— Chapter 75 —

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That morning...

"Can I have a word?" Lieutenant Kessler asked me in a bustling hallway of Massachusetts General.

Standing over a hot water dispenser, I had a cardboard cup in my hand and the paper end of a teabag in the other. One of the receptionists had been nice enough to give it to me, and I'd been hooked on the stuff since the first night I'd spent here. I didn't care what kind it was.

My mood had been subzero for days. It didn't look to be getting any better. I didn't need some asshole cop on my plate right now—especially when I was running on two hours of sleep and half an oatmeal cookie that I'd stolen from Chains' meal tray.

"You just did," I said. "Five words, right there."

I didn't even make it three steps before he told me, "It's about your uncle's incident."

"Hey, look—" I uttered, the words flat with sarcasm— "there's another five."

I turned my back to him and kept walking down the hall, fiddling with the string of the teabag as the dry leaves bled into the steaming water.

Kessler followed. "We both know this wasn't a robbery."

"Anything you want to say can go straight through my lawyer."

"Off the record, then."

I sucked in a sharp breath and stopped in my place. "What do you want?"

"Well, considering that I've hardly gotten any answers from you or your friends about that night... cooperation with authorities would be great, for starters."

"Hah." What a joke. "You're punching above your weight there, boss. I'm a biker, not a fucking magician."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Your uncle was just murdered. You need all the help you can get."

"Oh, fuck off. Don't pretend you give a shit."

"I'm just doing my job."

A switch in me flicked. He'd touched a nerve.

Dragging him out of the hall and away from public earshot, I pushed him into an empty hospital room and shut the door behind us.

"No," I snapped, facing him head-on. "No, you're not. One of the biggest names in Boston was just shot dead. It's not about bringing a killer to justice for you—it's about the clean-up. You want to make sure whoever did this gets away with it, and to do that, you need a scapegoat. Hell, I bet you're thinking of ways to frame me for it right now. You are, aren't you?"

He pulled in a deep breath.

"You're right."

"See? Tell you what, Kessler: you might have been a priest, but you're sure as hell no fucking saint."

"You're right, Mr. Black," he repeated. "I don't care what happened to your uncle. Quite frankly, I think the Stray Dogs are a plague on this city—always have been, always will be. But I'm just doing what I'm being paid to do. For the Boston PD, that's closing this case. And for the people who want you and your buddy-buddy bikers gone? Then yes, I guess you could say I'm the designated clean-up crew."

"People? What goddamn—"

"But let me make one thing clear, Mr. Black. I have no intention of framing anybody for this murder. Not even you."

I tried not to crush the cup between my quickly clenching hands. "Then what the hell do you want from me?"

"I'm only here to sweep this under the rug. What happens after that is none of my business. But you and the Stray Dogs will go down eventually, and when that happens? I'll be there, ready to dispose of the ashes."

The inner corners of my brows pressed into each other. For the first time since we'd started talking, I took a real look at Kessler. I read into every word that'd left his lips, every intonation and every flicker of his eyes. And just like that, the realization struck me.

"You know who did this."

His nostrils flared for half a moment. "As far as I'm concerned, you and your friends need to play along. We both know the people who killed your uncle are going to get away with it no matter what any of us do. But my superiors need to see progress, and I need this case closed. I don't care what you say, what stories you make up—just give me answers to work with. The sooner that happens, the sooner we get to move on with our lives. Not even you are stupid enough to drag this out for any longer than it has to be."

I laughed. For the first time since that night, I laughed—and I felt nothing as I did it. "I knew Boston had its fair share of corrupt cops, but this... this just takes the fucking cake. You're all the same. We might be the criminals in your eyes, but behind that badge you're just as fucking ugly as the rest of us. You've been working for him this whole time, haven't you?"

Confusion plagued his eyes. "Sorry?"

"Midas," I hissed. "That's who's paying your bills, isn't it? He's filled your pockets with so much funny-money that you'll do anything he asks for. I knew it. I knew that bastard had all you cops on his radar."

"What are you talking about? Who's Midas?"

