— Chapter 61 —

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"You have got to be kidding me," Angela's frustrated voice echoed through the apartment. "It's barely been twenty-four hours! Do none of you care that Edge needs his rest?"

"Time waits for no man," Shooter mused, making his presence known at the door. In front of him stood the Chief, while three senior members of the Stray Dogs made up the back of the line. All of them wore black leather vests over their shoulders.

Angela protested. "It can wait a goddamn day or two!"

"Believe me," Chief sighed, "I wouldn't be here if we weren't running short on options."

He scratched his beard and stepped through the front door, four other bikers following in tow. They made themselves comfortable in the living room—Shooter threw himself down on the recliner, Chief seated himself on a stool by the kitchen island, while two Stray Dogs took up the couch and Rusty raided the fridge for bottles of beer.

"Oh, make yourselves at home, then," Angela remarked sarcastically. I had to give her credit for saying what part of me was thinking.

"Would you please just go call him?" asked Chief. The aspiring nurse sighed, slowly giving in to leave in the direction of Noah's room. "Thank you, Angela."

"He barely gets enough sleep as it is," she grumbled. I didn't think anyone heard her.

She was the first person Chains called for Noah once the three of us got back to the apartment last night. Considering how extensive Noah's injuries were, with all the cuts and swellings and bruises on his knuckles, torso and face, he needed medical attention. As usual... no hospitals.

Angela pumped him with enough morphine and sedatives to down a horse. He'd been out like a light for the last six hours. Noah deserved the rest. I hadn't been fortunate enough to get more than an hour or two myself.

Once Angela was safely out of sight in Noah's room, one of the younger bikers on the couch grinned at his friend. He had a close-cut beard and tattoos down his arms.

"I'm just saying, man—there ain't nobody in Boston as fine as that goddamn nurse."

Shooter laughed. "Fuck's sake, Jaws. Are you trying to get your ass kicked?"

Jaws raised his hands in surrender. "Hey! Until Edge puts a ring on that finger and calls her Ol' Lady, Angela's fair game."

"Tell that to her," another biker snorted, sharpening his knife. Wilder, if I remembered correctly. He had a British accent. "She'd wipe the floor with you."

"Why you always gotta be so negative, huh?" Jaws asked, and I couldn't tell whether he was kidding or entirely serious. "It's like I'm always telling you, brother. You're a black hole for any goddamn positivity."

Bored, Wilder offered, "How about I put a black hole through your face?"

"Now that's just plain disrespectful."

While the two of them bickered amongst each other, the door to Noah's room opened again. This time, Angela walked out with a bare-chested Noah leaning on her shoulders for support. He had the lower half of his torso wrapped in white bandages—the gash had split again—and his skin was marked with purple bruises he'd been given during a fight in the race.

I bit the side of my cheek and kept my gaze trained on the floor. James' words from the party wouldn't leave me alone.

"Fuck, kid," spoke Rusty from the kitchen island. "They did a number on you."

Wilder reiterated, "You look like shit."

Noah grimaced against his pain and strained himself to sit on a free sofa, clutching his wounded side.

"I'll live."

"Rusty and I got the list of names," Chief announced to the group, skipping straight to business. "Far as I know, the cops haven't caught onto you being in that race. We might be in the clear."

Pulling a cigarette out of his half-empty box of Marlboros, Noah pressed his brows together. "Where's Chains?"

"He had some shit to take care of," answered Shooter. "Said he'll be back in a few."

I watched Jaws and Wilder lean over with lighters to burn up Noah's cigarette. He puffed smoke into the room and only offered them so much as a grateful nod.

"Does the bartender have to be here for this?" Rusty asked while I was distracted. "This is Stray Dogs business. We don't involve outsiders."

Noah's stare never let up off me as he leaned back into the sofa, inhaling deeply from his cigarette. My knees felt weak beneath me. He doesn't want me here, I panicked. I must look like such a moron.

"Far as I'm concerned, Elliot was the only one in this room who didn't leave me behind to die last night." Wreaths of grey debris left his lips as he spoke. "I trust him, which means from now on, anyone who has something to say about him can say it to the fucking devil in the mirror. I don't care to hear it."

The Stray Dogs effectively found themselves clamping their mouths shut.

