TW: Mature themes, descriptive physical abuse.

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— Chapter 19 —

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For a few moments after I woke up, I was too disoriented to notice that I wasn't in my own bed.

I don't think I'd ever slept so comfortably in my life.

Blinking slowly, I came to focus on the white blankets and sheets draping heavily over my frame. They were thick and warm, and felt like heaven. And the bed... it was softer than a cloud. The pillow, too—it was like sleeping on air.

Stifling a yawn, I forced myself to sit up on the bed and take a look at my surroundings. Immediately, the pounding in my head increased tenfold. I grumbled to myself at the pain, feeling nauseous. It was as if the sunlight was singing my eyeballs.

Where... where the hell am I?

With widened eyes, I rushed to look under the covers, only to find my clothes still hugging my body. They smelled terrible, but they were still on. I didn't do anything stupid, I thought to myself, letting out a relieved exhale. Thank god.

My gaze turned slowly to the rest of the room.

It was... larger than the one I had at home. Primarily neutral colors, it had a comfortable feel to it. Crisp, white walls met with light-brown timber flooring. A few books and candles rested over the top of a honey-colored dresser just ahead of me, with matching bedside tables on either side of the bed. Sunlight filtered in through translucent, white curtains. The best part was the bay window seat—it looked a little old, but was overlooking a section of trees in the distance. The clock on the wall read eleven-thirty.

Whose apartment is this?

I eventually came to rest my focus on a slip of paper on the table beside me. There was a glass of something yellow, too—with ibuprofen tablets to go with.

Noticing the neatness of the handwriting, I trailed over the words written in smooth ink.

Noah? I thought to myself, passing a glance to the rest of the room.

This was Noah's place?

Oh, god. How the hell did I get myself here?

The only thing from last night that I could fully remember was meeting Riven at the bar. After that, little pieces of a conversation with Chains and Shooter, and brief flickers of the inside of a pickup truck. I could remember some flashes of Noah, too, but... nothing more.

I didn't get much of a chance to do some recollection as I felt liquid rising up my throat.

Oh, fuck.

Rushing myself out of the bed, I picked up the tablets and whatever was in the glass Noah had left me. I had only one goal in mind: finding the bathroom before I ended up being sick right on his timber flooring.

Thankfully, it was only two doors down. Throwing up the contents of my stomach into the toilet, the headache pounding at the back of my mind made me lightheaded.

It was a little while before I managed to compose myself, rubbing my mouth against the sleeve of my jacket.

Just the smell of whatever Noah had put in the glass made me gag. But if it was really capable of dealing with the mind-numbing pain at the back of my mind, I had no objections.

I placed the ibuprofen tablets on my tongue, too, hesitating for a moment as I pressed the cup to my lips.

Bottoms up.

Feeling the thick liquid seeping into my mouth, I immediately noticed the taste of raw egg mixed in with whatever else Noah had thrown in. Forcing myself to swallow, I couldn't help but cringe and gag as it left my throat, taking the tablets down with it.

Spluttering my tongue at the aftertaste, I frowned bitterly to myself and grumbled. That's the last damn time I listen to Noah Black. Jeez.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my jacket and snapped me from my thoughts. Turning the screen on, I pursed my lips in surprise when I saw it was a message from Angela.

Today at 11:36 am

Angela:

Angela:

I bit the inside of my cheek. Right. The reunion party.

I reread the words on the screen as I walked out of the bathroom. I'd entirely forgotten that Angela had even invited me to begin with.

Texting her a simple thumbs-up emoji, I found myself checking the date. The fifteenth. Monday, I noted to myself.

Seven more days.

I shoved my phone in the pocket of my pants and tried my best to think about something else.

My gaze came to rest on my surroundings.

Noah's apartment... was really nice.

It wasn't too big, but it looked homey. It was an open-floor plan colored in entirely neutral tones, giving the apartment a peaceful vibe. Plenty of sunlight filtered in through the sparkling windows. Crisply-painted white walls were contrasted with soft-toned brown flooring, carpets, and couch pillows. The couch itself was clean and white, facing a large flatscreen. Indoor plants added a lovely contrast to it all—but they didn't appear to be real. But the best part was that the entire place smelled like warm vanilla... like Noah.

