Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“LET THE WORLD BURN” BY CHRIS GREY, G-EAZY
STEELE
We drive through the dark, the lights of streetlamps passing by in flashes that I barely see.
Truth: the woman I love helped fund Nazi hate.
Truth: she saved a child from being radicalized.
Truth: she helped enable harm and possibly death to many other non-white people
Truth: she knows what she did was wrong.
Truth: she still made a choice.
The truths cut like barbed wire, they fucking hurt and I feel like my insides are bleeding out all over my seat.
Nox holds her in the back, and I'm grateful, because I'm not sure I could right now. Don't know if these hands that have touched her, held her, should be anywhere near her right now.
I glance down at them, seeing the slight tremble as they wrap around the handle of the cash bag.
And then guilt fills my stomach, making it churn, because I loved her this morning. Still do. I think. Maybe.
The bile filling my throat is hard to swallow. Because I just don't know how to match up the version of her I thought I knew, to the version who would willingly hand hundreds of thousands of dollars to a man with Nazi flags on his porch.
The reasons don’t make it right. Nothing does.
Fuck.
I think of what I'd do to protect Justin. And the answer sits in my gut like a stone I can't shift, because I don't like what it tells me. Don't like what it means for how I feel about what she did.
My muscles are wound so tight I can feel the tension thrumming inside me, desperate to spill out. Every time she glances at me I can feel it like a burn, the weight of her eyes on the side of my face.
But I can't look at her. Not yet.
I don't know what I'll see if I do. Don't know what she'll see looking back.
I thought I knew who she was.
Maybe that's what hurts most. Not just what she did. But that she carried this — this — and I never knew. Never even fucking saw it. Thought I was close enough to see everything that mattered. But it turns out I wasn't even close.
The darkness outside the windows doesn't change. The road keeps moving under us. The street lamps keep flashing by.
I have no idea where this leaves us. Don't even know if that's the right question yet.
All I know is that I hurt, somewhere inside, a cut so deep I’m not sure how it’ll ever heal.
And I don’t know how to stop bleeding.
“brEATHE” BY TOMMEE PROFFITT, FLEURIE
NOX
She fits against me the way she always does, like she was made for the space under my arm.
I don't let go.
I should probably think about that. About the fact that my arms tightened on instinct when she tried to pull away, even as the words were still landing. Even as I was still working out what they meant.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Nazi flags on the porch.
I know what those flags mean. Know it differently to Steele, maybe, but I know it. Spent enough of my life being too dark for some rooms and not dark enough for others. Getting called things that were meant to cut both ways at once.
White supremacists don't make exceptions for guys like me. Don't care that I'm only half. If anything that makes it worse to them.
She paid those people.
She's shaking slightly, and I can feel it against my ribs. It leaves me feeling jittery, like my skin is being covered in ice. Almost numb. Almost painful.
She paid those people and she's been carrying it alone. Yet she still went back out and she's going to walk into another house tonight and do it again and I don't—
My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale.
I don't know what to do with all of that at once.
So I just hold on.
Maybe that makes me weak. Maybe it makes me complicit in something I haven't fully processed yet. Steele's silence from the front seat feels like a verdict I haven't reached. I don't know if that's because he's further along than me or because something in me doesn't want to get there.
What I know is this: she's trembling. And Noah is waiting. And the rest of it — all the fucked up rest of it — is going to have to wait until we're on the other side of tonight.
It doesn't go away just because I'm holding her.
I know that.
I just can't seem to let go.
“ARCADE - ACOUSTIC VERSION” BY DUNCAN LAURENCE
BLOSSOM
We drive down the road of a clearly working-class neighbourhood.
The houses aren’t run down per se, but most of them need some work doing.
And one or two of the front yards have rubbish or a rusted car in them.
Ant pulls up outside the house I direct him to, and unsurprisingly it’s one of the worst on the street.
My jaw tightens as I reach for the door. I set aside the shame and worry from spilling my truth about Liam’s father and what I did. I have to. Noah needs me right now so I need to focus.
“If this goes wrong—”
Ant doesn’t let me finish. “It won’t, Bloom. We’ve got you.”
I give him a sharp nod, then open the door and stride up the cracked and uneven path, hearing the guys follow after me. With a hand that’s surprisingly steady, I reach out and knock on the door. Paint flakes off onto my glove.
