Chapter 9
WEBB
Every time I think the worst of my anger has passed, another memory brings it roaring back.
I remember the hushed whispers in the diner when I came in, along with the piercing whisper that raised above the rest, as one female patron said to the other, “Porn. I bet that video was just the start of one of her disgusting videos. And this was all some weird publicity stunt.”
How dare she say that about Noelle?
First of all, I’m certain Noelle’s not involved in making porn. Not that there’s anything wrong with it if she was, but anyone with half a brain would realize that video was taken without Noelle knowing. And the idea of it being a publicity stunt? That’s just crazy.
Then there’s the actual video. What kind of fucked up person would not only record Noelle like that, but hack into the TVs to stream footage of Noelle changing to a restaurant full of people?
A person I’d like to have some words with in private, for sure.
And the worst memory was opening the bathroom door to find Noelle inside, blood all over her hands and clothes, sobbing, looking so small and broken…
Shit.
Shit.
Pain spears through my jaw as I grit my teeth. My hands flex into fists, desperate to hit something. Preferably, the piece of shit who did this to Noelle, but right now, honestly, anything would do.
Making sure the shower is still running, I go over to the couch and punch one of the throw pillows a few times. I can’t hit it as hard as I’d like, since I don’t want Noelle to come out to a pile of torn fabric and stuffing, but it helps. A little.
Then I start pacing around her little apartment again while I take deep breaths to calm myself. I’ve held it together pretty well so far, but without Noelle here to focus my attention on, it’s harder to stave off the anger.
I don’t know who did it. Yet. Noelle wouldn’t say, and I didn’t want to push. Not when she was still crying and I just wanted to get her home. And I didn’t have a chance to ask once we got back to her apartment, because she immediately made a beeline for the bathroom and hasn’t come out since.
Like I have several times already, I go over to the bathroom door and knock on it, then call, “You okay in there?”
The water shuts off. A second later, Noelle replies with a hint of amusement, “I’m okay, Webb. You don’t have to keep checking.”
I’m glad to hear the humor in her voice. It’s far better than the flat tone she had in the car, or the cracked, wobbly one in the diner. This sounds more like the Noelle I know.
“Until I see you with my own eyes, I’m going to keep asking,” I tell her. “Or I could sit in the bathroom, if you’d prefer.”
A second passes. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be out in a few minutes, anyway. So you won’t need to check again.”
“Okay,” I reply. “But if you’re not out in ten minutes, I’ll be back.”
As I walk away from the bathroom, I think I catch a soft snort from inside.
She might think I’m being overbearing, overprotective, or both, but if it makes her laugh, I’m okay with it.
Besides, it’s pretty clear my instincts about Noelle being in some kind of trouble were on point, which means she needs someone who’ll do whatever it takes to protect her.
Crossing the apartment—and shit, is it small, six large steps and I’m from one side to the other—I enter the small kitchen and open the fridge.
I spot a jug of mango peach juice, a carton of almond milk, several bottles of water, and a bottle of Pinot Grigio chilling in the back.
Sticking with my mom’s advice, I grab the juice and bring it over to the counter, then set it down while I search the cabinets for glasses.
Once I have two glasses filled with juice, I return the jug to the fridge and take out my phone. Pulling up Tyler’s name in my messaging app, I shoot off a text.
Hey, I might need your help. Pretty sure someone’s messing with Noelle and I may need you to look into it.
Tyler’s our resident computer genius, so if there’s something to be found online, I’m confident he will.
A few seconds later, Tyler’s text appears on my screen.
Is she okay? What happened at the diner? Do you need backup?
I’d been helping Tyler with a security check at HQ when Doug called, so Tyler knows the basics of the story—incident at the diner, Noelle’s okay but really upset—but not the details. So I send a recap of what happened.
Someone hacked into the TVs at the diner.
They played a video of Noelle changing. She hasn’t told me much yet, but I’m pretty damn sure she didn’t know she was being recorded.
She dropped her tray and cut her hand on some glass.
I brought her home and now she’s in the shower.
I’m going to try to get her to talk once she’s out.
Three dots appear and disappear several times as Tyler types his response.
Shit. That’s fucked up. They hacked into the TVs? Do you know what kind the diner has? Wi-Fi hookup? Router? Do they use cable or streaming?
