— Chapter 74 —

=||=||=

In the next day or two, I found myself on the doorstep of the less-than-illustrious Joe's Bar.

Noah and Chains were still at Mass General. Chains was due for release any day now, and Angela was busy helping him get used to his crutches whilst Noah planned for Chief's funeral between the four walls of that hospital room.

It was a miracle they let him stay at all, with all the cuts and bruises on his face from his fist-fight with James. I felt sick just thinking about it—and everything that fight had finally told us.

I left to save your life.

The part of me that once loved James was now curled up in a corner of my mind, small and insignificant whilst panic alarms roared from every direction. A dissonance of thoughts—he lied to you. You blamed him. He loves you. He left you. You hurt him. You hurt each other.

Midas tortured him, and you were too self-obsessed to notice.

James never told me what was happening.

You spent five years wallowing in your own hatred for him, and it wasn't even his fault.

He was living three lives the entire time. One swept up with me, one trying to right the wrongs of his twisted family, and another trying to escape them.

Five years, wasted.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?

And Noah—damn it. Noah. He'd been going through Blitz faster than he could get his hands on it, and I never said anything on the off chance that he was right. That it was helping him. With his nightmares, or his pain, or anything else he hadn't yet told me about. And I should have known better.

There's a reason you can't get it over the counter.

Blitz could have killed him.

I cursed to myself, sauntering up the path to the front doors of the bar. It's all going so wrong. How did I let it all go so wrong?

How did we get into this mess? With Midas, street races, drugs, counterfeit money—but just a few months ago, I was a nobody. Some down-on-his-luck loner trying to make ends meet. All I wanted was to go to college, but even that was starting to look like an afterthought.

Noah turned my life on its head. Any sane person—anybody with half a mind would be packing their bags and high-tailing it the hell out of dodge. Me, though? I didn't even care. I just knew that I couldn't live with myself if I left him to deal with it all alone.

I'm insane, I repeated to myself. I must be insane.

Everything was going so wrong.

I didn't even know what I was doing here, at Joe's. It was mid-day, the harsh rays of a yellow sun blaring down on a deserted earth. There wasn't a soul in sight. No cars in the parking lot, no police officers, not even a stray chicken hopping over the neighbour's fence. The active crime scene from a few days earlier was now just a few ribbons of neon tape over the front doors that read ''.

My curiosity was stronger than the crime scene tape anyway, considering that they'd already snapped in half.

I held my breath while unlocking the doors with the spare key I had. Anxiety settled within me at the thought of what I might find waiting for me on the other side—blood, glass, bullets.

I swallowed a deep breath and shoved the doors open.

Nothing.

No glass, no bullets, no blood. The detectives must have found all the clues there were to find, because the bar looked to have been scrubbed clean. Spotless. Not even a smudge on the polished floors. Like the crime never even happened.

Flashes of that gruesome night were glitches in my vision that I had to will away as I stepped into the bar. All the blood and death that'd occurred here, wiped completely off the map. I knew the police wouldn't leave it here for anyone to find, but... it was hard to process how quickly they'd cleaned it all up.

The only memory I had of Chief's corpse was after Midas had finally left. I'd stolen a glimpse of the room from my spot behind the counter with James. I remembered Chief's body propped up in a heap against the wall, surrounded by a pool of blood, eyes wide open.

And now, I was staring at nothing. Not even a stain. Just painted walls and checkered flooring, decorated by the stench of chemicals.

I was sick of that stench, and I was sick of the quiet.

I turned the jukebox on to a random song and bumped the volume up to max. Which wasn't much, considering how old the thing was, but it was an improvement to the quiet from before.

In the back room, I found a mop and bucket. The bar was already clean to begin with, so I didn't really know what I was going for—but if I could manage to drown out the scent of bleach, then that was good enough for me. I hated the smell. I'd always hated that smell.

Wringing and scrubbing, I mouthed along absently to the lyrics of an old rock song whilst mopping the bar's black and white floor.

And after a few long minutes of my thoughts growing louder, I finally let myself remember that night on the rooftop. With Noah.

I love you, his voice echoed.

I love you, Elliot Taylor.

The words haunted me. I heard them whenever my mind wandered—in the eve of the morning, in the darkness of midnight, in cloudy dreams and in utter silence.

I'd never done anything to deserve love. Neither its joys nor its horrors. My life was better lived alone, like a barren island in an empty sea, never of real use to anyone. A place where there was no such thing as shame, or pain, or betrayal. Just... there.

That kind of independence was good. Plain and simple.

Love isn't made for someone like me.

The sound of hands clapping together jerked me from my thoughts.

I nearly dropped the mop out of my hands, startled and totally unfamiliar with who I was looking at.