I felt the slightest bit better.

"I've got somewhere to be," Angela said to the group, pulling her bag over her shoulder. "For the love of God, Edge... take care of yourself."

"Yeah." Noah didn't look to have paid attention.

"Thanks, Angela," I murmured as she passed. Considering all the hassle we put her through, the least she deserved was some gratitude. The brunette offered me a warm smile before she left.

Once she was gone, Shooter sat up on the recliner.

"Alright," he started. "Might as well get down to business—some of the boys aren't happy, Edge."

"Why not?"

Wilder sighed. "That fuss we made against Stray Dogs being caught racing... it just doesn't sit well with a few of us that you broke your own rule, is all."

Noah, fiddling with the metal piercing in his tongue, read the room before he answered.

"Midas threatened the lives and families of every rider in this motorcycle club. He's not like other bastards we've dealt with—that asshole has enough guns and connections to put us all in early graves. I didn't have a choice," he glared. "It happened and it's done. Whether you all agree with what I did or not is up to you."

Jaws put up a hand. "I have a question—why the fuck are we sitting on our asses instead of hunting that prick down? We know Boston best. There aren't a lot of places for rats to hide."

"Because killing Midas right now won't do any good," Shooter clarified. "Edge said that shithead works for someone, yeah? If we kill Midas, someone new pops up to take his place and it's back to square one."

Rusty looked at Chief. "Surely you don't expect us to let him get away with this?"

"No," he said. "We don't. That's why we're having this meeting. The Stray Dogs need a strategy, and we need it now. As it stands, we're all sitting ducks. No guns, no leverage, and the cops so far up our asses that we can't move."

"We can thank the VP for that one," Jaws snorted. Noah didn't look pleased.

"Enough with pointing all the goddamn fingers, alright?" Chief scowled. "Fucking hell, at this rate we're getting nowhere. No wonder that bastard's had the upper hand on us. We've been arguing amongst each other for so long that Midas has us chasing our own heads, while he's out ruining everything the Stray Dogs exist to protect. Haven't you all had enough?"

Noah spoke up. "We can't fight a violent war with nonviolence. If any of us want to keep our heads above water, we need guns of our own. The problem is that the second we have those guns in our hands... it all goes out the window. Stray Dogs go right back to being one-percenters again. Outlaws. In the eyes of civilians and the law... we become the enemy."

"That's why we're here," Chief finished, "to vote on it. Nobody picks up a gun unless we get a majority."

"Should we wait for Chains?" asked Jaws.

Noah shook his head and pulled the cigarette from his lips. "He hasn't shown yet. Chains follows my vote."

"Alright, then," Chief spoke. "All those in favor?"

Hands slowly went up across the room. Chief first, then Shooter and Wilder, with Noah taking some time to truly think on his position. Considering the legacy his father left behind by getting the Stray Dogs legal... I knew it couldn't have been easy for him.

Eventually, Noah's hand went up. Everyone looked to Jaws, who still had yet to answer.

After a moment of contemplation, the biker shook out his hair and scoffed. "Oh, what the hell? This city's always hated us anyway."

His hand went up. Five out of six—Rusty was the only one who kept his hand down.

"And Elliot? What about you?" Noah asked. I didn't pretend not to be uncomfortable by the sudden spotlight hanging over my head. "Do you think we should do it?"

"Oh, I don't think I..."

He searched my eyes. "Tell me. Please."

As an outsider in a room full of bikers, I didn't think my opinion held any weight. But if it came down to protecting people's lives...

"I think you're better safe than sorry."

Noah took the words in and offered a short nod. My gaze traced every outline of his tan skin, right down to the freckles across his nose and the simplistic tattoos spanning his bare chest. I wondered if he was cold.

"That's a majority," Chief affirmed. A biker briefly gestured to him. "Wilder?"

The Englishman told the group, "There's an army veteran down south that owes me a favor. He can get us access to guns—have them delivered to the garage in the next few days. Won't be much, but it might just keep us going for the next few weeks."

Chief nodded. "Good. From now on there won't be a Stray Dog in Boston walking around without a gun in their brief."

"Finally," Shooter grinned, rubbing his hands together.

