— Chapter 20 —
Angela

=||=||=

N O A H

Angela Myles
Today at 12:26 am

Angela:
Can we talk? In person?

[6:14 am] Noah:
Fine. When and where?

[9:43 am] Angela:
Come over - anytime after twelve.

Noah:
Alright. I'll stop by after work tonight.

The message had been sent several hours ago—though, as I stood before her in her decorative living room, I couldn't help but feel anxiety creeping up at the back of my mind.

Neither of us had spoken in a few moments, and the elephant in the room made me damn tense. The space wasn't small—but I couldn't help but feel cramped.

"It wasn't what it looked like," she began, adjusting her stance.

I slid my hands in the pockets of my jacket and sighed.

"It looked like you were getting pretty damn comfortable," I pointed out. "What the hell were you doing at Crave, Angie?"

She frowned at the question. "I was just out with some friends—why does that matter? I should ask what you were doing there."

"I wasn't the one grinding on the nearest idiot at the dance floor, that's for sure."

"Don't be a dick," she muttered, crossing her arms tightly at her chest. "You hadn't answered any of my calls for nearly two damn days. Hell, I was surprised you answered me this morning."

"That's your fucking excuse?"

"It's not—but what the hell do you expect from me, Noah?" Angela said, her tone of voice growing frustrated. "You hardly even call me anymore. I have no idea what you've been doing for the last few weeks. I can't even remember the last time we had a serious conversation without your boys hangin' around you."

I let out a sharp exhale as she continued.

"The two of us haven't slept together in a month," she said softly. "I try and get you in the mood, but you always end up passing out when you come over. You can't blame me for getting bored, okay? And it was you who suggested that we have an open relationship to begin with."

"Seriously?" I said. "I don't give a single damn who you go out and fuck, Angela. But I do care when you're hanging out with other bikers—especially Mayhem members."

"Why the hell is that a problem?"

"Are you fucking joking?" I glared at her. "I'm a Stray Dog, Angela. You're with a Stray. Dog. How do you think I'm gonna react when I have people like Marcus telling me that you've been parading yourself around in another group's territory? I'm just trying to keep you safe."

She snapped, "Since when have you been listening to a damn thing Marcus has to say? Of all freaking people? The guy is a colossal prick!"

"Well, was he lying?" I countered.

She clamped her mouth shut and flared her nostrils. Using a moment to take a deep inhale, she eventually let the air out of her lungs and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Christ," she said under her breath. Looking up at me, she announced, "Fine, look—I'm sorry about that then, okay?"

I scoffed. "Yeah. Sure."

"You've been different lately," she spoke, changing the topic. "You don't talk much. Even Chains has noticed. We're worried you're getting low again. I'm worried. Come on, Noah. We're not the only two who've realized that you haven't been sleeping well. You used to talk to me about these kinds of things."

'Getting low?'

A frown pulled on my lips. "For fuck's sake. They've just lowered my dosage for meds, alright? I'm adjusting. It's nothing. Stop worrying over nothing, Angela. I'm fine."

"They lowered it?" She asked, her brows lifting in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What the hell could you have done?" I said. "Look, I'm not getting low—so I'd appreciate it you and Chains could get off my case."

She sighed. "I can't do that, Noah. You might think it's nothing, but I can see that you're obviously not doing well. I'm trying to understand, I really am, but you won't even talk to me—don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do. You know I do, I just..." I trailed off, blinking heavily. "I'm tired, Angela. And I have a lot of shit on my mind. I just want a fucking break, okay?"

"I'm not so sure you do trust me. Not anymore," she mumbled. "You've never kept things to yourself like this before—if there's something on your mind, can't you explain it to me? I'm just trying to help you, Noah. I'm trying."

"Well, fucking stop!" I snapped, rather unfairly in hindsight. "I have enough to deal with right now, don't you get it? I don't want to deal with you trying to fix me. Theres nothing to fix—so stop looking at me like I'm some fucking experiment gone wrong."

"I'm not doing that!" She cried out. "I'm just trying to help! Why are you keeping secrets from me?"

"Fuck, I—" I cut myself off and forced a sharp exhale to calm myself down. "Can't you just mind your own business for just this once, Angela? I don't want to fucking fight with you, okay? I don't."

"I didn't want to fight with you, either," she admitted. "I asked you here because I wanted to try and fix our relationship. But it's obvious that's not going to happen. All I wanted was to try and help—you're the one making me the enemy."

"I'm not making you anything! I didn't even fucking ask for your help!"

"Then leave! If all I am is a burden to you, just leave! I can't help you if you're shutting me out!"

"I'm not fucking shutting you out! I just want some space to breathe! What part of that is so difficult for you to understand, Angela?"

She threw her pointer finger to the door. "I said leave!"

I paused.

"You know what?" I spoke, lowering my tone. "If I fucking walk out those doors, I'm not coming back."

Shock rippled through her irises. "What the hell are you—what? You want to break up?"

"It's better than yelling at each other all the damn time!"

