— Chapter 8 —

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It had been almost three days since my last conversation with Elliot. I'd seen him at Joe's, but he'd kept his head down and refused to acknowledge me. I hadn't gotten the opportunity to talk to him.

That's what I get for not minding my fucking business, I thought to myself, truthfully disappointed. Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.

Leaving my motorcycle parked in Angela's driveway, I felt the winter chill instantly prick my face as I took off my helmet. It was still scuffed from the fall I'd had. The damages to the bike, however, I'd been able to fix—much to my relief. That night could've ended up much worse than it had.

Angela felt like getting drunk at a club tonight. And whenever she felt like getting drunk, I was called to be her sober chaperone. I didn't mind it—it gave me something entertaining to do. She was quite the character when she was wasted.

She lived in a small investment house that her parents had left her after she turned eighteen, on the condition that she finish higher education. She was in her last year of nursing, and whenever she wasn't occupied with work or the other bikers, she had her face buried in her thick textbooks.

I'd spent most of the day at work—my hands still smelled subtly of gas, despite the several times I'd washed them. Working as a mechanic in the city, I wasn't making any crazy money, but I happened to enjoy it. It was one of the few things I was good at, truthfully.

With my hands stuffed in my pockets, my gaze rested briefly on the sun setting in the distance. It was a quiet street—one of the last residential areas this close to the city that wasn't overrun with apartment blocks. Passing a brief look to Elliot's house, I let out a quiet huff.

Why'd I have to open my damn mouth? I continued to scold myself, shaking out the back of my dark hair in frustration as I walked to Angela's porch.

I'd come to the foot of the ivory steps when an abrupt sound caught my attention.

A door had burst open in the distance. I instantly recognized the house—and the familiar head of pale-brown hair that stormed out of it.

Elliot.

But what caught most of my attention was the yelling coming from inside. It sounded like a man—his old man, maybe? I couldn't hear what was being said, though, aside from a few prominent cuss words. But whoever it was sounded furious. Elliot ignored it, keeping his head down and rubbing one of his wrists.

"Hey!" I shouted over to him. But he was too busy taking out his phone and putting in his earphones to notice.

Walking in the opposite direction of me, he seemed largely stoic in response to whatever was going on in his place. I found myself clenching my jaw as he left, with the door of his house loudly slamming shut behind him.

I didn't follow him. Mostly because I didn't know what I would say... though, after what I'd just seen, I did figure one thing was for certain.

The bruise on his forehead? Not a fucking accident.

"Why'd you have to go and drink?" Angela whined, walking awkwardly in her heels. "My feet... babe, they hurt..."

"I'm sorry," I chuckled, holding her up by her waist. Waving a 'thank you' to the driver as we got off the bus, I said, "it won't happen again."

"Better not," she slurred with a childish frown. "Now I have to go pick up my c-car tomorrow... aw."

Sighing, I promised, "I'll do it."

Her eyes brightened excessively.

"Really?" She exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. I had to hoist her up to stop her from falling flat on her face. "I have the best! Boyfriend! Ever!"

"The best, huh?"

"Hi, I'm Mr. Edgy Edge!" She giggled, making her voice deeper to mimic me. I rolled my eyes playfully, doing my best to stop her from tumbling over. She continued, "I'm awesome! I have sexy muscles... and my girlfriend... jeez, I h-have a hot girlfriend..."

I joked, "hot is a strong word."

She frowned at the statement, letting out a dramatic gasp. "How dare you! I'm gorgeous! I'm Angelina Jolie hot, asshole!"

...Again, quite the character.

"I'm just kidding, Angie," I assured her, patting her head. "You know you're the only girl for me."

"Damn right!" She huffed.

Guiding her as carefully as I could, we walked down the cracking sidewalk of the mostly deserted road. Angela directed all her focus on not stepping on the cracks in the path, laughing to herself about whatever came to her mind.