"Orders to stop street races on sight," Chief continued. "Shred vests and destroy the bikes if necessary... but keep violence to a minimum and leave the cops alone. Civilians are still the priority."

Noah quickly cut in. "I want a bounty put on Han's head. Twenty grand to anyone who can bring him back alive."

My stomach sank.

"But he's... he's just a kid," I mumbled, feeling every pair of eyes in the room cutting through me.

"That kid shot me," said Noah through tight teeth. "Almost killed you. And as far as I know, Midas rarely lets him out of his sight. He's got information we can use."

"And after that? Then what?" I frowned. "You'll beat his face in and leave him out to dry?"

Shooter raised an amused brow. "Not opposed to that idea."

Noah gave me a look—his honey eyes pleaded for me to have some faith. His tone was softer. "I'll decide when I get to it."

I crossed my arms over my chest and stayed quiet, glued to the wall. The six bikers in the room continued to consider their next courses of action—I couldn't say it wasn't interesting, at least. I'd never seen anything like it.

Hard to believe I'd gone from sleeping in the cold to sitting in a meeting full of high-ranking Stray Dogs in only a matter of months.

The front door burst open to effectively disconnect me from my thoughts.

"Fucking shit, boys!" shouted Chains as he rushed in. "I just hit the goddamn motherload!"

"What's all that?" questioned Jaws. He gestured to the familiar-looking black duffle bags that the silver-haired biker was holding up in the air. As Chains dropped them down onto the coffee table in the middle of the room, shock sank in me like an anvil.

They were the same duffle bags I'd found at the races the night before—the ones being loaded into the truck, and the ones full of prize money that Noah was supposed to have won.

Grimacing from the motions, Noah was the first to unzip them. "Where the fuck did you get this?"

The moment the bags opened to reveal stacks of hundreds thrown on top of each other, the room broke out into conversation.

"I thought I'd take a look under the hood of that car," said Chains. Wilder got up to pick up a stack of cash, holding it to his nose. "Did some digging—found this shit in the trunk. It's gotta be half a million, at least."

"Holy hell," Wilder breathed.

Chains asked, "Why the hell would Sage just fork us over half a million?"

"No. She didn't," Noah pushed the dark waves out of his eyes, frustrated. "Fuck. She told us not to take that damn car, Chains."

Chief glared at Noah. "You're saying we just stole half a million in cash from Midas and the Pit Vipers?"

"Oh, it just keeps getting worse," said Shooter. "I'm guessing these bags just put a target on all our backs."

"But we didn't steal it," I spluttered, coming to Noah's defense. "We couldn't have known."

Jaws laughed in disbelief. "Man—when they realize it's missing, do you think they're going to care?"

Rusty sighed and rubbed his wrinkled forehead. "Problems on top of problems, eh?"

Exhaling flurries of burning smoke, Noah packed all the money back up in the duffle bags.

"You brought this mess into the club," Chief told him calmly, "which means you and Chains are responsible for getting it solved. The rest of you know your jobs. If nobody else has any ideas..."

Noah finished for him.

"Meeting adjourned."

The Stray Dogs left not long after that. They walked out one by one until only Shooter and Chains were left. A tense silence seemed to fill the room. Everyone had their eyes on the duffle bags.

Chains ran his fingers through his metallic hair, blurting out, "Oh, we're so fucked."

My veins went cold. "Surely it can't be that bad—they might not even notice it's missing."

"A bag filled with thousands in cash and nobody notices it's missing?" Chains frowned. "Rule number one of the streets, kid! You don't steal shit from outside clubs unless you're looking to get a bullet in your head!" He tugged at his hair. "If they find out it's the Stray Dogs who've taken it from them—"

Shooter patted his friend's shoulder. "Deep breaths, buddy... deep breaths."

Chains looked like he was too busy bursting his own blood vessels.

"It's fake."

Chains and I snapped our attention to Noah—and the note of cash pinched between his fingertips that he'd set alight while we'd been talking.

It was burning black.

"Fake?" Chains repeated back to him, letting go of his own hair. "What does that mean?"

Noah flicked the burning paper out of his hands.

"It means this shit goes deeper than we thought," he said. "They're using the races to clean the cash—earning real money from bets while paying the winners back in fakes. And they haven't been caught yet... which could mean that the money looks real enough to get through the banks."

