12. Noah
Noah
T he next day, I wake up to do damage control.
Del destroyed my phone after I killed Cillian, then went into a ten-minute rant about burner phones.
I tried to explain that my personal phone is hella secure, encrypted or some shit, and I never have anything incriminating on it.
But, whatever, I already ordered a new encrypted phone that I have to pick up tomorrow.
I use one of his burner phones to call my father to spin my story. I explain that I told his twin goons to meet me at the club—certain my father will believe me over them—but lost my phone while dancing. I got really drunk and went home with Sage and have been holed up at her place ever since.
He demanded I give him the address so he could send his men over to retrieve me. I gave him a decoy address to buy myself enough time to return home and grab some clothes. Del and I plan to lie low for the next week or so, anticipating the fallout from Cillian’s murder.
Not that we’ll get caught.
We were both careful about avoiding security and street cameras and Del said his law enforcement contact will take care of whatever evidence we left behind. Besides, everyone knows Cillian was an asshole who had a lot of enemies. Investigators will be focusing on that list for months.
“You know you don’t have to go with me,” I say, following Del to his motorcycle. “I can just call an Uber. Oh, wait. I can’t. Somebody destroyed my phone.”
“I can’t believe you’re leaving a digital trail by using that car service app. And don’t even get me started on all those strangers you brought home to fuck. Never bring people to your personal space. It makes you vulnerable, susceptible to an attack.”
Fine. He got me there. But is it a crime?
“Maybe I like living dangerously.”
“It wasn’t fucking smart, Skittles.”
I’m going to kick his ass again. Even though my heart danced with joy at the nickname. One he doesn’t use often.
“Like I said, I don’t need a babysitter. I can go by myself. Can I take your bike?”
“I’m going,” he begins, sassy and mad at me. He also ignores the bike comment. “I want to get some things from my apartment too.”
He grabs the helmet and puts it on me. My heart flutters at the sweet move. He’s so focused as he brushes my hair back and secures the strap underneath my chin.
God, he’s beautiful. I’m not used to seeing him this close, and I can’t get enough. His long eyelashes, dark blue eyes, thick black eyebrows, and long strands of midnight hair on his head. His scars that make me want to kiss the raised skin.
Even though he’s busted all to hell from our fight, he’s still perfect.
I clear the lust from my throat and distract my desire by pestering him some more. “You have everything in your loft. What else could you need?”
He finishes with the helmet, taps the top, and smiles. No... he grins like he’s up to something. “I’ve been reading this book, and I’m dying to finish it. It’s called... Her Indecent Desire or something like that. Man chest on the cover. It’s quite good.”
I gasp. “You fucker! That’s my book. I knew you stole something from me! What else did you take?”
He winks, puts on his helmet—I notice he has two now, one for me and one for him—and swings his leg over the bike. He pats the seat behind him.
“Get on, Vixen.”
I consider rebelling or pouting, but he looks too fucking hot in his black leather jacket, jeans, and t-shirt, so I get on like a good girl.
We weave through traffic, which isn’t too bad since it’s after the evening rush. It’s a cold December night, and my bare hands are freezing. I slowly move them down Del’s stomach and underneath the bottom of his shirt. His abs constrict underneath my icy skin.
“Noah,” Del warns, his voice barely audible over the bike’s engine.
“My hands are cold and you’re warm,” I whine, smoothing the palms up and down the sculpted muscles.
It’s not long before they’re toasty, but I keep going, loving the way Del reacts to my touch. I skim my palms down until I reach the buttons of his jeans. I snap one open, then another before he realizes what I’m doing and grabs my hand.
“You’re going to make me crash,” he growls.
“Then you better hold on tight,” I yell back.
I slip my hand into his pants and rub my palm over his hardening cock.
He moans at the contact, and I squeeze around the shaft.
It’s straining to break free from his boxers, but it’s not possible with the way he’s seated on the bike.
I start stroking him, gently at first, then rougher.
He swerves at one point, so I pause until he’s able to compose himself.
We're almost to our street. I’m working him pretty well at this point, and I know he’s approaching the edge. Right when he parks in front of our building and shuts off the engine, I extract my hand and jump off the bike.
“What the fuck, Noah!”
“That’s for destroying my phone.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You won’t.”
