— Chapter 41 —
Burning the Bridges

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E L L I O T

"Ow, motherfucker!" Noah gritted out.

"Shush!" Angela said in response, pulling a thin, black thread through Noah's inflamed skin. "I'm almost done."

Noah was propped up on a sofa in the living room of the apartment, as Angela worked away at stitching up the gash in his side. The coffee table was littered with medications, bandages, antiseptics, and painkillers, though a bottle of bourbon had decided to take part in the mess as well. Noah had already downed a glass of it amidst all the commotion.

Chains had come, too, though it was Angela who'd called him over. Dressed casually in a sweatshirt and jeans, he stood miles over me in height and let the lights dance off his silver piercings. His hair, curiously enough, seemed to match their color.

Noah grumbled, "You said that twenty minutes ago."

"I told you to put a belt between your teeth and you refused," Angela said. "So if you don't need a belt for the pain then at least save me the frustration of having to listen to your complaining."

He rolled his eyes. "I should've just gone to a hospital."

"And I should've just let you bleed to death back at the bar," Angela fired back. "Now would you stop fidgeting? This is hard enough as it is."

Noah quit bouncing his leg and passed her a glare. "I would've found a way to take care of—son of a fuck!"

"Sorry," feigned Angela innocently, "the needle slipped."

"You did that on purpose!" Noah hissed. "Just what kind of fuckin' nurse are you? Jesus fucking fuck. I should've just done this myself."

Off to the side, I asked Chains, "Are they going to keep arguing like this?"

Chains pulled the toothpick out from between his lips and shrugged in boredom. "Most likely. They're going through a bit of a rough patch right now."

"This is a rough patch?"

"Apparently."

Noah turned his focus to me and gestured loosely at his surroundings. "Why's the apartment such a mess?"

I rested a glance to the living room. He was right—the place was definitely out of order. The fight I'd had with James must have gotten nasty at some point, considering that the couch was shoved forward, the rug was crimped in folds, and the floor was littered with books I must have knocked down when I'd fallen.

"It's been a stressful 24 hours," I mumbled.

Noah didn't need to know that James had been in the apartment. Considering his current situation, it would be like shoving salt in an open wound.

"Alright, I'm done," Angela finally announced, tying off the ends of her thread. "Was that really so terrible?"

Noah muttered, "Downright nightmarish."

"A 'thank you' would be nice."

He sighed.

"Thank you, Angela."

"You're welcome," she smiled sweetly.

Interjecting, I asked Angela, "How long does he have to keep the stitches in?"

"Two weeks. I'll stop by to pull them out around that time," she said. "Avoid any strenuous activity and call me if something happens. Get plenty of rest."

"Thanks," Noah deadpanned, "I won't."

Angela tutted but didn't answer.

Chains turned his focus to Noah and addressed the elephant in the room. "Who shot at you? Another biker? Mayhem rider? Pit Viper? Tell me, Edge—I'll drag the sorry fucker through hell."

Pit Viper? I thought, that's a new one.

"Relax, would you?" Noah said glumly, though he seemed to appreciate the sentiment. "He didn't have a vest. No patches. Never seen the guy before in my life."

"He still managed to lodge a bullet in you from a distance like that, so whatever's going on is worse than we thought," Chains voiced. "This goes past street racing. He was ready to kill you."

Noah let out a sharp exhale.

Covering her ex's stitches with a fresh layer of bandages, Angela asked, "Maybe he just got lucky with his shot?"

Noah shook his head. "The only reason he didn't get me square in the chest was because I swerved my bike in the way. It could've been a lot worse."

"What did he look like?" I asked quietly.

Noah paused.

"Young guy," he confessed. "Spider tattoo onto his neck. And he had a scar over his eye... right one, I think."

Chains was perplexed. "You think?"

Noah threw him a frown and deadpanned. "Alright, Chains, what the prick looked like wasn't exactly on my list of priorities considering the gun I had pointed at my fucking face."

"But you'd be able to recognise him if you saw him again?" Chains asked.

"Yes, but—alright, look, we've got bigger issues to deal with," Noah gritted. "There's still a Mayhem rider in the hospital that needs to be questioned. Marcus could be running his mouth to the cops right this minute. I have to go deal with Tats—again—and someone needs to get Sage on the phone."