"The man who's fucking paying you!" I crushed the cardboard cup of tea against the wall by his head—and barely even flinched as the burning water dripped down the flesh of my fingers and wrist.

What a fucking waste.

"You want the truth?" Kessler looked up at me, and I could see him carefully selecting what to say next. "I don't give a damn where the money comes from, alright? It just shows up on my doorstep, Mr. Black, in a duffle bag with a note on the next job. Like a god-damned Christmas present. Hell, if someone offered you that much money back when you were piss-poor on the side of the road? You'd have taken it too."

"That's different. I had a family to look after. You and your kids live cushy in a paid-off house by the water. Don't lecture me about survival when you've never had to fucking survive."

"Come on. So everybody in this city gets to look out for their own interests, but when I do it, I'm the bad guy? Give it a rest."

I shook my head.

The cardboard cup fell into the waste bucket by the door. I scratched my stinging wrist—scratched the ink-covered scars there with my blunt nails.

Midas is playing with me, I convinced myself. He's playing a fucking game.

"It's him who's doing this," I said, the barely-there words running freely from my lips. "It's him or the Councilman, isn't it? It is. They've got their hands so far up your ass that you can't even see you've become a fucking puppet." I stepped closer, backing him into the wall. "They're pulling your strings, Kessler. You and the Chief of Police too, right? Who else has he got working for him? Huh? Who the fuck else has he manipulated?"

Something changed in the police officer's expression. Kessler didn't look so confident anymore. If anything, he just looked disturbed.

He told me, "You... you're not well, Mr. Black."

"It's Edge."

"Sorry?"

"My fucking name," I snarled, "is Edge. Not Noah, not Mr. Black. Edge. You understand?"

The lieutenant scoffed and reached for the door handle. "I think I'm done with this conver—"

"No." I pressed my knuckles into the wall. "My name. Say it back to me. Say it back to me so I know you understand me when I'm talking to you."

"Edge." He swallowed.

"That's right. What's my fucking name?"

"E-Edge."

"Good. And don't you ever fucking forget it."

I damn near shoved him out the door after that. Watching him leave through the blinds over the windows, I scratched at my wrist and did my best to calm my breathing. My pulse pounded through my ears like a drum. I couldn't get the muscles in my shoulders to loosen. My teeth were gritted together so tight that I thought for sure they'd shatter.

And I didn't understand the disturbed look Kessler had given me until I finally noticed the blood dripping from my nose.

It wasn't long afterward that Chains finally kicked me out of his hospital room. He'd told me to take a walk and get some fresh air—but fresh air just made me feel sick, and instead of running a lap or two around the hospital building, I instead found myself back in my vacant apartment.

Fair enough—I still had a stack of funeral papers that needed signing. And bills. Plenty of goddamn bills.

Sitting at the newly-replaced coffee table, I fiddled with the pen in my hands and worked through each letter one by one, eyes straining with every row of words. The sun had begun to set outside the window by the time I heard the chiming of keys outside the front door.

Slowly pushing the door open, the familiar face of a hazel-eyed bartender appeared in the open hallway. His face squinted against the darkness.

"Elliot."

He jumped six feet high at the sound of my voice. A yelp escaped him as he tipped the umbrella stand and nearly knocked over the potted plant by his feet.

"Shit," I blurted whilst he scrambled to turn on the lights.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he cried out in alarm. "Why were you sitting in the dark?"

"The lights were bothering me. Too bright. Didn't mean to startle you."

"You scared the shit out of me!" he rasped, trying to catch his breath. "The front door was unlocked. All the lights were off—what kind of lunatic sits alone in the dark? I thought... I thought someone broke in again, or that—"

Elliot drew in a long breath and exhaled from his nose. The cycle repeated twice more before he spoke again.

Calming himself down, he expressed, "I thought you were still at the hospital."

"Chains told me to take a walk," I said, leaning back in the armchair. "Said, and I quote, 'stop watching over me like a creeper,' so... here I am."

"You should've called me. I would've come to pick you up."

"Nah, don't worry about it. I thought you must've been busy. Didn't want to be a bother."