It was a woman—tall, taller than me, strolling into the room with a kind of swaying grace that didn't suit her surroundings at all. Draped over her shoulders was a vintage, faux-fur coat that stopped at her waist. Outfitted in a maroon, knee-length sheath dress with dark tights and black ankle boots, she looked like a model from a 1950's Cosmopolitan magazine.

"Music's kind of loud, don't you think?" she remarked in amusement as I scrambled to turn off the jukebox.

Frick, frick, frick.

"Sorry," I stammered. "We're closed."

I nearly dropped the mop again when I spotted her dog.

Following at her heels was a Doberman Pinscher with floppy ears. Its deep black fur was aged with subtle streaks of grey, whilst its underbelly, chest and muzzle were a warm shade of fawn brown. In fact, the old dog's coat seemed to match the woman's peculiar hair—it was black with a grey streak at the front, but when she stood directly under the yellow lights of the bar, it looked almost brunette.

"Don't worry, hon," she spoke, with an accent I just couldn't seem to put a finger on. "I'm not here to drink."

I left the mop in its rightful place and hurried behind the bar counter—mostly to get away from her hound. We didn't usually allow animals in here. Especially not without their leashes.

"Goodness, this place is quiet, isn't it?" Her smoky voice was the sound of waves crashing against the shore. She took the time to look around, and it wasn't until she absently patted the Doberman that I realised she was talking to the dog. "Looks just the same as I left it. Well, minus the crime scene tape."

"Can—Can I help you?"

She tilted her head. "Hm," was her only response.

Uh... okay?

I watched her take a seat on the barstool directly across from me, struggling to guess her age—she looked so young and so old at the same time, as if time had completely forgotten about her. Pulling a notepad from the inner pocket of her faux-fur coat, the stranger clicked her pen and looked up at me with a pair of light-brown eyes.

"You're a bartender, right?" she asked. "Were you working during the robbery?"

My focus didn't lift off her notepad. Defensive, I said, "Are you a reporter or something?"

"Not at all." There was a reassuring kindness in the tone of her voice. "Just helpful to write things down sometimes. Stops me from forgetting."

I made a show of looking around the bar. "You see something here worth remembering?"

"People do say that beauty's in the eye of the beholder, don't they?" A smile graced her expression, and I couldn't help but notice the few stray freckles on her cheekbones. "What's your name?"

"Elliot," I answered. "Um, Taylor."

"Your last name is Um Taylor?"

"No, uh—just Taylor."

"I know. Only teasing," the stranger beamed. She examined me the way someone would examine an antique painting. "Hm... Taylor. Your father's the police officer, isn't he?"

I didn't ask how she knew that. "He's retired."

"Ah, right." Extending a manicured hand for me to shake, she greeted, "My name is Mariella, but my friends call me Maria. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

I managed to manufacture a smile kind enough to match hers.

Nodding behind to her Doberman, she then requested, "Actually, if you don't mind, would it be alright if I got some water for the dog? Poor thing hasn't had anything to drink since we crossed the border."

We didn't exactly have dog bowls lying around, but I managed to find a ceramic dish after digging through the cabinets. It looked deep enough.

"You're from out of town?" I asked, handing over the empty bowl and a bottle of water. A sense of relief washed over me as she took it; I wouldn't be forced to approach her dog.

"Manhattan." The Doberman's paws pattered against the ground towards the dish she was filling. "Drove here right after I heard the news. I'm here for the funeral."

"Oh. Did you know him? Chief?"

"Less and less over the years. He was my best friend."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Well, such is life. What can you do?" Mariella sat back down on the barstool. From another pocket in her coat, she pulled out what I quickly recognised to be a red and white box of Marlboro cigarettes. "If I start crying now, I won't stop for days and nothing will get done, so... perhaps it's best to pick the right moment."

My lips parted to reply, but she spoke up again before I could. Curiosity glowed in her eyes.

"It scares you, doesn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"The dog," she clarified. "You're scared of it."

Embarrassment heated my cheeks. "Just a little cautious."

"No need for that. Nero is harmless—aren't you, old girl?" Her Doberman replied with a short huff. Mariella lit up a cigarette, but paused to check, "Oh. You don't mind if I smoke in here, do you? I'm usually around my kids, so... I don't often get the chance to, you see."

She didn't look like the type to smoke—but I guess everybody had their vices. Mildly surprised, I nodded my head and said, "Go for it."

The strange woman gratefully inhaled from her cigarette and fiddled with the golden cross hanging off her necklace.

"Well, Elliot," she spoke through a thin cloud of smoke, "I can tell you aren't a Stray Dog."

A small part of my lips turned up a smile. I hoped she didn't notice. "Why do you say that?"

