Chapter 4
NOAH
My feet fucking hurt, and I’m hungry.
And that’s all I think about as I maneuver through the trees, now under the cover of night.
I waited it out in the ravine, dozing under a few fallen trees.
The grime of the sand lingers in the sweat still sticking to my skin, and these fucking boots that are a size too small are starting to catch up to me.
Escape from prison is not what it’s cracked up to be.
I grit my teeth, thinking back to Richard Longley, the fucking creep of a child killer who started to laugh manically when the three alarms sounded at once, drawing the attention of everyone on the yard.
Just then, the special diet cart had rolled in, the gate got stuck open, and I was out of there. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just ran.
Like a real Forrest Gump.
“And here I am,” I mutter under my breath, itchy from the sand and starving from only having eaten a granola bar in the last three days. Honestly, it’s looking pretty grim for me out here. I need to get it together before I end up turning myself in out of sheer annoyance and starvation.
Finally, just as I assumed, a small two-bedroom home comes into view from the tree line.
The sight of the little brick house brings a flood of unwanted emotion, and I suddenly picture my dad playing catch with me in the backyard—back when I thought I actually had a shot at making something of myself. And convincing Rue Iverson to marry me.
What a fucking joke.
I carefully detail the state of the residence, searching for any signs of life. I know my parents sold it to the Wilsons after the divorce, but I have no idea if they’re still here. I purse my lips and creep toward the front, spotting where my dad’s old Harley used to sit.
Now, there’s nothing in its place.
The gravel drive leading to the carport is overgrown, and no vehicle sits beneath the rusted metal shed. I drop my gear down behind an old Blackjack tree and ease forward, hoping like hell no vehicle means no tenant.
Even just for now.
There’s no fencing around the house, most of it beginning by the barn for the cattle my dad once thought he wanted—and then sold off to buy drugs for my mom.
What a happy fucking family we were.
I blow out a sharp, quiet breath as I make my way to the sliding glass door in the back. It’s newer than the one that was there when I lived here as a kid twenty years ago, but they’re all the same.
A little jiggle goes a long way.
Except it’s not locked at all.
I roll my eyes at the ease, and carefully tug it back. The scent of pine and something cinnamon hits my lungs, and I cringe at the incredibly chemical scent of leftover Christmas. It’s definitely the kind of smell that comes from a Glade plug-in.
And it’s not even the fucking holidays anymore.
Slipping through the crack in the door, I take in the dark house, devoid of any signs of life. But while it’s empty now, someone most definitely lives here. It’s clean, well kept, and basically everything my house was not.
Oh, and it screams old lady with the pastel quilt project strung out on the table.
I stare at the Fourth of July patterns and frown. The quiltmaker is either really late or really early. It could go either way. And either way, I don’t give a shit.
My boots are silent on the hardwood floors, and thankfully, they don’t leave mud behind as I make my way to the kitchen. As soon as I catalogue what I have to work with, I cringe.
I fucking hate stealing from people. In fact, it makes me sick to my stomach to think about taking an old lady’s food.
So, I hit the lever on the bottom of the trash can, hoping like hell I can get lucky. I peer into it, and sure enough, it looks like she cleaned out her cabinets recently. I pull out a few boxes of expired junk food and set them back on the counter.
“People waste so much food,” I mumble under my breath, and then move to the rack of clean dishes.
I grab a cup, fill it with water, down it.
I repeat the last two steps until my stomach nearly feels sick from all the liquid.
I wash the cup and put it back on the rack, staring at the old granite countertop that I recognize.
“If you’d just do the goddamn dishes, this wouldn’t have to happen!” I hear my father’s deep voice boom in my head, and I wince. I push the thought away before my mind runs to what happens next.
The hammer. Broken fingers.
There was a reason I never told Rue Thomas was my first name. I didn’t want her to think I was anything like the man I was named after. I thought I was protecting her.
But I was really just running from myself.
I clear my throat and rip my gaze from the counter, flexing my fingers as I travel through the house to the master bedroom.
I notice the shadow box of a late Frank Wilson, who passed about three years ago.
And that thought leads me to the closet, where men’s shoes line the wall.
I swipe up a pair of new hunting boots, barely used. I pull the tongue back, and lucky me. Frank Wilson wears a thirteen, too. Thank God. I grab a few shirts and a new pair of jeans. Again, I hate stealing, but…
I doubt he’s gonna need this shit six feet under.
I take my armful of clothes and then stop at the bathroom. I hesitate, my eyes landing on the shower, complete with the handicap seat.
And fuck, it looks enticing.
But I also don’t know how long I have.
I crack my jaw, and then decide it’s worth the risk. I drop the shit to the floor and strip down as fast as I can, starting the water. I don’t wait for it to warm up as I scrub my body. It’s my first shower since I busted out.