All of it was so calming. Quiet, too.

There was even another bay window, overlooking the entirety of the city in the distance. I bet half the rent came from the view alone.

The apartment was ridiculously clean.

Nothing was out of place. There was nothing tossed on floors, no plates or cutlery lying around, and no visible dust or stains—nothing that showed evidence of life. Just the basic necessities.

After a few moments, I let out an exhale and scratched the back of my neck.

I better go home.

Locking the door shut behind me as I left the apartment, the chill of the outside air made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. It couldn't have been more than seven degrees outside. And from the looks of it, it had snowed a bit the night before.

I spotted a familiar, black Kawasaki resting beneath a shaded area as I stepped out into the small parking lot to the apartment building. Baby, as Noah liked to call it.

Remembering the pickup truck from the night before, I figured quickly that it must've belonged to Noah. He'd told me that he was a mechanic—he had probably taken it with him to work.

As I left onto the street, I couldn't help but feel the thudding of my headache. Whatever Noah concocted for me had definitely helped, but the pain hadn't entirely gone yet.

It was too bright outside. I squinted my eyes, irritated at the sun's rays blaring on my cheeks.

I wanted to put it out.

The house was empty when I walked in. Immediately, I couldn't help but notice the striking contrast between my place and Noah's apartment.

It wasn't at all as comfortable or homey. The walls were cream-colored, marked with unexplainable scrapes and stains that wouldn't come out. Dirty clothes were lying in random spots on the floor, near torn beer packages and empty bottles. Little to no natural light flowed into the house. It was stuffy, too, and smelled like old beer. Half of the furniture pieces were so old that they weren't even the same colors as they were when they'd first been bought.

Letting out a sigh, I kicked off my shoes by the door and pulled the black band out of my hair. It felt nice to let my strands fall free after having them tied up for so many hours.

Noah's apartment building wasn't too far from my house. It took a bit of time to figure out the bus route to get home, but other than that, it was only a half-hour trip.

I should really get a car.

Scoffing to myself, I couldn't help but chuckle at the idea.

Yeah, right.

I had the shift at Joe's tonight. Mondays were always my slowest shift—on Tuesday's the bar was shut and Eve usually had the Wednesday hours. The place was pretty much a ghost town past ten pm on Mondays, too. I used the spare time to clean the place up before closing at twelve.

For the few hours that I had to myself all alone in the house, I had a lengthy shower and shoved last night's clothes in the washer. Dressing in thick layers, I eventually found myself scavenging in the kitchen cupboards for food.

By the time my father's car pulled into the driveway, I was sitting alone at the counter with a spoon of cereal in my hand and water dripping from my wet hair.

The sound of his footsteps was clear on the porch, his keys jangling as the door unlocked. Here we go, I sighed to myself, dropping the spoon into the now-empty bowl.

Tossing his keys somewhere onto the couch, he came to rest a flat glare on me. I hunched my frame over slightly, rubbing gently on my neck. I didn't want to have a conversation with him. None of our conversations ever ended well—the bruises on my skin could attest.

"So... what?" My father spoke coldly as he walked into the kitchen. "You're just gonna keep your mouth shut?"

I mumbled, "I don't want to fight with you."

He opened the fridge and scoffed at my words.

"Heh. That's new."

Taking a Corona from the fridge, he hit the door shut with a loud thud and popped the bottle cap off with his yellowing teeth. I cringed slightly as he stood fixed in his spot. The glare never let up off his face.

"Feel like explaining exactly what you're doing with that biker thug?" He asked. The question caught me off guard. "Noah—or Edge—or whatever stupid moniker he likes to call himself."

My hands clenched into fists beneath the bar counter—I could feel my fingernails digging into my palms again.

So that's why I could remember faint glimpses of my father's face from last night. Noah must have brought me here—so how the hell did I end up sleeping at Noah's?