He rubbed his temples and set down his duffel bag by the door. "I'm never too busy to make time for you." Finding his way to where I was sitting, he gestured to the papers laid out before me. "What's all this?"

"Funeral paperwork. I'm up to my fucking neck in it. Don't have my glasses on me, so the headache is... a pleasure."

That caught his attention. "You wear glasses?"

"Oh. I'm going to regret telling you that, huh?"

"You never told me you wore glasses."

"Just for reading, and I don't. Wear them, I mean. Not as often as I'm supposed to. Ergo, headache." There was a shimmer in his eyes. "Nobody knows, so keep it to yourself, alright? It'll be a serious blow to my street cred."

"You can count on me," he joked. "I'm great at keeping secrets."

"Sure you are."

Elliot made a face to mock me.

While he collapsed on the adjacent couch, I found the rusty lighter in my pocket and pulled the last cigarette from my box of Marlboros. I cupped the lighter over the end of it and flicked the bezel again and again—but nothing. No flames. Hardly even a lick.

"Stupid fucking thing," I muttered, annoyed.

"Here, let me try."

I moved closer so Elliot could reach and moved the hair from my face. He cupped the lighter, but before making his attempt, stopped still and stared at the silver metal. He didn't move a muscle. Just stared.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

His eyes shot up. "Huh?" he blurted. "Yeah. Sorry."

It took two tries for him to get a flame—a small one, but just enough to burn the end of the cigarette. I drew in a breath of smoke.

"Well," I said, "aren't you lucky, Alley Cat?"

Elliot laughed—a gentle sound—and his eyes shut almost entirely with his smile. "Not even slightly."

I leaned back in the chair again, and for a few moments, just smoked in Elliot's company. I pretended not to notice his worried stare as it left invisible marks on my body. It'd been a while since the two of us had been alone in the same room for so long. Just us, and no distractions.

I damn near forgot how much I enjoyed his presence.

Breaking apart our comfortable silence, Elliot finally asked, "Are you okay?"

I tried to stay honest with my answer. "I'm trying to keep a clear head. Besides... it's Chains who's going to have the worst of this situation."

"Because of his bullet wound?"

I shook my head. "Little known fact, but my uncle was the one who raised Chains."

"Really?"

"Chains was a foster kid. Spent a lot of time running from his caretakers until his grandparents finally picked him up, then he ran away from them as well. Lived on the streets for a while, met some bad people, just... grew up playing with a different kind of snow, I guess. After we met, Chief saw the state of him and took him in. Gave him a place to stay. Made him a Stray Dog. My uncle was the only real family Chains ever had."

"I never knew."

"It's not exactly something he shows off about." I scratched at my reddened forearm. I'd been scratching every now and then, for hours. "That night... he lost more than Chief. One of his closest friends turned around and shot him in the leg. He didn't see any of that coming, and he's going to blame himself for not figuring it out sooner. He's pissed. And a pissed-off Chains is unpredictable."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to figure this out. Can't we go to the police? I know you don't trust them, but with everything we saw and everything we know... they'd have to do something."

My jaw tightened. "No. No fucking police. Midas has them paid off. They'd throw us all in jail cells before considering anything we have to say."

Elliot sighed.

"I... I don't know how to help you," he confessed. "Tell me what to do."

I can't.

Part of me melted with every second that I took in his committed expression. He wanted to make things better—he really did, and he had no idea just how much I didn't deserve it. I never deserved so much of his time and attention. Chief was right. Elliot deserved better than to deal with my demons.

I put out my cigarette on the ashtray.

"I never should have dragged you into this."

He blinked. "What?"

"This mess. All of this. I mean, fuck, Elliot—you just watched someone get murdered, and you're sitting here trying to make me feel better. You shouldn't give a shit about me. Chief... Chief was right."

Elliot sputtered, "I wasn't just going to leave you here to deal with this by yourself. And about Chief—what does that even mean?"

"It means that you should be packing your shit and getting the hell out of here. You don't deserve a life like this. Take it from somebody who's been trying to get out for years—if you have the chance to escape, take it. Take it and run. Don't hang around because of me, Elliot. You don't owe me that."