We both stank of booze. I wasn't planning on drinking, either—but with so much running through my head, I'd succumbed to the idea of having one drink. Then another... until eventually, I'd just given up on being sober tonight in general. I wasn't wasted, per se, but I was in no state to drive. It had managed to take my mind off things, though... at least for a little while.

Unfortunately, though, that meant the two of us had to take the bus home. Cab fares were a bitch at this time of night, and there weren't many busses either. We had managed to reach the last one scheduled on time, thankfully.

There was a bit of a walk back to Angela's house, though. It took more time when we were drunk too, which wasn't great. Angela tended to get distracted by everything around her.

Eventually, we'd arrived at the park by her house. About the size of a football field, it was mostly lush grass, with a winding concrete pathway and a playground. Though, with the winter season, everything had been flaked over with thick layers of snow.

"You stepped on my foot!" Angela complained, swatting me on the arm. I mumbled an amused apology, guiding her wandering figure in the right direction.

But my gaze had caught on something in the distance.

The park bench—the same bench where I'd met Elliot. Something was lying on it. A dark figure... a shape I couldn't properly decipher in the moonlight.

Angela grabbed onto my hand, pulling me forward. "You walk so s-slow," she hiccuped, drawing my attention away as we kept walking. I did my best to keep up with her sudden energy.

"Why don't you sit down for a bit?" I asked her. To be honest, I was just eager to go see the bench. I wanted to know if my suspicions were true—that the figure there was who I thought it was.

She was way ahead of me, easily plopping down on the wet sidewalk. "G-Good idea," she announced, "my feet really hurt."

"I did tell you to take your heels off."

She frowned. "Psh! I'm not going barefoot! Unless you... feel like carrying me home..."

Trailing off, she let out a yawn.

"Okay," I said, "stay here, alright? I'll be back in a minute."

"You better," she pouted. "It's colder than a witch's tit out here."

As she kicked off her pumps, I headed off back in the other direction. My hands were balled in the pockets of my old leather jacket, and my breath formed a thin mist in the winter air.

The figure looked more and more like him as I approached the bench. What the hell is he doing out here?

Elliot.

He'd curled up along the seat, and despite the winter air, he was sound asleep. It didn't look comfortable, though, considering the makeshift pillow he'd made out of what looked like an extra jacket. As well as that, he was hardly doing well against the cold—a zip-up hoodie and a long, cotton coat were the only things keeping him from freezing to death.

I sighed, frustrated. Had he planned to sleep here the night we first met? Just how often did he do this?

The hood of his black jacket was pulled over his head. His skin looked largely pale, aside from the subtle red that was flushed on his nose and cheeks. Hesitantly, I grazed my fingers over his forehead, pushing the light-colored strands of hair away from his face. Cold.

The bruise on his forehead was still there. But it was healing well, having faded to a much lighter shade than what I'd seen the other night.

Figuring that the least I could do was keep him warm, I took off my jacket and rested it over his shoulders. He stirred at the contact, flinching briefly in his sleep. The defensive action didn't go unnoticed.

Leaning against the bench, I let out a heavy exhale, warming up my hands. For the few silent moments that I spent beside him, part of me felt conflicted... and yet, strangely calm. Something about Elliot made me feel like I'd known him for years.

Perhaps it was his hazel eyes, which swirled with stories and emotions that I couldn't read. Or maybe it was his reclusive demeanor, quietly enduring whatever pain he was forced to go through.

He was so familiar to me.

That night I first met him on that park bench... something about him just caught my attention. I couldn't shake the feeling that I knew him from somewhere—somewhere other than Joe's. Why the feeling only started after a conversation with him wasn't clear, though.

I couldn't figure it out.

Whatever it was, something felt different when I looked at him. Like a hole in my chest that didn't feel so big in his presence. Like the missing piece to something much bigger—a piece that I'd spent ages looking for. I couldn't quite explain it.

I just hoped he gave me the chance to figure it out.