I shake my head as I respond to his message.
I don’t know yet. Noelle was really upset. I didn’t want to push and make it worse.
Tyler’s next text comes more quickly this time.
Of course. Let me know when you find out more. I’ll loop the guys in too, just in case. Do you need Indy to come over to look at her hand?
Indy’s our resident medic, and if I’d brought Noelle back to B and A instead of her apartment, I probably would have asked him to check on her. But the logistics of having him come over here for what appear to be a couple superficial injuries, and especially with Noelle being so fragile right now…
I cast a quick glance towards the closed bathroom door before I answer his question.
I don’t think it’s necessary. But I’ll take another look at her hand once she’s out of the shower. If it looks like she needs to see Indy, I’ll call him.
A few seconds pass before Tyler replies.
No problem. Anything you need, I’m here.
Though he can’t see me, I nod before sending my response.
Will do. Thanks.
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I allow myself a small smile.
This is one of the reasons I agreed to join Blade and Arrow when Cole asked.
I wanted to help people, of course, and I was ready for a new adventure, but a big part of it came from wanting to be part of a team again.
Having a band of brothers—and sisters, if I count Nora and Rhiannon, from the Alpha and Bravo teams—who would have my back, just as I would have theirs.
And now, by extension, Noelle’s. Because whatever’s going on with her, I’m not letting her face it alone anymore.
Honestly, I’m kind of pissed she didn’t say something sooner. Shit, she knows I work for a security company. She looked at our website. She’s met the team and been to our headquarters. And she knows I care about her. Why wouldn’t she have asked me for help?
At least, I think she knows how I feel about her.
Glancing across the apartment to where Noelle’s bed is tucked in the far left corner, I spot the stuffed Bigfoot I gave her sitting on the nightstand. Which gets me thinking, Have I given her enough gifts? Should I bring flowers for every date? Candy? Jewelry?
Shit. Did I screw up somewhere along the line, and that’s why Noelle hasn’t confided in me?
I head over to the nightstand and pick up Bigfoot, turning him over in my hands.
My thoughts shift to the plans I’d initially made for tonight—dinner out at Angelo’s, then a stop in the town park to listen to a jazz quartet playing at the bandstand, and after that, back here to cuddle on the couch while we watch the movie version of Phantom of the Opera.
No, musicals aren’t my thing. But after Noelle told me how she used to stage manage a traveling performance of the musical, I’ve been curious to see what it’s all about.
“It’s not like seeing the musical live,” she explained, “but you still get the general idea. Plus, the songs are still the same. And they’re wonderful. ”
I’d be lying if I claimed I hadn’t thought about after.
After the movie ended, would I go home like the nights before?
Or would Noelle invite me to stay? If I did, would I sleep on the couch or in bed with her?
Would we stick to kissing and keeping all our clothes on, or would things go further this time?
For the record, I’m fine with waiting. Do I want to have sex with Noelle? Of course. But if she’s not ready, that’s okay, too.
Not that we’re going to be doing any of that tonight. Not when my priority is figuring out what’s going on with Noelle and how me and my team can help her.
Just as I’m setting Bigfoot back on the nightstand, the bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam escapes. A second later, Noelle appears in the doorway, her gaze sweeping the apartment until it lands on me.
In baggy shorts and an oversized Washington State T-shirt, she looks even smaller than usual, which is saying something since she’s easily eight inches shorter than my six-foot-three.
Her face is pale, and her eyes are ringed with pink.
As she looks at me, she wraps her arms around herself, her shoulders hunching in.
“See.” She forces a tiny smile. “I told you I was fine.”
Except she doesn’t sound fine, with her voice still raspy from crying. And she doesn’t look fine. She looks scared. Uncertain. Hurt. And so damn vulnerable.
I close the distance between us in several long steps, hesitating for only a second before pulling her into my arms. “Still,” I reply, “I’d rather see you than just take your word for it.” Pressing my lips to her head, I breathe in her soft vanilla scent as protectiveness surges through me.
Then I think of her injuries, so I move away slightly and take her hands in mine to look at them. There are two fresh Band-aids on her left palm, one of which already has blood seeping through.