"Hey," he countered. Sitting on the very edge of his couch, he reached over to cup my cheeks with both hands. "No. I'm here, alright? This life you don't think I deserve—it is my life. And I know we were pushed off the deep end, but I'm not going anywhere unless I get to pull you out with me. We're in this shit together."

"Elliot, please."

"Noah. No."

His eyes glittered. I meshed his fingers with mine and pressed one of his palms to the side of my lips.

"I was never going to come out of this with my head above water." Pleading desperately, I told him, "I've been doomed from the start, darling. There's no hope for someone like me. But you—there's a life waiting for you out there with everything you've ever dreamed of. You're good. You can be saved, so let me save you. There's no need for both of us to drown."

The peak of his forehead touched mine. "Then you're going to have to get rid of me the hard way," he argued, "because I'm not going anywhere. This is my choice to make—whether you like it or not. So I'm not going to let you drown. And I never asked you to save me."

A noiseless huff of air left my lips—some kind of broken laugh. "You're so stubborn."

"You only listen to stubborn."

I only listen to you.

Elliot pulled away and gestured at the stack of papers on the table. "Now... all this paperwork. Are you going to let me help you with it or not?"

My focus fluttered over the apartment. They landed on the stereo system I had by the TV, and an idea invaded my head that made signing paperwork seem slightly less important.

"In a bit."

"Hm?"

I took Elliot's hand to pull him up with me. "Stand up."

He followed behind me into the space of empty, open flooring between the kitchen and the living room. Confusion corrupted his smile, but he didn't question me until I went to plug my phone into the stereo.

"What're you doing?"

Scrolling through one of the playlists on my phone, I tapped on the first thing that stood out and bumped the volume up a few levels. Slow-paced music started playing from the sound system.

"You like this song, right?"

Elliot's face was a blend of skepticism and surprise. The dimple in the side of his cheek had started to show, and catching onto my plans, he asked me, "Are you sure you're up for this?"

Not really.

"Just... bite me if I step on your toes," I said, and offered him a hand. "May I?"

His fingers laced into mine. I took his waist; he held the side of my arm. In the next moment, the space between us evaporated. My heart must've flatlined, because I couldn't hear my heartbeat anymore. I couldn't even hear myself breathing.

Elliot couldn't help a chuckle as we started moving, slow-dancing, taking steps forwards and backward. Just enough to get the hang of it. A blush was flowering on his cheeks, but he had his chin on his chest, trying to hide that same blush behind the hairs of his fringe.

"So you do know how to dance," he said.

"Just a little."

"Well, you haven't stepped on my toes so far, so I'd say you're off to a good start." Elliot grinned and swayed so easily between my two hands, as if he weighed nothing at all. "How did you learn to dance like this?"

"My mom," I admitted. "When she got remarried, she forced my brother and I to practice with her for the wedding. Couldn't feel my feet for a fucking week. Vowed never to dance again."

"Wow," he remarked, "I'm flattered that you'd make the exception for me."

"Only for you. And it's another secret I'd prefer you didn't tell anyone."

"Right, right," he chuckled. "For your street cred, you mean?"

I smirked. "A little mystery never hurt anybody, Alley Cat."

"Hm. Maybe it has its perks."

Elliot yelped slightly as I dipped him, the surprise quickly melting into humor and solidifying in a smile that brightened every inch of the room. That's the real Elliot. The one he tried so desperately to hide. The Elliot with a smile that could stun a crowd.

My Darling.

"You know," I said after bringing him up again, "I've wanted to do this since you first told me you were going to that wedding."

"Really?"

"I didn't exactly get that dressed up just to pick you up on a motorcycle." His smile grew slightly as I twirled him beneath my arm.

"A wedding crasher, huh?" he acknowledged. "We can add that to the list of things I didn't know about you."

"Well, it's not crashing a wedding if I never got the chance to." I pulled him closer again, until our bodies were resting flat against each other. "And anyway, I'm sure you danced enough for the both of us."

"I wish."

I almost didn't believe him. "Come on. But you love to dance—you mean to tell me you didn't? At a wedding? Everyone dances at weddings. It's the unspoken rule."