— Chapter 73 —

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I stopped believing in love a long time ago.

Love was an illusion for the hopeless; more trouble than it was worth. A parasite that latched onto naive people, sometimes the wrong people, and tightened its crushing grip until the only way out was to break—until freedom itself required self-destruction. Nobody who'd ever found love left it feeling whole.

I stopped believing in love because I wasn't whole anymore. I couldn't lose any more of myself to another heartbreak. I had nothing left to give.

Falling in love was my worst nightmare.

But... Noah.

Oh, he made it so tempting. Love from his lips sounded like a vivid dream. Like fresh mugs of warm tea. Like winter mornings spent tangled together in plush blankets. Simple. Weightless. Like healing wounds, or a breath of fresh air. With him, I could breathe. And it made me wonder exactly when I'd let myself become so suffocated.

He made the pain sound worth it.

"Hey, are you still with me?" asked a voice, cutting into my daydream.

My attention flicked back to my surroundings, like changing channels on a TV. James and I were sitting across from each other at a table in the hospital cafeteria. He had a half-empty iced americano in his grasp and a set of black headphones hanging around his neck.

The two of us had spent the morning together. Mostly because I'd asked him to give me a ride back to the apartment, eager to pick up a fresh change of clothes for myself and Noah. We stopped for takeaway on our way back. Noah hadn't eaten anything yet, and I'd spent the last few days listening to Chains complain through the door about the same old tomato soup he'd been fed for the third time this week.

I figured that the least he deserved was some good (albeit unhealthy) fast food. But the nurses were busy moving him to another room, so we had no choice but to wait in the cafeteria until Noah texted me with the all-clear.

"Sorry," I mumbled to James. "What were you saying?"

He sighed and set down his drink.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" He'd asked me that three times this morning. I'd counted. "You lived through something most people don't often go through. I... I'm here to listen to you, if you want to talk about it."

My head shook. "I'm fine. Really. Just a little tired."

Besides, I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. James never was one to know what to say in terms of making people feel better. It just made him awkward.

"Well, my offer still stands," he promised. "I know you want to be there for your friends, but I'm happy to offer you the spare bed in my loft until this all blows over. Especially if it means you get a good night's sleep."

I'm tired for different reasons. But I didn't say that out loud, as the memories of Noah's confession from the night before wormed their way back into my head.

Until Noah, nobody had ever uttered my name with so much devotion. I'd spent the last night trying to burn his voice, with every syllable and every subtle intonation, into my memory. Because I forgot a lot of things—but I never wanted to forget how divine he made those words sound.

I love you, Elliot Taylor.

"You're daydreaming again."

I sat up straight in my chair. "Sorry." He gave me an uncertain look, but I nodded to the laptop between us and spoke again before he could lecture me. "What are you working on?"

Obsidian eyes looked up, twinkling like midnight stars.

"You want to hear it?" he asked, moving the laptop so that I could see. I nodded curiously and took the headphones he held out for me. "A friend of mine sent over some vocals. I'm mostly just messing around with different sounds."

Putting the cushioned headphones on, I mocked him under my breath. "Vacation my ass."

He made a face and clicked play on the song. While a tune began to fill my ears, I stared in awe at the several instrumental tracks harmonizing on his screen. Stacked on top of each other, curved boxes in different colors lit up as they played, the individual components coming together in a slow-paced song. A woman was singing over the atmospheric melody, with her distinctive voice enriched by the music and not drowned out by it.

Woah.

The more I heard, the more impressed I became. Sure, I was an okay singer, but the technical stuff like this had always been James' specialty. He could make a song out of anything. He had the passion for it. Music made his eyes light up like nothing else, something not even he could hide behind that famously inexpressive appearance of his.

James, strangely shy, scratched the back of his neck as the unfinished song came to an abrupt end. "What do you think?"

"Holy crap," I said, taking in the glowing synths and buttery adlibs that played in the background. "You made this? All by yourself?"

He nodded. "It's a work in progress, and the chorus needs some fine-tuning, but... yes." He nodded. "I guess I did."