Angela's mouth parted open slightly.

Sage? I thought to myself, watching as Angela finished up with Noah's wounded torso. The name... it sounded so vaguely familiar.

"You've just been shot and that's the first person you want to call?" Chains scoffed, scratching the back of his neck. "Get your shit together. We're not calling Sage."

Noah strained to throw a couch pillow at him. "Then go do something fucking useful!"

Catching the pillow cleanly, Chains let out a breath.

"Alright," he conceded. "I'll talk to Shooter in the morning and we'll go deal with the Mayhem rider. But there's nothing we can do about Marcus until the cops decide to let him go."

Noah rubbed his tired eyes and gestured loosely, "We'll burn that bridge when we come to it."

He sat up on the couch and slowly got to his feet, but not without a worried look passing over Angela's expression at the sudden exertion.

I butted into the conversation, slightly amused, and pointed out, "Actually, uh... that's not how the saying goes."

"It is now," Noah said.

Grabbing his jacket from over the couch, Noah threw it over his shoulders and found some stability on his feet. Angela frowned at him.

"Where do you think you're going at this hour?" She asked.

Noah shook out the back of his disheveled hair and huffed, "For a fucking smoke. We're done here, aren't we?"

But he didn't really listen for an answer, smoothly evacuating out the front door to the apartment.

Chains pursed his lips.

"We should be heading out too," he decided, nodding to Angela. But before the two of them went anywhere, Chains turned a reassuring glance to me. "Edge isn't usually like this, you know. He just doesn't cope with stress all that well. It gets to him."

Angela agreed. "We can't be here all the time to watch him, so... would you mind keeping an eye on him? Make sure he's taking his meds and looking after himself. He'll forget to otherwise."

I swallowed and turned a gentle glance to the door, where Noah had once been standing.

"Of course."

===

The rain had started up again.

Boston had been blanketed in deep-grey clouds for well over the last two days. The showers had soaked most of the city, glossing over the asphalt streets and nurturing the greenery thriving outside.

I loved the rain.

It always carried the strange ability of lulling me to sleep. The soft pattering of water droplets against my windowpane, the whooshing of the passing breeze, and the comfortable cold lying beyond my own warm blankets... it was all so soothing for my weary soul. Rainy weather was the best time to be asleep.

Only tonight, the serenity of it all didn't seem to last. Before long, the pattering of raindrops had turned into loud hail. The gentle breeze turned into ferocious winds. Thunder echoed in the distance, with only a few noiseless flashes to sign the thunderstorm that was steadily approaching.

For once, I couldn't sleep.

Maybe it was because of all the distractions outside my window. Or perhaps it was due to the stresses that James and Noah had brought with them today. Whatever it was, I couldn't get my mind to find some rest.

The first bolt of lightning struck as I'd been dragging my groggy figure out of bed, sometime after midnight. My sleep schedule, needless to say, was a mess.

But tonight's surprises didn't seem to end.

Just as I'd escaped to the kitchen to fix myself some tea, all the lights turned off.

Every last one. Kitchen lights, hall lights, even the lights in the fridge—with a short hum, the electricity fizzled out completely. The AC had powered down too. That meant no more heating. I could hardly see further than my nose, trying to adjust to my surroundings. The entire apartment had been submerged in darkness.

Perfect, I sighed. Blackout.

Quickly drawing a set of curtains, my eyestrain was alleviated as moonlight began to flood into the room. It refracted off the droplets on the window—but a strike of lightning in the distance abruptly flashed in my face. The very sound of its roar seemed to reverberate in my eardrums and bounce off the painted walls. It was ridiculously loud, as if only a few blocks away.

Another crack of lightning followed quickly after, just as loud as it's predecessor.

Nobody was having a restful sleep tonight.

I managed to find a flashlight in the kitchen while the storm continued to rage outside. Admittedly, the cracks of thunder got me to flinch once or twice—the echoes seemed to shake the floorboards.

But I jumped out of my own skin when a smash filled the air.

Whatever had fallen, it had weight to it. I could hear the heavy thud against the ground—and the breaking of glass that followed after. My gaze was instantly drawn in the direction of the sound.

Noah's room?

