Chapter Twenty One
Noah does behave, mostly.
Sat in his the passenger seat of his car, I think of our phone conversation from the day before. It felt normal, flirting and talking about getting together like it was an everyday occurrence.
When he picked me up from work yesterday afternoon he didn't mention the phone call, but I saw the once over I got when I sat down. I also didn't miss the long looks he gave me in the evening whenever he thought I wasn't looking.
But that counts as behaving, I think.
I've not been trying to behave as much. My open staring has not been toned down, and I've swapped out my winter pajamas for slightly sexier summer ones; sexy enough that I can get away with it without Matt asking about the change in attire.
Staring at him is a privilege that I refuse to let go of.
Now that I'm starting to learn more about Noah and we're getting to know each other properly, his tells are becoming obvious.
He's nervous under my stare, not overtly, but there's a flickering of the eyes that gives him away. Sometimes he'll swap his weight between his feet and roll his shoulders back, or he'll bite his lip and glance over at me so quickly I almost miss it.
And I swear he's trying to make me salivate over him to a greater extent than I already do. The gym shirts are getting tighter, the aftershave I like is making frequent appearances, and he seems to constantly find a way to flex his muscles when I'm around.
"Is it alright if I make a stop at the garage?" Noah asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. I peer over to him, then to the outstretched arm going across the empty space between us and disappearing behind my headrest. His eyes follow mine. "I've got some paperwork I need to drop off."
"Yeah, no worries," I smile.
He smiles too, but I know damn well that he knows I've just checked him out.
It's surprising that I'm not bothered about going to the garage because we're already going to be late arriving to game night at Dan's grandparents house.
I finished work almost an hour later than I should've, with Noah and Chelsea hovering over my desk trying to help me finish the spreadsheet that Zach needed in today.
By 'trying to help' I mean they were completely unhelpful, but emotionally supportive.
We turn down dark roads I don't recognise and squeeze through an even darker alleyway, but eventually he pulls into one of the four spaces in front of a large shuttered building.
He switches off the car, the image of the garage in front of me disappearing as the headlights do.
"This building gives me the creeps at night," Noah reveals, also looking out into the abyss in front of us. "But you're coming with me, aren't you?"
"No," I snort.
"Uh huh," he hums, and practically leaps out of the car. He's half invisible without any streetlamps around, ominously moving around without a sound. I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable.
My car door is ripped open, a gust of cold air forcing its way into the car. Noah follows, leaning in to un-do my seatbelt and pull me out. I don't fight him, but I do let myself stumble into his chest so his arms wrap around me.
We stay like that, against each other and fighting off the wind, as he gets a folder out of the boot and locks the car.
Then I'm under his arm and led towards a side door, held between his arms as he press three keys into different locks. We step into a cold room that's pitch black, and all I can smell is Noah's aftershave as he keeps me pressed to his chest.
He must press a switch, as the lights flicker on, illuminating the room in a dusty yellow hue.
"Come on," he whispers next to my ear. "Paperwork first and then I'll give you the grand tour."
I let him lead me by the hand to an office room that's a complete mess. Folder are piled from floor to ceiling, storage boxes with paper pouring out of them anywhere there's a sliver of space; I'm surprised Noah even knows where to put the folder in his hand.
"How do you cope in here?"
"It's disorganised organisation. I know exactly where everything is."
My eyes roll.
"I saw that," he mutters, stepping over a crate of rusty tools to grab at my hips. He spins me to the door again, leading me back to the open space of the garage.
Two cars are elevated somehow, with enough space underneath them for a person half of Noah's size. They look heavy enough that it's jarring, but Noah pulls me to his body and leads us underneath one like it's something he does everyday.
A large area at the back of the garage immediately comes into view.
The BMW Noah mentioned yesterday in the middle of it, with tarps filled with car parts lying around the car like a halo. The bonnet is still open, a mess of wires and boxes and confusing-looking objects spilling out.
"I meant it when I said I'm at a loss with this fucking car," he laughs, holding my hand as I step around a pile of wrenches left on the floor. I attempt to pull away from him to get a better look at the interior but he doesn't unwrap his arm from around my waist. "This place is a trip hazard."
"I'm a big girl, I'll be careful."
His jaw ticks, but the corners of his mouth raise. He releases me, staring as I carefully step towards the car.
I take a peek at the red felt interior and spin back to him, hands on my hips.
"So this is where you spend your day? Cramped underneath this car?"