"Don't be stupid Noah! I just... we're just frustrated, and we're tired, and we're not thinking straight. You don't really want to do this."

"Stop talking to me like I'm a child! I know what I fucking want, and this isn't it."

"I just want what's best for you! I always have," Angela explained. "You're obviously working through shit right now, and to be honest, I don't know how to help you if you refuse to talk to me. If you really love me you'll stay here and try and make this work."

"No," I breathed. "Part of me does love you—but we've come to the end of our rope. And I'm smart enough to know when to let go."

Her chin trembled.

Finally, she asked, "So that's it then? We're over?"

Her darkly-coloured brown eyes locked with mine, and for a few seconds, all I could feel was regret. I knew that it would be better for the both of us, but... I hated that it had to go down like this. That we had to do it in anger.

My muscles tensed. "I guess so."

There was so much more that I wanted to say to her in that moment, but the words wouldn't come out of my mouth.

Turning away from her, I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and walked away—out of Angela's house, without another word. My teeth gritted together and my jaw clenched tightly, every muscle in my back clenched.

Fuck.

How the fuck had I let it go down like that?

Getting into my black pickup that I'd parked in her driveway, I hit my fist against the steering wheel and let out a heavy breath. Yanking on the seatbelt a few times, I couldn't help but grumble loudly.

Why was it that the fucking seatbelt only ever got locked up when I was fucking pissed?

Taking a deep inhale, I calmed my grip on the handle, finally managing to strap the damn thing on. Frustrated, I put my keys in the ignition and found my box of cigarettes lying in the passenger seat.

Fumbling shakily with the pack for a moment, I managed to light a cig up, muttering curses under my breath. Sticking the end between my lips, I took a long drag, trying to loosen the tension in my muscles.

Fuck, I repeated.

Turning the engine on, I let it warm up for a bit while I rolled down the window to let the smoke out.

Just as I took another inhale, I found my gaze flickering to the direction of Elliot's place a few houses down. The porch light wasn't on like the rest of the other homes on the street. It looked gloomy—and the cracking driveway and dead plants in the front garden didn't help. I figured nobody was home.

Is he at work?

My leg bounced for a few moments in the narrow space of the drivers seat as I came to an abrupt decision.

Screw it. Joe's it is.

After everything that had just happened, I needed a drink anyway.

===

It wasn't long before I'd found myself pulling the truck up to the near-empty parking lot of Joe's Bar. I hadn't even realised that it was a Monday until I'd seen the time, and how deserted the place was.

10:48 pm.

The cursive, neon sign outside was brightly lit in red and blue hues, though the 'J' tended to flicker every couple of moments or so. The retro sign, along with the building, had been frosted over in the thin layers of snow falling peacefully from the cloudy sky above.

My breath turned to mist as I exhaled into the cold night air, locking the truck behind me as I trudged up to the building with my hands balled in my pockets. It was fucking cold.

Stray Dogs usually weren't around the bar much during the week. Most people only turned up on Fridays and throughout the weekend, with the older guys most commonly there on Thursday. Other than that, Joe's Bar was a damn ghost town sitting on a long strip of road leading into the city.

The bikers were probably the only thing keeping the place open. 

Pushing the door open, I was instantly blanketed by the comfortable warmth of the bar and the bright lighting illuminating the space.

Aside from the rock music playing lowly from the old jukebox in the corner, the space was mostly silent. The checkered floor seemed to shine as if it had been freshly mopped, sparkling beneath the dozens of white lights in the dark ceiling.

But the best part was who was standing behind the counter.

Elliot.

He was at the cash register with a thick binder beside him, effortlessly twirling a black pen in his fingers with boredom on his face as he counted the money in the drawer. He rested his head on his hand, letting out a quiet yawn after dropping the pen on the book.

There were no customers at all—I figured everyone must've cleared out for the night. Mondays weren't exactly the busiest day of the week.

"Shit. My grandma's funeral was more lively than this," I joked, catching Elliot's attention. He almost jumped ten feet in the air at the sound of my voice while a smile pull on my lips.

His face turned in my direction. Those sweet, hazel-brown eyes locked with mine, muscles relaxing as he recognised me.

I wasn't so relaxed, though.

No. I definitely wasn't fucking relaxed.

Elliot had fresh bruises on his face.

I could see them as plain as day, even from my distance. They looked terrible. A dark, purple mark was clear on his cheekbone, with a matching bruise just beside his chin. There were cuts, too—a considerable one just above the bruise on his cheek, and a serious graze at the side of his hairline.

From the way they had hardly scabbed over yet, I could tell it had only been a few hours since they'd been inflicted on him. He didn't have any band-aids over them, either—they would get infected at this rate.

Elliot noticed the way my jaw had clenched up at the sight of them. Storming over to him, I barely listened as he began to object.

"Noah, wait, it's not—"

I cut him off.

"He fucking hit you again?"

=||A/N||=

Thanks for reading! Votes, comments and shares are always appreciated, too! See you in the next chapter <3