"James, this is crazy."

"Crazy as in good?"

"Crazy as in crazy." I pulled the headphones off. "That song is insane. If that's you messing around, what do you do for work? I mean... you got contracted to a label, right? You're making music with big artists now. That has to be exciting."

"Just a few singles so far. Maybe an album or two," he clarified, moving the laptop away. "It's fine. I enjoy it—gives me something to do all day."

"I feel a 'but' coming."

"But... it's nothing like what I could be doing with you."

I rested my head on my arm. "We talked about this."

"I know. You don't sing anymore. You told me." He shut the laptop and adjusted the collar of his black turtleneck. "But there's more to life than nine-to-five jobs and biker clubs. If you were with me, you'd be selling out stadiums."

Baffled by the notion, I let out an abrupt laugh. "Me? Stadiums? Come on. Be real."

"I'm being perfectly real." He interlaced his fingers and stared down his straight nose. "You have talent, Tiny. I've worked in the industry for long enough to know that there isn't a single record label out there that wouldn't sign you."

"Sure," I muttered. "They'd sign me—a nobody from the middle of nowhere."

James sighed.

He lowered his voice, emphasizing the seriousness of the situation. "You have to understand that I'm not staying in Boston forever, Elliot. I have to go back to LA eventually. And I want you to come with me."

He has to go back.

I hadn't even considered that reality before now. Of course he had to go back eventually—but the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. He has to leave again.

Only this time, rather than leaving me behind, he was inviting me along for the ride.

"What on earth," I questioned, "would I do in LA?"

"I know some people. We can make a few songs, produce the ones we already have—and I'm not saying it won't be difficult, but it's something. After all, we've done it before, right?" I found myself trying not to fall for the rosy conviction he spoke with. "Back then, when it was just you and I writing songs with a pen and a piano, you were happy. We can have that again."

Noah was my reality. And James' dreams were just that. Dreams. Maybe if he'd gotten to me first—months ago, when I hadn't met Noah—I would have said yes. Hell, I would have jumped at the opportunity.

But he hadn't.

"We can't," I breathed. "Don't you see? We can't have that anymore. Of course I want more in life; we all do. But more for me isn't music or singing, it's college. And I'm not going to throw away everything I've worked so hard for. Not even for LA."

He argued, "But you won't even give it a chance. How can you be so sure you won't like it when you haven't even tried?"

You just don't get it.

"I'm not the same person you left behind, James. The two of us... we don't want the same things. I'm not sure we ever did."

He leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly before he spoke. "No. I know you better than anyone. Boston, the Stray Dogs, that biker you're so charmed by. They'll entertain you for a while, but you're going to get bored of them eventually. You'll change your mind. You'll wake up one morning and realize that you haven't been happy."

His words struck a nerve. I scoffed.

"I already had that morning. Do you want to know when?" My hands closed themselves into fists. "A few months after you left. After the band fell apart. When Riven moved away, when Nate went to college, and when my mom was resting under six feet of dirt."

James didn't speak, so I continued.

"There was a morning—one morning, right before spring. I woke up bloodied and bruised on my bedroom floor, staring up at the polaroids on the wall. I didn't call anyone—didn't talk to anyone all day. I got high. I tore down all those polaroids and packed them into a box, went down to the docks, and watched every single one of those polaroids burn before the waves took them away. I burned them, because it was easier to live the rest of my life alone than surrounded by a past that didn't want me."

"Elliot—"

"Let me finish." My arms folded over my chest, holding me together. "That was the morning I knew what unhappiness truly meant. And I shouldered that unhappiness alone, because I knew life could never be worse for me than it was at that moment. So I quit smoking, rolled up my sleeves, got to work. Made... made myself useful, at least. I realized that I didn't need you to be happy—but I wasn't happy, either. I was just there." My chair scraped backward against the polished flooring. "So that morning? That was the morning the old me died."

I got to my feet and collected the paper bag of fast food while James stared up at me, too dazed to speak.

"Chains must have been settled into his room by now," I told him, voice as shapeless as it was quiet. "Are you coming or not?"

