his lower half buried beneath the blankets, Noah's back was to me with his arm beneath his pillow, dark locks of hair spanning the fabric. It looked as if he were still half asleep, peering at me from the corners of his eyes beneath thick lashes.

Raking stray locks of hair away from my forehead, I did my best to splutter an intelligible sentence. "I—what—how did I get here?"

"Wasted. How else?" He chuckled lazily to himself, the raspiness evident in his low morning voice. "Drunk you seemed to have no problem invading my bed and clinging onto me like a glorified body pillow."

God, please tell me I'm dreaming.

I could picture it already. My disoriented mess of a self stumbling into Noah's room, stinking of booze and deliriously sleepy, collapsing onto his bed and hugging around him for dear life. Whenever I was drunk or high, I had a tendency to cuddle. Obsessively—with whoever was willing to return the embrace. I could only pray that I hadn't made any moves on him in my touchy state... but that was probably a long shot.

Heat singed my cheeks and I quickly blurted out, "I'm so sorry."

Noah grinned into his pillow.

"I sincerely hope so," he said. "You reeked. But I guess I'll let it slide... only because it was hilarious. And maybe a little adorable."

Frowning at him in embarrassment, I quickly noticed that I was dressed down to my jeans and a sleeveless shirt. All the other layers had been pulled off—but at least I wasn't naked.

"What happened to my clothes?"

The sound of his heavy morning voice was nothing short of sinful. "I had to wrestle them off. You know... to save my nose hairs from being fried to a crisp."

I want to crawl into a hole and die.

Noah was shirtless, and I could feel his warmth radiating through the sheets in waves. The free view of his tattoos spanning his lower back wasn't something I'd been able to see before. I couldn't tear my gaze away from them.

It was as if Noah thought that his body was just a canvas for him to decorate. Beautiful artworks proudly complimented his warm skin. One or two were incredibly complex, while most were interestingly minimal. There were a few quotes marked in cursive writing too, though I wasn't close enough to read them. A tattoo etched into his rib cage seemed to be the largest of all of them: a black '' in bold font on his torso, peeking out from below Noah's arm.

He teased me with a softness to his smooth drawl. "Like what you see, Alley Cat?"

My reply escaped in a flustered mess.

"I-I have work."

I spoke the answer as if it were somehow an excuse to stop ogling his figure. Jesus, Elliot. Tearing my eyes away from him, I pulled off the sheets and stumbled out of the bed, using the wall for support in an effort to keep my knees from buckling beneath me. This is so mortifying.

"Eat something before you go, at least," he mumbled with a half-hearted wave, before collapsing his face on his pillow. Whatever followed after was only an incomprehensible jumbling of syllables muffled by satin fabric.

Gathering the dirty clothes that I'd found lying on the dresser, I pulled off my pungent shirt knowing that Noah wasn't awake enough to notice.

He'd seen me with my shirt off the night he came to Joe's with a gunshot wound in his side, but if he'd noticed my bruises... he never said anything about it. Having someone seeing me so openly like that made me anxious—especially now after what happened with James the night before.

"Oh, and by the way," Noah hummed.

I covered my chest with the pile of dirty clothes and passed him a look, though his head still hadn't moved from being buried in the pillow.

"Next time you're the little spoon."

I was working the afternoon shift at Joe's on Friday night a few days later.

It was convenient timing—Lucille's party started a bit earlier than midnight, so I had some time after my shift to get changed into something that was slightly more presentable and didn't smell of booze. Eve had taken over the bar by the time I was leaving. It hadn't been too busy for a Friday night.

In a plain black t-shirt and faded jeans, I'd tied my hair back and huffed at the fringe that reached down to my eyebrows. I couldn't go anywhere with my hair out nowadays.

Riven was waiting in the parking lot for me. A smile pulled on my cheeks at the sight of him, sitting in the driver's seat of his blue Subaru with the windows rolled down and a sucker in his mouth.

He honked the horn and waved me over with a toothy grin. "Get a move on!"

I bolted over in long strides and stopped by the passenger side, meeting Riven with a fist bump. He had a friendly gleam in his eyes, his brown locks of hair resting messily in tight curls on his head.

"There's enough vodka in the trunk to knock out a Russian," he joked. "Start praying that tolerance of yours holds up tonight, Taylor."

"Well, it's not going to drink itself," I declared. "Let's go, Riv."

It was a bit before eleven when Riven and I found Lucille's new home. We spent the car ride laughing over little conversations and enjoying the breeze from the car's parted windows, eventually ending up in a neighborhood of rather impressive two-story houses. About halfway down was a nice high-set home in ivory white paint, and the front lawn was decorated with flowers and hedges... and red solo cups.