Del gets out his keys to unlock the building’s front door when the smell of gasoline and rotten eggs hits me.
A gas leak?
“Shit. Del, run.”
We bolt off the building’s steps and get halfway down the sidewalk when the explosion hurls us forward. I land on a pile of trash at the curb, forcing the air out of my lungs.
“Delancy?” I wheeze and attempt to get up off the ground.
My ears ring, my body protesting the sudden movement after the hard landing.
A series of sharp pains rip through my side, across my stomach, on my arm and then my thigh.
I look down to see all my stitches have opened.
The exposed skin on my hands and face singes with first-degree burns.
Thankfully, my clothes and heavy jacket protected the rest of my body.
My legs don’t want to work, so I crawl on the ground. Debris digs into my palms and knees as I make my way through the yard, determined to find Del.
Thick smoke and flames fill the air, making it hard to see.
It’s been a few minutes of searching and calling Del's name. I hear police and fire sirens in the distance, growing louder by the second. Panic builds in my stomach, racing through my veins that I’m not going to find him.
That he’s dead and the only person to ever understand my trauma and my need for vengeance is gone.
A muffled groan sounds from underneath a detached door.
“Noah,” the gruff voice says.
“Delancy?” I manage to get on my feet and rush over to the blown down fence that separates our building from the neighbors.
The door isn’t too heavy, and I’m able to push it off him.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I ask and frantically move my hands over his body, searching for injuries. His stitches from our fight have opened. His hands and face also have slight burns. Something wet clings to my palm after passing over his side. He has a piece of wood sticking out of his skin.
He immediately rips it out.
“Del, no!”
“It was a surface wound. I wouldn’t be awake and talking if it had hit vital organs. Don’t worry.”
He holds out his hand, and I help him stand. He winces the moment he takes a step. “I think my ankle is sprained.”
The sirens are nearly upon us. A block or two away.
“Can you walk on it?”
“Yeah, we need to get the fuck out of here.”
Del uses me as a crutch as I lead him back to the bike.
“I’ll drive,” I offer, despite me never driving a motorcycle and being a bit terrified about driving Del’s baby.
“No, I’m okay.”
He hands me the helmet, and I shake my head. “No time.”
“Put it on,” he growls. I scowl but do as he says. I swear I hear him say brat underneath his breath.
We’re on his bike and seconds after turning on a street away from the inferno, police and fire arrive. I can’t even think about cell phone video or home security footage that captured our escape.
Del takes us back to his safe house in Brooklyn. By the time we’re ascending his stairs, I’m struggling. The loss of blood from all my stab wounds reopening has me dizzy and nauseous.
My eyes flutter, and I sway on my feet.
“Stay with me, sweetheart,” Del says, patting my cheek.
“Don’t call me sweetheart, asshole,” I mumble, making him smile.
Inside the loft, Del leads me into the bathroom and sits me on the closed lid of the toilet. He disappears and returns with a bottle of one of those sports drinks, which he shoves in my hand.
“Electrolytes,” he says, and I chug the drink while he grabs a suture kit from his bathroom closet. “This is going to hurt, okay?”
I nod and he pierces my skin, stitching up the first of my reopened wounds.
The ones he gave me.
He must realize this as I watch regret wash over his face.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the pain.
He shakes his head. “If I hadn’t stabbed you four times...”
“I told you to. I egged you on.”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “So, you admit it wasn’t the blood loss?”
I huff out a laugh. “It wasn’t the blood loss. Besides, I stabbed you too. I get two more jabs at you and we’re even.”
“I think we’re already even if you count the head butting and kicking me in the balls.”
I laugh, then wince. Okay, no being funny while injured.
Del finishes repairing the stitch on my side and moves on to my arm. God, I love how focused he is on doing a good job... on taking care of me. I find it hard to believe he’s the hardened contract killer with a body count in the triple digits.
“Tell me about a happy moment with your mom,” I say.
He sucks in a sharp breath, not expecting the change of topic. His brows furrow, and his lips form a fine line. It's clear he doesn’t like recalling memories of his childhood.
I don’t blame him.
“One time, she took me to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. It was summer, and I was eleven. My brother didn’t want to go. He never wanted to do anything fun like that. I think it’s because my father expected a lot from him. He was the oldest, and he was expected to take over—”
He pauses and glances up at me. Had he almost revealed something to me?