And it’s not nearly as great as everyone always said it’d be.
I use the Irish Spring soap to lather, and I make quick work, scrubbing myself down and ridding my body of the grime and sand. I turn off the water before it ever fully warms up, then step out, using a towel from the linen closet to quickly dry off.
I keep my mind empty as I slide into the musty smelling jeans and pull on a black T-shirt and then my hoodie. Everything fits—not perfectly—but it’s better than what I had.
Especially the boots.
Once dressed, I sweep up everything and drop the towel into a halfway-full hamper. Will she notice? Maybe. My eyes flicker back to the shower, which still has remnants of being used, water droplets covering the white plastic walls.
I stare at it for a few passing beats.
It is what it is.
I exit the bathroom, making a point not to peer into the spare bedroom on the left. I don’t want to see what happened to my childhood room. Nothing good happened there, and I doubt that a change of the wall colors can erase the shitty memories.
My feet carry me into the kitchen, and I swipe up the expired goods, furthering my arm load of shit. Before exiting, I double check that I left nothing obvious behind, and then slide out the back door.
Right as I hear a car door shut.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I pick up my pace, racing toward the barn. The armful of shit I’m carrying slows me down, but I still manage to slip through the partially opened door. I rest my back against the cold wood, and take in the musty place, clearly not having been in use for some time.
It’s dark, dingy, and there are scurries in the shadows that I’d rather not investigate. My eyes flicker up to the loft, and the decrepit ladder that leads to it. The moonlight through a broken slat barely illuminates the place Rue and I used to spend hours of our free time after school.
It makes my stomach fucking sick to think of it.
But it’s the best shelter I’ve gotten. I don’t think Old Lady Wilson will be climbing this loft ladder any time soon. My eyes flicker to the door, knowing good and well I still have to get my backpack and sleeping bag.
Can’t risk that right now. I toss what I have up into the loft, thankful they land softly. I continue through the motions, ignoring the sound of Rue’s childhood laughter hitting my ears. It feels haunting, how well my mind can bring it to life.
Stupid fucking Matthew ruined our lives.
And that’s one thing we’ll always have in common. I let the rumination continue as I clamber up and get comfortable in the musty hay. I roll up the dirty clothes and tear into the food, stale chips strangely hitting the spot.
But at this point, I think just about anything would.
I never thought this is how my life would play out. I prospected for the Iron Traitors because my dad had ridden with them—and after he abandoned us and I’d lost his last name in the adoption process with my stepdad, I was desperate to hang onto something of his.
And damn, was it the wrong decision.
I’d been initiated when Matthew showed up, prospecting as some little fucking frat boy with a rebellious streak. I don’t know what they were thinking, letting the nineteen-year-old prick join the club.
But despite coming from money, the shithead was broke.
And the small loan he took from the Club went sideways real fucking quick. My mind slips off into the past—the night we showed up at Matthew’s cabin, one that his family owned at the back of their lake property for hunting.
The echoes of Harleys roar in my ears as I squeeze my eyes shut. We all had dismounted with bats and tire irons, going straight for the untitled, stolen truck Matthew thought he’d gift us. But it’s not the threats and yelling I remember…
It’s her. Rue.
She stepped out of the front door, nothing but a baggy flannel covering her body. Her hair blew in the midnight breeze, the porch light glowing against her porcelain skin.
And my heart stopped.
It was the first time I’d seen her since I’d moved, since I’d become my mother’s biggest disappointment, Thomas Noah Peterson.
But she’d only ever known me as Noah Anders.
We’d made eye contact, but there was no recognition there. Only fear. She didn’t know me, and she had a big fucking rock on her left hand.
But I’m sure she knew who I was when I was arrested though.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my eyes fluttering open to the darkness around me. Pain sears through my chest as I take a deep breath to steady my heart. Whatever we were as kids had to stay there.
Because obviously, she didn’t give a shit about the friendship we’d had.
I chew my lip as the mixture of grief and anger boils beneath the surface, the final memory of Rue threatening to surface. It wasn’t that night at Matthew’s hunting cabin. It was the night I watched her stab Matthew to death on the docks.
I’d come for a payout, and instead, witnessed a murder.
Everyone in the Club knew I was there. My alibi was nonexistent, and even still, I refused to throw Rue under the bus. I could’ve pointed the finger, as half the town did.
But nope. I took the fall for her, to protect her.
And she didn’t care.
I run my hands along the tops of my thighs, fighting the urge to make the quick half mile trek to her house. How I’d fucking love to drag her right out of that bedroom window, demand she see me, force her to her knees in fucking gratitude, and then ruin her.
And that thought gets me so unbelievably hard, I feel sick.