You could see colorful lights flashing from the windows as noticeably as you could feel the thrumming of bass-heavy music beneath your feet. People were scattered all over the place, chatting in groups outside and on the balcony. Cars and motorcycles littered the sides of the street, which forced Riven to park further down the road. When we finally made it up to the front door, the scent of alcohol had already begun to invade my lungs.

Someone must have heard 'housewarming party' and taken it to a whole new level.

People were everywhere, and as we made our way inside, I kept noticing a few individuals around that were proudly donning biker gang vests—and familiar ones at that. It explained all the sticker-covered motorcycles outside. A confused frown pulled on my face as I spoke up to Riven.

"Why are there Stray Dogs here?"

Riven scoffed lightly in amusement.

"Say the words open house and free drinks, and you'll get them by the dozen."

His words prompted a small smile from me as we pushed through the bodies dancing in the living room. It was a lovely house, with an open floor plan that was embellished by stylish furniture, thriving plants, and spotless picture frames up on walls. Though, on a night like this, the place was alive with drinkers, partygoers, and even a few familiar faces. Portable spotlights offered dim lighting in hues of red, green, and blue. Inebriated drunks were stumbling around here and there, with a few brazen girls dressed half-naked and laughing along with their male companions. Red solo cups were littering the floor. The smell of weed was strong; the smell of alcohol was even stronger.

The entire scene was a striking reminder of the parties I went to in high school. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been to something like this.

Venturing through the party by Riven's side, it seemed as if we were roaming around aimlessly at first. Then, with a flash of blonde, I spotted Lucille laughing as she followed behind another familiar head of chestnut-brown hair. Nate.

"Over there," I pointed out to Riven, but he'd already seen them too.

Pushing through the crowd, Riven called out to them with a big smile. Turning their attention to us, surprise immediately crossed their faces.

"You guys made it!" Lucille grinned with delight.

She quickly ran over with a bottle of beer in her hands and enveloped Riven in a big hug. Nate bumped my fist with a friendly look in his eyes, and I couldn't help but notice the impressive electric guitar strapped to his back. Lucille hugged me not long after, and the strong scent of alcohol coming off her punched me in the face. That, and weed—she'd definitely gotten the party started.

Nate fist-bumped Riven, who briefly slung his arm over Nate's shoulders. "So that's four out of five," he pointed out, referring to James' lack of presence.

Did he decide not to come?

"Damn," Lucille joked with glazed eyes, "and here I was, hoping to get the band back together."

Lucille wasn't part of the actual band but had formally dubbed herself our manager back in high school. It wasn't a role we'd originally planned for, but it turned out to be incredibly helpful. She'd help us with posters, venues, and setting up equipment. From time to time she helped me out with backing vocals, though that was usually if James couldn't do it himself.

"Slow your roll there, Ms. Manager," chuckled Riven, earning a fake pout from the blonde. "All in due time."

"Then let's go!" She announced to the three of us. "Angela's somewhere upstairs with the amp so we can plug in Nate's guitar."

Angela's here too? I thought to myself, but Nate passed me a smile and nudged my shoulder.

"Hope you've been practicing, Little T," he teased, using a nickname that I hadn't heard since high school. "You're not going home without playing me a few chords."

"I, um... I haven't really," I admitted. Lucille was spearheading the group to the staircase, dodging people standing in her way. "My old one broke."

"Broke?" He asked with wide eyes. Riven stuck his head into the conversation and replicated the surprise.

"The chords snapped a while back," I explained sheepishly. "I um... I never got them replaced. It's probably still in the basement."

"Man!" Riven said, throwing his arm over my shoulders to mess up my hair. "What did I tell you? You always did strum too hard. We'll come over sometime to help you fix it."

Nate echoed in amusement, "Only you could wear them down that quickly."

"I didn't do it on purpose, I swear."

"Well, try not to bust this one," chortled Nate, gesturing to the cherry-red guitar strapped to him. "This guitar is the love of my life."

Entertained, Lucille teased, "What about your girlfriend?"

"Oh, yeah—Leah is great too," Nate quickly nodded, making Riven and I laugh. "But it's not impossible to find true love more than once. You'll understand when you hear it play."

The four of us got up to the second floor, and after checking a few rooms, Lucille finally found Angela in a spare living space behind a closed door. "Bingo!" She announced, ushering the rest of us inside.

"Heyo!" Angela slurred to us, clearly beyond being sober if the discarded beer bottles on the floor were any indication.

Sitting on a large, black amp near one of Lucille's TVs, she gave us all a pearly smile as we invaded the space. The amp seemed to be plugged into one of the outlets but wasn't turned on.

Riven dived head-first into the blue couch in the middle of the room, spotting a few untouched bottles of beer on the floor beside him. He popped it open with his teeth as Lucille flopped onto a plush comforter beside him. Nate and I locked onto the amp.

Plugging the guitar in and turning on the amplifier, I watched with awe as Nate strummed the cords to his guitar, musical notes cutting loudly through the air with ease.

