Chapter 2
LUCA
One block, two, three city blocks this guy is taking Noel away from the club, and I’m following at what I deem a safe distance, heart in my mouth and Bruins cap pulled low over my face.
Unnecessary, given the encroaching twilight and the fact that Noel is so drunk I don’t even think he’d recognize me if I stood directly in front of him.
Which is the whole problem. He seems too drunk.
And yes, I was watching him at the club the whole time he was there.
Could scarcely believe my fucking eyes when he walked in.
Months of lurking and hoping that he would, and never once catching a glimpse until now.
Unsure if that was because I kept missing him or if he really hadn’t shown up to Anathema or anywhere else in the interim, but that was hard to believe.
He loved going out, loved to dance and be the center of attention.
It wasn’t like him to stay at home. Worrying.
So when I did finally see him for the first time in months—fuck, the world shrunk to nothing.
Time stood still in that moment, my breath seizing in my throat as I watched him where he sat at the bar, smiling and brushing his messy hair out of his face, adjusting the choker he wore.
My heart battered and bruised itself against my ribcage, it was pounding so hard.
It was really him.
I stood rooted to the spot, awestruck and terrified, debating making my move, until I missed my tiny window and someone else did.
And I watched that, too. Felt that Noel had no interest in that guy whatsoever, judging by his body language and the way he seemed to shrink upon himself, the way he does when he’s upset, but what did I know anymore?
Could I claim to know Noel how I used to? Maybe he’s changed.
I’m following them anyway, because I don’t like the way his head lolls around like he’s not really with it, and I don’t like how his feet barely skim the ground, like he’s not actually walking; it’s more like his would-be companion is carrying him.
I’ve never seen Noel this wasted before, and I’ve seen him drink pretty heavily.
Tonight he barely had two cocktails, and Anathema isn’t known for making them strong.
Yes, I was watching that closely.
I don’t know what exactly I plan on doing when I catch up with them, wherever it is they’re going.
I am simply compelled to, and know in my bones that something about this is all wrong.
Noel can’t possibly consent in this state, being this drunk.
And I don’t care if I don’t have any right or responsibility to intervene, I’m going to. Somehow.
Excuse me, have you noticed your date is barely conscious? Just thought I’d let you know.
A large crowd of twenty-somethings, loud and raucous, suddenly clogs the sidewalk. By the time I’ve pushed my way through them—they swear at me and one of them calls me a prick—my quarry’s disappeared.
Shit.
I pick up my pace to a trot, heart in my mouth, no fucking clue where I’m going now, glancing down every side street and alley I pass just in case they decided to detour down into one because otherwise I don’t know how they could’ve vanished so quickly.
Quick and dirty in an alleyway, maybe that was the plan?
Though hard to believe Noel would agree to that.
Public sex isn’t his thing; he needs to feel safe.
Unless that’s changed, too, but my gut doesn’t think so.
But that is where I find them. In one of the dead-end alleyways, half-hidden behind a dumpster. I catch sight of Noel’s bare legs as he lies unmoving on the brick pavers. The stranger is kneeling over him. Grabbing him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.
He spins around. The second he lays eyes on me he’s on his feet, attempting to flee past me before I seize him by the scruff of his neck.
He squawks in surprised dismay as I shove him up against the wall.
Whoever this idiot is, he’s not much older than Noel, a mid twenty-something with a pathetic attempt at a beard.
He’s sweating bullets and clearly nervy, but nevertheless, he tries to look down his nose at me.
Which is difficult, because I’ve got a few inches on him, but he does try.
“Hey man, what’s the deal?” he snarls haughtily, grabbing my wrists. “Watch it.”
My hand tightens in the front of his shirt, which is little more than a scrap of fabric that shows more of his lanky torso than it conceals. “Well?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.”
My gaze keeps flitting between him and Noel, who is still lying there.
He groans something unintelligible, and more than anything I want to go to him, but I have to deal with this idiot first. “That’s not what it looked like,” I say.
“You’re in an alley with an unconscious guy you dragged out of a club three blocks away. Pretty fucking suspect.”