Pushing the thoughts from my mind, I answered curtly. "He's not a thug."

Malcom's frown deepened after taking a sip of the alcohol.

"Are you blind or just stupid?" He spat at me, the scent of beer wafting from his lips. "That scumbag is lucky he hasn't been thrown in a prison yet. How do you think it makes me look when you're out there parading around with his type? Have some damn self-respect."

"You don't know him."

I saw his large hand itch with the urge to slap me—but as I flinched away from him and moved my arm up in protection, he retracted his hand with a snarl.

"Don't talk back to me, for God's sake."

I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip and dejected my gaze. Staring at my white knuckles, I forced myself to let go, feeling the stinging in my palms.

"I let you stay under my roof—I let you eat my damn food because you're too damn stupid to be independent—and you're sitting here running your mouth, lying to me, and picking fights," he spoke.

My fists clenched right back up again. "I-I'm not—"

"Yes, you are!" He snapped at me, cutting me off. "And on top of all that, you decide to hang around with Stray Dogs, getting high and blowing your money on alcohol—money you said you didn't have only a few days ago! Why can't you consider how your actions impact me, Elliot? Think about others for a damn change!"

I clenched my teeth together and forced a sharp exhale. "You c-can't just—"

He slapped me across the face, cutting me off. I immediately felt a striking pain on my cheek. His ring had cut my skin. I hissed at the pain as my head lurched to the side, feeling the heat of the moisture forming in my eyes.

"I told you to stop talking back!" He said, taking a grip on my collar and forcing me off my seat. "And quit your damn stuttering, for God's sake!"

"What are you going to do?" I seethed, white-hot anger bubbling in my chest. "Are you going to hit me again? Choke me?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" He yelled, shoving me backward. "Stop imagining things! Why the hell do you always have to make me look like the bad guy, Elliot? Why the hell do you do that?"

I cried out as he shoved my head to the wall, the tip of my forehead colliding with hard drywall. Memories of our last fight flashed in my mind—the faint remnants of pain, the icy tone of his voice, his meaty hands suffocating me on cold flooring. It wasn't my imagination. I hadn't made that up. I hadn't made that up.

"I'm not!" I yelled back, crying out as he hit my upper arm with the flat side of his hard fist.

He hit me again, aiming for my upper torso. I gritted my teeth, feeling warm moisture on my forehead. Seeing red on the wall in the corner of a vision, shock settled into my core as I realized that it was blood. My forehead was bleeding.

"Stop!" I snapped at him, using all the strength I had in my small frame to shove him away from me.

He stumbled back a few steps. I used it as an opportunity to slip out from his reach, moving back several paces into the hallway—his figure blocking the front door made escape near impossible.

He let out a growl, regaining his stance and storming in my direction. He caught me again in next to no time, shoving me into the wall again.

I thought my knuckles would split open from how tightly I was clamping my hand shut.

My father's hands gripped my collar brutally, forcing me back so that my spine collided painfully with the wall.

"So what? You're going to choke me?" I repeated at him, forcing back empty tears that threatened to spill. Giving up, I said with a broken voice, "You know what, dad? If you're going to choke me this time... at least have the guts to finish the job."

I watched him through half-closed, blurry eyes. His face contorted into a deep scowl—one that I rarely got the chance to see. It was wrinkly and ugly and encapsulated every kind of hatred he had for me. I knew I'd fucked up.

He clenched his hand into a tight fist, and before I got the chance to dodge him, I felt a brick-like impact against the side of my face. He hit me with every ounce of force he had in his arm. My head lurched back violently at the force, and my body followed quickly behind—I collapsed onto the cold floor.

I was so disoriented from the blow that everything in my vision turned grainy, and the sound of my father's yelling was overpowered by the ringing in my ears. From the way moisture leaked down the sides of my eyes, I realized that he'd managed to hit a portion of my nose.

My father forced himself to storm away, but not before letting out a prominent cuss.

"You're always so fucking theatrical!"

I wished that I had the strength to flip him off as I spat blood onto the floor.