"Pretty much," he shrugs. "Sometimes I do test-drives, most of the time I work here." He gestures to the open space around the BMW, neater the further away from the car you look.
"Show me then," I shrug.
"What?"
"I want to see you hard at work for a change."
The smirk rises on his face slowly, looking between my cocked hip and the open bonnet of the car.
"We're already late," he murmurs. The smirk stays plastered across his face.
"That sounds a lot like an excuse-"
My voice must fade away, or I've stopped talking, because the second I register Noah pulling off his hoody the room is silent. He throws it on top of the car, firmly looking me in the eye as he reaches for his t-shirt.
"Do you usually work with your shirt off?" I ask.
My voice is already breathy. It should be entirely embarrassing, yet I don't feel it at all. All I feel is the sudden flush of heat under my work clothes as he pulls off the t-shirt with practiced ease.
"I usually wear overalls so I don't get oil all over my clothes," he replies. "But my overalls aren't here and I don't want to get dirty, so." He gestures down at his shirtless body.
I'm already looking. At the abs, the tattoos, the strong enticing v-line. The liquid collecting in my mouth is swallowed alongside my will to live. I want, I want, I want.
It's worse because Noah is patiently waiting for me to stop checking him out, and I can't keep my eyes on his fucking smugface.
It feels as if it's been too long since the last time I saw him with his shirt off, and I am painfully aware that we are more than alone here at this garage.
That waistband is riding too low. It's purposeful - isn't it? A true test of my ability to control myself, even though I've decided I no longer want to control myself.
"I thought you were working on this?"
Even his voice is smug.
"What?" I echo.
"The staring."
I manage to drag my eyes to his, and scowl at him. I scrunch up my face as if I hadn't been staring at all, and it's preposterous to have even brought it up.
His smile doesn't disappear. Instead of making a face back, he holds out a hand and waits for me to take it, watching my careful step as I join him at the open bonnet of the car.
"So I spent today pulling everything out of here, trying to work out why he put it there in the first place," he explains, pointing at various parts on the floor around us. "Next I'm going to empty out his oil and clean up the filter because it's a mess."
"How do you do that?"
"It's a pretty simple release valve, come on." We walk to a wall full of tools and random boxes, him collecting a handful of tools and me watching him do it. I follow him back to the car, admiring the muscles in his back move as he does.
He drops to his knees next to me, reaching under the car with a plastic tub.
"So the oil will come out underneath," he explains, looking up at me. He gestures for me to join him on the floor, and I roll my eyes for dramatic effect but reluctantly do. "Think you can handle holding this?"
"So you have to take your clothes off to protect them from the oil but my clothes are fine being ruined?"
"I'd say take them off but I don't think that'd be such a good idea."
"That didn't stop you," I counter.
Because he knows damn well that either one of us taking our clothes off isn't a good idea, and he went and did it anyway. So I can do it too.
On my knees next to him, I begin undoing the buttons of my work blouse, one by one.
My fingers shake under his watchful eye.
Each button undone, the fabric slips from my shoulders and onto the floor. I push it away from the two of us and try not to worry about my stomach folding over the top of my trousers in this position.
"Hold that?" I confirm, pointing to the plastic box underneath the car.
He hums, hand brushing my own as he reaches above the box. His muscles flex as his hands work underneath the car, unable to see what he's even doing, and I take pleasure in each flex of his bicep next to me.
A few minutes pass, nothing happening, before he suddenly huffs. Holding himself up with the bumper, he flips onto his back and picks up a small torch, holding it with his mouth as his hands disappear underneath the car again.
"Oh my God," I whisper to myself, because seeing him flat on his back, stretching his hands above his head, should not be a sight that I am given the privilege to. He continues to potter, blinding reaching for a wrench that vanishes with his hands.
I hold the pot in one hand, and casually reach out with the other. I hesitate, fingers hovering over his chest.
My mouth dries. I squirm around on my knees, nudging him gently with my foot by accident. My pinkie grazes his chest as it rises, and I let my finger fall down with the release of breath. My hand splays across his chest in one movement.
"Fuck Maddie, your hand is freezing," he mutters, jolting only slightly at the change in temperature.
He doesn't ask me to move it away despite his chest being an oven compared to my icy touch and so I run my hand down to his stomach, falling into the crevice of every ab and tracing each line on his body individually.
I feel him look at me but continue staring at my own hand.
A sudden clank makes me jolt, a splatter of oil travelling across my hands. The plastic tub begins filling up rapidly.