He quits his futile attempt to pry my fingers open and jerks his head up, eyes widening a little.
“He’s, um—my friend.” He glances sidelong at Noel.
“That’s right. I noticed he drank too much and I was trying to get him home, but he’s way heavier than he looks, so.
..” Bullshit, Noel is small. He weighs hardly anything.
“I needed a minute to catch my breath,” he finishes. “Yeah.”
“Why not take an Uber?”
“Uh, in this economy?” I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrinks into himself a little more. “Dude, I didn’t do anything. I swear on my mom’s life.”
“You were taking him home? To his house? Gonna walk the whole way there?”
“Yes,” he responds promptly. “I couldn’t let him go home alone. Look at the state of him.”
“And where’s that at?”
“What’s it to you, you fucking weirdo? Is this some kind of test?” I wait, and after all five seconds of silence he caves again. “The Fens. Park Drive. That specific enough for you?” He’s smug about this answer, confident.
“That’s interesting when he doesn’t live there anymore,” I remark.
There’s a moment’s pause, and then he kicks me.
Or kicks at me, foot grazing my leg, but either way it’s enough of a distraction that he manages to smash his fist across the side of my head as I glance down, hard enough that my vision doubles for a moment.
He tries to shove me backwards, and I respond by punching him square in the mouth.
His teeth scrape my knuckles, and he lets out a muffled, congealed cry.
When I let go of him, he slumps down the wall in an apparent daze.
“You stay right the fuck there,” I say. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”
I pivot to Noel and kneel before him. He hasn’t moved at all during the altercation, lying exactly where the asshole left him.
I’m not sure he’s entirely conscious anymore as I collect him in my arms. His face is badly scraped on one side, bits of dirt and glass adhered to his cheek, so I try to brush some of it away with the tail of my shirt.
He’s soaked through with sweat and trembling.
“Noel,” I whisper to him, my chest constricting, and his eyelids flutter. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Behind me there’s a scraping sound and then the sound of footsteps receding.
I jerk my head around in time to see the guy flee the alleyway on legs wobbly as a newborn fawn’s before he rounds the corner and disappears.
For a split second I consider giving chase—there’s a good chance I could catch him—but there’s no way I’m leaving Noel. Not a chance.
Not when I’ve finally found him again.
I don’t waste any time carrying him all the way back to my truck.
I manage to prop him up in the front seat, but he’s so incredibly drunk that he can’t really sit up.
Only the seatbelt and the door serve to keep him upright at all, and I have to wonder just how much he pregamed at home to wind up this drunk on a couple of Anathema cocktails.
I try to rouse him as I tuck the old blanket I keep in the backseat around him, to ask where he lives now, but he doesn’t respond. He’s shaky, lashes flickering, and occasionally he mumbles a garbled word I can’t make out, but none of it resembles an address. I go through his pockets instead.
He hasn’t updated the address on his driver’s license, so I can only deduce it by rifling through his phone; I use his thumb to unlock it.
He has a couple messages from one Jamil Fadel, stating that he decided to leave with someone he met at the club—I don’t recall seeing him come in with anyone, but I only noticed him once he was already at the bar.
I decide to leave that all alone and instead scroll through Noel’s email until I find an invoice with the address of his new apartment. I recognize the location, right by the Green Street T in Jamaica Plain. Easy enough.
I drive safe and slow and keep one hand touching him the whole twenty minutes it takes to get there.
He doesn’t move at all and he doesn’t get sick, thankfully.
He remains still, pale and sweaty. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, actually.
It doesn’t matter, because I have Noel, and he’s safe for the moment, and when I get him home, I’ll figure it out from there.
His unit is located on the ground floor of an old three-decker brick (for which I’m grateful, because carrying him up several flights of stairs might prove challenging) and I fish his keys from his pockets and let us both inside.
It’s a cute place, pretty similar to his old one with the gray-washed walls and old hardwood floors, though the living area is much more spacious.
And with its large, south-facing windows, most certainly better lit during the day. Same furniture, same prints.