Shooter took a second to process. "I guess that explains why they have so much of it. The races are just smoke and mirrors."

"Jesus Christ," Chains breathed. "Oh, we've really done it this time."

Noah sighed and adjusted his bandages. "Well, you're always telling me you miss the glory days."

"So this is it?" Shooter asked, eyebrows raised. "Stray Dogs are back in business?"

I thought for sure that Noah could see the dread on my face. His answer to the question was so deceptively simple—but it left a weight on the conversation.

"We may not have the choice."

I watched Noah zip up the two duffle bags and get to his feet with some effort. He stated, "I'm leaving for New York tonight. We can deal with this mess when I get back."

My brows shot right up. New York? Noah hadn't mentioned anything about leaving Boston, and from past conversations, I thought he was set on avoiding the place altogether.

Surprised, Shooter questioned, "Hey—that's where your family is, isn't it?"

"What's so urgent down in New York?" asked Chains.

"It's nothing to worry about," Noah promised. I wished I shared his superpower—being able to tell when someone was lying. It would've come in handy at a moment like this. "I'll only be gone for two days. I'm sure you two can handle things without me."

Two days?

"Whatever you say, man." Chains sighed. "Say hi to the folks for me."

Shooter teased, "A vacation, huh? Don't have too much fun down there."

Noah rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Shooter."

Chains muttered to Shooter as the two of them were leaving, "Never a day off in this life, man."

His friend laughed. "At least it's not boring."

Shutting the door quietly once they left, I found myself gripping the door handle for a moment, stuck in thought. Noah grumbled unintelligibly under his breath as he leaned down to put his cigarette out on an ashtray.

"You didn't say anything about leaving Boston," I muttered so quietly that I wasn't sure he heard me.

Noah tilted his head, wavy locks falling over his brows. "Sorry," he apologized. "I know it's sudden. I just... Midas made some threats. The kind of things I don't want to take my chances on."

"About your family?"

He briefly clenched his jaw. "I'll take care of it," he assured me. "Like I said, there's nothing to worry about."

Someway, somehow—like magnets—the two of us met each other in the middle of the room. I found myself taking his hand, entwining my fingers with his own. His warmth seemed to engulf me like a mug of hot chocolate on a winter morning.

"You don't have to handle these things alone, Noah," I whispered caringly to him. "You can talk to me."

"To be honest, Darling..." he murmured, "it's you I've been more worried about."

"Me?"

Softly, he asked, "How are you holding up? Things have been so hectic lately that I haven't had a minute to ask if you're alright."

It wasn't often anyone asked about me. I thought for sure I was melting into a puddle. "I'm okay," I promised him. "I'll be better when you're all healed."

He chuckled. "In that case, I feel fantastic. Not aches, no pains—nothing. Practically good as new. Do you feel better now?"

I couldn't help a smile.

"You're an idiot," I told him.

"Only when necessary."

Tugging me by the hand towards his room, Noah eventually pushed the door open and found the fresh packets of gauze on his nightstand. "What're we doing?" I asked, watching as he dropped himself onto the edge of his bed.

"Mind if you help me change the bandages?" he asked awkwardly. "I think this one came loose—it's about to soak through."

I frowned in disappointment and plucked the gauze from him. "This is exactly why you should be on bed rest."

He grinned with pearly teeth. Carefully undoing his bandages, he joked, "Bed rest? Why? I just told you—I feel great."

"Really? Imagine how amazing you'll feel with eight hours of sleep."

"Maybe if you were in the bed with me," he flirted, some kind of sultriness in the way his eyes seemed to tease me. I undid the tape around the fresh gauze while he continued. "I bet I'd feel real awesome then."

I smirked at him. "Little spoon again?"

"Wow," he scoffed dramatically. "Someone's confident."

The smile didn't wipe off my lips as I bandaged him up again, trying not to focus too hard on the bruises on his skin. It hurt my heart to see them. Securing the gauze by wrapping bandages around his waist, I made sure they weren't too tight to be uncomfortable for him.

Tension was thick in the air between us. Our silence had let it grow, and the longer I found myself tracing his tattooed skin with my fingertips, the more electricity flared down my spine.

I cleared my throat and moved to pull away—Noah caught my hand before I could.