"No self-respecting Stray would admit a fear of dogs. And you're not wearing the vest."

She hasn't heard.

I scratched the back of my neck. "Nobody is. Not since the club disbanded."

A stream of smoke escaped her nose. "Pardon?"

"There's been street racing in the city, so motorcycle clubs can't congregate or wear their colours until further notice. New local policy or something."

Her eyes widened, then fell into slits. She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose and sighed. "For god's sake." She met my gaze. "How long has it been like this?"

"The last few weeks." Curious, I asked, "You're a Stray Dog?"

"Married one," she corrected. "But I haven't been around the club in a long time. Left that life behind."

"Any particular reason?"

She pondered the question, breathing smoke. "Too much history here. Just needed something new. A better place to raise the family, I suppose. Moved to The City and never looked back."

"Wow." Leaving Boston—what a dream. "What's your secret?"

Mariella chuckled.

"Well, let's just say there are no downsides to marrying rich." She waved a hand. "Only joking, of course. My husband's a good man. Works hard. Anyway, I thought I was the one asking questions."

"Not often we get people in here from Manhattan."

Her magnetic laugh echoed through the bar as she put out the butt of her cigarette on a nearby ashtray. "From the state of the place, it doesn't look like you get people in here at all."

"Touché."

A few quiet moments passed. Mariella's old Doberman, Nero, jumped up to take a seat on the worn upholstery in one of the booths. The same place Chief used to sit. I wondered if it was a coincidence.

"So, Elliot," said Mariella. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but that robbery—were you working behind the bar when it happened?"

This again.

"Uh," I stumbled, "no."

"You don't seem sure."

"I wasn't there." Firmer this time.

"Three attackers broke into the bar, robbed the cash register, stabbed Chains in the thigh, and killed the Chief in cold blood. That's the story, right?"

"Shot."

"Sorry?"

"They shot him in the thigh," I corrected, digging myself into a deeper hole. "I um, I heard it on the news. There was no knife."

"Interesting. And after shooting Chains, they shot Chris too." She gestured towards one of the booths. "He fell and hit his head on the edge of that table, is that right? It's still got blood on it."

I frowned. "Blood? What blood?"

"That blood, there."

"That's not possible."

I would have noticed, I thought. But Chief never—

Mariella raised a brow. "I can see it from here."

"There c-can't be," I stuttered, talking too fast for my thoughts to keep up. "He fell against the wall, not the table, so there can't be any blood th—"

"The wall?"

"Yes, they shot him and he fell against the wall—" I pointed to it—"there."

She slowly nodded her head, jotting things down on her notepad. Without meeting my eyes, she casually mentioned, "That's strange. Nothing in any news reports mentioned that."

My stomach dropped.

I watched her fold the notepad back up and tuck it into its rightful pocket. A satisfied shimmer touched her eyes. After all, Chief hitting the wall? Only someone who was there would know that kind of information. She'd just tricked her way to proving me a liar.

Oh, I thought miserably, he's right. I can't lie at all.

But Mariella, thankfully, decided not to press me any further. She stood from her barstool, placed the empty bottle on the counter and pulled her fluffy coat back over her shoulders.

"Thank you for the water," she said in farewell. Her dog hopped off its seat. "Come on, Nero."

Nero followed in the dark of her shadow, right at her heels. Mariella offered a last glance to the rest of the bar.

"Oh, before I go." She looked at me from over her shoulder. "I'm looking for someone. You may have heard of him—the Chief's nephew, Noah Black. I don't suppose you could tell me where to find him?"

The words got caught in my throat. What did she want with Noah? This stranger I'd never met before—why was she looking for him, now, whilst the rest of us were dealing with the aftermath of a murder?

I didn't dare to break the eye contact between us.

"I'm sorry," I uttered, lying through my teeth. Again. "I-I have no idea."

Every word out of my damn mouth is a lie.

I knew exactly where Noah was: still at Massachusetts General, busy caring for his wounded best friend amongst a blockade of nosy police detectives. But I chose to lie because Chains and Noah didn't need any more on their plate. For once—just this once—they deserved a break from everything. For once, I could protect them.

"Hm."

With that, Mariella and her Doberman finally left, the doors shutting behind them both with a wooden clang. I stood behind the counter with my mouth slightly parted.

What just happened?

=||A/N||=

I'm really sorry for the leave of absence I took recently. Things have been busy—I finally have a new phone to write on, senior finals are coming up, and Wattpad decided to crash just as I was about to update (which was really annoying, but nevertheless we move).

This was a shorter chapter than usual, which was actually a lot of fun to write! Feels like they've all been so long recently. I hope you guys enjoyed.

Mariella my beloved <3