But I didn't wait for an answer.

I hate hospitals.

The thought echoed through my head whilst I led James through the halls. Knowing the floorplan like the back of my hand, it didn't take long to find Chains' new room. I'd forgotten to ask the nurses why he'd been moved, but the new location certainly made me feel a lot less stiff.

Noah was preoccupied in his usual spot by Chains' bedside. He messed around in the bag of clothes I'd brought in for him and quickly located his black beanie. I watched him recline himself on the armchair and tug the same beanie over his dark, messy, deep-brown hair. Manspreading, he rested his chin on his palm and fiddled absently with his tongue piercing.

James stood by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He'd said nothing since the cafeteria. Staring out into the hallway, his expression perfectly matched Noah's piercing glare. I tried not to pay too much attention to it.

"You... you good there?" Noah asked Chains.

Chains shook his head. He sniffled, cheeks slightly pink, emotionally beholding the fast food I was laying out on his bed tray. "It's enough to make a grown man cry."

"We made a pit stop for food on the way here," I told them. "I got you both a bit of everything—thought you guys might want to share."

Chains joked, "Hell no. He's not hungry. Isn't that right, Edge?"

Noah shrugged and looked away.

"Two double cheeseburgers," I listed, taking the food out of the takeaway bag. "Two large fries, ten chicken nuggets, apple pie... oh, and a Sprite. It's all probably gone a bit cold, though. Sorry."

He eagerly unfurled the greasy packaging of a cheeseburger. "So what? They've fuckin' been starving me here. Tomato soup and toast for days. Elliot, you're a godsend. Jeez." He tossed the crumpled paper at Noah. "Edge, if you don't cuff this guy, I will."

Noah glared at him with shadowed eyes. "Oy."

I dared to smile.

Noah, on the other hand, seemed... elsewhere. Staring off into the distance, his reclusive silence was a picture of quiet exhaustion. Aside from that moment in time we spent on the rooftop, I wasn't sure how much sleep he'd stolen for himself last night. Considering everything the universe had thrown at him in the last week, I'd been worrying about him nonstop.

I love you, Elliot Taylor.

A confession he probably didn't even remember making.

Noah's gaze flicked to mine. As if he'd caught me thinking about it; as if he'd read my thoughts. My heart skipped two beats. I put the takeaway bag down and looked to Chains, knowing all too well that Noah's stare was still burning holes into my head.

"I'm really sorry, Chains."

Chain's reply was muffled by the sauce-smothered burger he was too busy stuffing into his mouth. "Huh? What for?"

"The keys. I jumped to the wrong conclusion and thought you betrayed my trust. I doubted you, and for that I'm truly sorry." My posture shrunk beneath the weight of his stare. "I um—I hope you can forgive me."

A silence fell upon the room. My fingers fiddled with each other and curled nervously into my hands.

Chains put down his cheeseburger.

"You're good, man," he assured me. My shoulders felt ten times lighter. "Put me in that situation and I would have done the same fuckin' thing. It is what it is. Now quit it with that face." He looked to Noah. "The sad face he does—how are you supposed to argue with that?"

Noah muttered, "With immense difficulty."

An incredulous scoff surfaced from somewhere behind me.

Expression flattening into a scowl, the prince of the Stray Dogs grumbled to me, "Why is he even here? Did he run out of people to bother?"

"Believe it or not," James pointed out, "I can hear you."

"Fantastic," uttered Noah, his voice lacking color. "Well—you wanted to say something then, yeah? You look like you have something to say."

"Not today. Not to you."

"Funny." Chains reminded him, "When Midas was involved, you had plenty to talk about. What, now the cat's got your tongue? You know, if you ask me, Elliot—I think your friend's been hiding some shit."

James crossed his arms over his chest. Standing rigid, not even his critical stare seemed to hide the conflict in his eyes. But Noah and Chains were right. James had information. I hadn't pressed him on it because I didn't want to risk another fight—but the more time passed, the more my faith in him eroded away. Why does James know someone like Midas?