Mr. Marshall, Noah’s deadbeat dad opens it. He’s in his mid forties, wearing a stained white vest and is already half drunk. His brow drops low over yellowed and bloodshot eyes, and his skin is an ashen grey.
“You got some fucking nerve showing up here,” he snarls, slurring and a wave of foul whisky scented breath flows over me. “Judge said—”
Twisting around and ignoring his tirade, I find Steele behind me with the bag of cash.
Giving him a tight smile, I unzip the top and pull out a stack of hundreds before turning back to face Mr Marshall, my heart thudding but my hands steady.
“Here’s one thousand dollars if you let us inside just to talk. ”
His eyes bug a little before narrowing. “You’ve got five minutes.”
He goes to grab the cash but I pull my hand back, raising my brow at him until he sighs and opens the door, shuffling back and letting us in.
“What you doing letting that bitch in?” Mrs. Marshall hisses from behind him, looking equally drunk as she sways on her feet, wearing only a grubby nightdress that looks like it’s seen better days. It takes great effort for me not to curl my lip, but I manage it somehow.
I glance around the living room, the door opens straight into it and my jaw ticks. It’s messy, filthy, and smells like old alcohol and stale food. There are empty glass bottles lying on the floor by a stained and marked sofa.
“Steele, could you please put the bag on the coffee table?” I ask, and he gives me a nod, doing as I request and setting the bag down.
Both Noah’s parents walk over, eyes going wide when they see the stacks of cash inside.
“Here's one million dollars. It's yours right now if you sign these adoption papers for Noah.” I don’t beat around the bush, wanting this over and done with so I can take my child home.
Walking over, I take the papers off the top.
“You agree to full parental rights termination and no contact unless Noah requests it when he's 18 or older.”
Mrs. Marshall looks from the papers in my hand to the bag and back again. “That’s… that’s a million dollars?” Her voice is breathless.
I nod. “In cash. Untraceable. Yours to do whatever you want with.”
Mr. Marshall’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “What do you want with our son so bad you’d pay that much?”
My body turns cold. “Do you care enough to turn down the offer?”
Silence.
Complete silence because we all know the answer to that and it’s what haunts me about these types of people. They would sell their children for much less and to people who would do unspeakable things to them.
Mr. Marshall licks his dry, cracked lips. “Where do we sign?”
I don’t smile. It’s a hollow victory in many ways. Pulling out a pen from my jacket, I hand it and the papers over, sticky tabs where they need to put their marks. I watch as they both sign their names. “Which bedroom is Noah’s?”
“Top left,” Mr. Marshall replies, already reaching for the cash and pulling a bundle out.
“Nox.” He gives a swift nod, then heads in that direction while we wait.
I hear the deep murmur of Nox’s voice before a door opens, then a gasp, and finally footsteps running. I turn to find Noah at the top of the stairs, his right eye swollen like he was punched and my hands clench into fists even as my heart thrashes in my chest.
His face crumples when he sees me, then he’s running down the stairs and crashes into my arms, sobbing. “D-do I get to come home, now?”
“Yes, Noah, darling. You’re coming home.” My throat is thick, voice wavering but I hold him tighter even as tears threaten to fall. “Nox, could you take him to the car, please?”
“Come on, kid,” Nox says gently, managing to untangle him and lead him gently back out the door we came through not fifteen minutes ago.
I watch them go, then turn back to Mr. and Mrs. Marshall.
They're already counting the money. They barely looked up when their son left.
Something frozen settles in my chest.
I step closer to Mr. Marshall, feeling Ant and Steele stiffen behind me.
But this needs to be done. The point needs to be driven home for us all to remain safe.
Noah’s dad is bigger than me, drunk, unpredictable.
My heart races, but I keep my face blank.
I learned how to do that from my father — how to wear power like a mask.
“Let me be very clear.” My voice is quiet. Controlled. “There is no proof I gave you that money. No paper trail, no witnesses, nothing to tie me to you in any way.”
His nostrils flare, and he tries to puff out his flabby chest.
“If you try to blackmail me, if you ever contact Noah, if you come looking for him—” I let the pause stretch. “I will make you disappear.”
“You threatening me?” He tries to sound tough, but there's uncertainty in his voice, in the way his eyes dart away before coming back to me.