"Sheesh!" Riven said in amazement from the couch, holding his beer up in a toast. "Where the hell did you find this thing?"

"Found her all banged up at a garage sale. Goes for two grand nowadays and the poor guy was just giving it away for nothing," Nate said, tuning the guitar. "All she needed was some fresh chords and a bit of paint—and voila."

Lucille passed him a humored look. "How many guitars do you have? It's gotta be a dozen by now if you keep fixing them up like this."

"I've lost count," Nate nodded. "One for every day of the week, surely."

He gave us all a soft grin, strumming a few cords and letting its gritty rock tone fill the air. Riven laughed at the sound, Lucille's expression glowed with amazement.

Nate stuck the guitar out and nodded to me. "Have at it," he said, flopping down on a spare seat when I eventually took it from him.

I stammered timidly, "I'm kinda rusty."

He joked, "And I'm kinda gonna punch you in the face if you don't play something. So, up to you."

Riven propped his legs up on the other end of the couch and joked to Lucille, "Maybe we do need to get him drunk after all."

I stuck my tongue out at them childishly.

Taking a seat on the plush carpet near the coffee table, I leaned back onto the couch and pursed my lips down at the guitar. My fingers ran through the fringe that had gotten in my eyes. What to play, what to play...

Nate's guitar was lovely. From the looks of it, it was a classic Fender, but you could tell that it had seen its fair share of use. Nate seemed to have cleaned it up with a bit of oil on the fretboard and some paint, but that was only to disguise the small scratches that scarred its body.

I strummed the chords and squinted when syrupy sounds rippled loudly through the amp. Riven chuckled. I finally bit the side of my cheek and slowly began to play one of the tunes that I'd practiced on Noah's guitar. Nothing too flashy, but a nice melody.

"Hey, there we go!" Lucille smiled, holding her beer up in praise.

I continued to play while the others began to drown themselves in conversation—only to flinch in alarm when someone's hands suddenly found contact with my head.

But it was just Angela, who must have snaked behind me when I hadn't been paying attention. Grazing her fingertips along my scalp in all her drunken stupor, she sighed with awe, "Your hair is so soft..."

I mumbled dumbly, "I uh, um—"

Angela didn't retract her hands, marveling at a lock of my hair that she was smoothing with her fingers. The stench of alcohol coming off her assaulted my nose. I didn't even have the guts to tell her I was uncomfortable.

"Lucy!" She whined out to her blonde friend, who was grinning from her spot on the comforter. "Come help me braid it..."

Giving in to their whims with a short sigh, I leaned back as Angela took a seat behind me on the couch with an excited giggle. With Lucille leaning over to watch, the two started messing around with my hair—probably tangling it more than actually putting it in braids, but the moment for me to complain had already passed. They were too stoned to listen to me, anyway.

I didn't like people touching my head.

Strumming a slow song or two while listening quietly to the chatter of the group, I ended up laughing at the jokes and cracking a few myself. It was a weird feeling, being in a group with all my old friends again. We'd all been apart for so long, so the scenario was just bizarre... but at the same time, they were my own little fountain of youth. At a party like this, as we laughed together without a care in the world, I couldn't help but feel like a stupid teenager again.

The door to the living room opened while Nate and I were catching up.

"Jesus," said the familiar voice of a biker as they walked in, "you guys having a slumber party in here or what?"

Angela cheered with a fist-full of my hair, "Chains! What the hell are you doing here?"

But it wasn't just Chains. Walking in behind him was the very handsome vice president of the Stray Dogs... dressed in all black with a shiny leather jacket and chunky, branded sneakers. Noah. His dark hair fell in loose waves down his forehead, faint circles beneath his eyes somehow emphasizing the golden color of his irises.

Noah had hardly been in the room for more than ten seconds and I was already shamelessly staring. The way he looked had to be breaking a few laws somewhere. He was just that attractive.

His piercing eyes locked with mine as Chains held up his phone to Angela.

"You texted me," the silver-haired biker explained to her, carrying a bottle of liquor in his other hand. "Said something about bringing tequila but from the looks of things... you probably don't need it. Also, you've been butt-dialing me for the last hour."

I hadn't even been paying attention to their conversation, because Noah and I seemed to be having a conversation of our own. Silently.

Affection gleamed in his gaze, which refused to separate from me for even a moment. There was a small pull on the side of his lips. Amusement, probably from the sight of my hair being braided by two very drunk women. And that wasn't all—I could also spot a red tint in the whites of his eyes. He's high?

Noah's attention finally turned to Angela and Lucille as he made his way to the couch. "Let me do it."

My eyes widened in an instant. Shooing the girls off the couch, Noah plopped himself down behind me and left me sitting between his legs. I found my breath hitching in my throat.