"They just want the truth," I promised. "You can trust them."

But James didn't look so convinced. He searched my eyes, and for a moment, I was foolish enough to think there was a chance he might've listened.

He huffed. Apparently not.

"I don't have to take this from you people," he dismissed, checking the time on his handcrafted wristwatch. "If you need me, Elliot, I'm out in the hall."

The footfalls of suede shoes resonated as James headed for the door, but Noah didn't let him get far. I felt myself be pulled forward as he jolted out of the armchair. Closing the distance between them, Noah snatched James by the lapel of his coat.

James' nostrils flared. I could see him making a conscious effort to control his anger—taking slow breaths, tensing his fists tight. His tone was the clean-cut blade of a knife.

"I'm going to ask you once to get your hands off me."

"My uncle's corpse is sitting in a morgue waiting to be buried," Noah snarled. "I don't give a shit what you think of me—you know something, and I've been waiting too long for answers from you. That changes today."

"You think I care about your uncle? So what if there's one less rat on the streets—" James shoved him back— "good riddance."

I gasped. "James!"

Too late. Noah's arm reared back; bone collided against bone. I watched his fist ram into James' cheek, forcing distance between them both as James stumbled back and collided against a floor cabinet. My hands flew to my lips.

"Noah, stop!"

James's face contorted into a scowl capable of murder. Crimson blood dripped from his nose. He wiped it gingerly with his palm, finding a stance on his legs. Noah cracked his neck and loosened up the muscles in his dominant arm. Waiting.

Chains moved his hand in the way before I could go to break up the fight. "No," he said, "they need this. Blinds are shut—let them at it."

"We're in the middle of a hospital!"

The wounded biker laid back in his bed, a box of fries in his grasp, and smirked. "Good. We'll have life support on hand if they kill each other."

His words were followed by the sound of a glass cup smashing against the wall behind Noah. He'd ducked out of its trajectory, the hard way quickly becoming the only path out of the situation. James huffed—perhaps in disappointment for missing.

"An ass-kicking is the only thing you people listen to," he uttered, pulling off his coat. Veinous hands balled into heavy fists. "Fine. We'll play it your way."

Noah taunted, "Need to warm up first?"

"You are the warm-up."

My heart caught in my throat watching Noah storm to James like a boxer thirsty for blood. James got him against the nose. One firm hit, knocking Noah's head back. I felt the impact from where I was standing. The biker staggered and gathered himself enough to duck beneath an oncoming strike.

"Talk," Noah spat, uppercutting a blow through James' ribs. "Who is he?"

But James stayed silent. He found his balance and popped a fast fist against Noah's jaw. The Stray Dog's head reeled back, blood spitting to the floor. Heat sprung to my cheeks. I can't watch this.

"James, please," I begged.

He flexed his bleeding hand. A hoarse groan left his lips. "He's a contractor," James finally confessed. "Commits crimes for cash. Anything for the right price if you've got the pockets to pay for it. He doesn't exist on any public or police records—he's the kind of man the FBI scratches their heads over."

"So?" Noah scowled. "What's that got to do with you?"

James blocked another fist with his arm and barraged his torn knuckles into Noah's torso. Noah hooked James in and beat his elbow repeatedly into his opponent's shoulder until James finally got the sense to back away.

When there was space, the biker grabbed James' jet-black hair. He slammed James' head against the top of the cabinet, exactly twice, every bang wrenching my gut into knots. James tried to fight free, but Noah dragged him up by the hair again and forced his opponent's face against the wall. James spat out blood. Crimson dripped down his right eyebrow.

"Talk!" shouted Noah, his voice hoarse and thick with anger.

"He works for my stepfather," James bellowed against the wall, the words slurred in his daze. "Councilman—the Councilman, Kato. They've known each other for decades. Midas was his personal advisor. More than that—if Kato wanted something done, something the public didn't need to know about, Midas was the one he called. Midas is here for him."

Chains had an ah-ha moment. "I knew that government prick was shady as fuck."

"And the street races," asked Noah, "the counterfeit money—that's what your pops wants done?"