Noah makes no move to get up.
"You can let go of the box now," he says quietly. "It'll just keep filling up until the tank empties."
I let my second hand meet my first, smearing oil over his stomach.
"Fun?"
"What? An oil change?" I smile, fingers now tracing the tattoos on his chest. "I'm enjoying some aspects more than others."
"I imagine."
I glance to see him looking at my own body, hovered over him. My stomach curls over my jeans and my boobs are starting to fall out of my one-size-too-small bra - there's nothing but want scrawled over his face.
"If this car is so tragically messed up, why are you bothering with it?" I ask. The question has been playing on my mind since he told me about it.
"Special customer," he admits, eyes briefly meeting mine. "Damien Mierro. You met him at Fusion at while back, with the scar across his face?"
The memory of dancing with tear drop flits into memory, as well as his friends interest in Chelsea. Noah had intervened - and I'd thrown up in front of him. How could the universe possibly let me forget?
"Uh huh."
"We used to be good friends."
"Used to be?"
A small sound slips past his lips as I run my hands over his sides, squeezing his hips.
He delicately places a hand in mine and pulls it to the other side of my body. I catch myself with my hands, placed either side of him. He raises his eyebrows, mouth quirking, looking down at his body and then at me like he's presenting a challenge.
"The floor isn't good for your knees," he states.
My eye roll says enough when I take the invitation and place my leg over him, sitting on his lap cowgirl style.
I settle, watching him expectantly.
"I knew you'd look good on top of me."
His cocky smile tells me its a line he's been planning for a few minutes, thinking it'll get to me, but I just roll my eyes at him and try to withhold my smile.
"Damien?" I remind.
"Oh yeah," he sighs, lifting his arms up above him, crisscrossing his hands underneath his head.
"It's kind of a long story, and we don't really have a lot of time.
" I raise my eyebrow at him, gesturing to my current position like I'm going to get up.
"He took me under his wing when I was in school," he admits quickly.
"Have you always lived here?"
"Near here," he nods. "I was about fifteen and he was this older cool guy who could drive, so I wanted to be his mate.
" I follow along with Noah's story, nodding occasionally.
"He had his own place with his friends, it all seemed quite cool," he shrugs, cheeks reddening. "To cut a very long story short-"
"Nope," I interject. "Long story, please."
"You're annoying," he smirks, jolting me on his lap.
"Damien let me hang out with all his cool friends, and my school friends thought that was fucking sick so I felt really good about it.
But I started getting into trouble - Damien would get pulled over and searched a lot, the cops started to know who I was by association.
"He'd be pissy and I wanted to show off and fight his corner. I spent and few nights in jail here and there for getting into fights. I started arguing with my parents."
The light conversation continues to dwindle into something darker, but there's a sudden warmth in my heart at Noah's confession of his past.
"Damien planned things during the day and I thought skipping school was a good thing, so I stopped going and continued hanging out with him. And as soon as I stopped going to school, it all went downhill really quickly.
"That house that he shared with his mates? A gang house, a drug den - whatever you want to call it. All those drives we got pulled over for? It's because the cops knew he was selling drugs, and eventually he started getting me to do it too."
My eyes widen. I don't interject for fear that he'll stop confiding in me, but I can't help but notice that he's not looking towards me anymore. His head is tilted backwards towards the car.
"I'd basically been recruited, and once you're in it's impossible to get out."
"Oh."
"But I'm out now," he smiles, rubbing two of his fingers against my hand. "Although I think we'll save that story for another time, hm?"
With cogs still turning in my mind, I hum an agreement.
Noah holds me in place and sits ups, our faces only inches from each other. My heart hammers in my chest.
I'm still thinking about our conversation - about the relief I feel knowing that the 'criminal record as long as an arm' is just because he was groomed into a gang when he was a teenager. It's not a reflection of who he is now.
But now I'm also questioning if he's going to kiss me again. If this confession of his shaded past means that whatever is happening between us is more than forbidden lust, because I can't imagine him telling a fuck buddy about Damien. But there's no way to know.
"Do you know what I want now, Madelaine?"
His voice is low like a vibration, buzzing from my ears right down to my toes. The twinkle in his eye sparkles, his lips shine underneath the dim yellow light, and I find myself leaning in.
"What do you want?" I force myself to ask.
His tongue wets his lips. His eyelashes are long and fluttery. His lips are mere millimeters from my own.
"I want you to tell me something embarrassing."
Of course.
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