It was the only explanation. He was still awake, then... but what the hell was going on in there?

What if he's hurt himself?

Taking a few quick strides over, I hesitated briefly before softy knocking on the door with my knuckles.

"Noah?" I asked, just loudly enough for him to hear over all the noise of the rain outside. There was no answer.

Just another heavy crash in his room.

Concern raced through my mind as I called out to him. "I'm coming in."

Swinging his door open, the once muffled banging coming from his room instantly became crystal-clear. In conjunction with the thunder rippling through the night air, everything just seemed way too loud.

The sight of Noah's room left me with more questions than answers.

I figured out what had been causing all the noise—he'd upturned his entire bedroom. A lamp had been torn from its socket and shoved off a dresser along with a few books and papers, the lightbulb smashed to pieces on the floor. The wooden drawers from his dresser had been torn out too, cast dangerously to the side. Clothes were littering the floor. Perhaps the only thing that was untouched was a glass bottle of bourbon sitting on his bedside table—half empty.

Considering the pristine shape of the rest of the apartment, the chaos in here was a shocking juxtaposition.

He'd been searching for something.

Turning my focus to him, I began, "Noah, what on earth is goi—"

But I didn't finish my sentence.

He tore another drawer out, this time from his nightstand. Before I could stop him, he recklessly threw it to the ground, making me flinch at the heavy bang that filled my eardrums.

He forced through a tight jaw, "I can't find it."

Dressed only in black sweats, Noah's hair was messy and his face was contorted into one of agitation. The darkness around his eyes was harrowing, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. His cheeks, which were usually stained a soft shade of pink, had gone entirely pale. Sweat glistened at his brow. His every movement was unsteady.

Noah didn't stop at the nightstand, though, beginning to dig through the next drawer in a silent panic.

But a heavy crash of lightning stopped him.

In fact, it made him recoil entirely—clutching the sides of his head, Noah's desperate gasps were sharp and ragged. It was as if he couldn't breathe, and as the raspy sounds of his breathing filled the room, he nearly tripped over a fold in the carpet.

Another crack of lightning slammed down outside.

Noah backed himself far enough to hit his back on the wall, tightly scrunching his eyelids together. Sinking down in the corner of the bedroom, he pulled his knees to his chest and gripped the hair falling over the tips of his ears.

"Shit," I blurted out, moving immediately from my spot in the doorway. "Noah, what's the matter?"

Kneeling down on the ground beside him, I rested my hands on his legs and tried to get his attention. I could smell the booze coming off him in waves. He'd been drinking.

"Hey, hey—" I stammered—"Noah, are you okay? What's going on?"

Aside from his deep, wheezy breaths, no sound left his mouth. He didn't even react until another crack of lightning struck outside, at which he jolted in a sense of fright, forcing his eyes shut in an effort to focus on his breathing.

The thunder.

Noah was scared of thunder.

The realisation slammed into me violently. Noah, the Vice President of the most notorious biker gang in Boston, who wasn't bothered by cops or bullets or blood, was terrified of storms. And for whatever reason, knowing that made my heart bleed for him.

Resting his head against the wall, he gripped his ears tightly and swayed in an effort to drown out the sounds of thunder reverberating from outside. His breathing grew faster, raspier, and more intense.

"It's too... it's too late," he gasped, "too late..."

Too late for what? I thought in concern, but it quickly left my list of priorities.

Noah's hands clenched violently over his ears at the neck strike of thunder—he flinched acutely at the sound, flaring his nostrils to get air into his lungs.

It was at that point that I finally understood. Noah was having a panic attack.

In the middle of his panic, I began to dart my eyes around the upturned room in an effort to try and remedy the situation.

Think, Elliot, think!

Sucking in a deep breath, I reflected back to the days where my mom would suffer from panic attacks of her own. I'd almost always been there to help her through it—the process was still present in my subconscious.

I just needed to ground Noah... but how?

Looking at the state of the room, thoughts began to race through my mind. It was absolutely trashed. Compared to Noah's usual habit of being a neat-freak, this was an entire switch in his character.

He was looking for something.

My gaze dashed around the room. With any luck, I thought that perhaps I could spot what he couldn't. There was nothing at the dresser, or on the desk, at his bed or by his nightsta—no, wait.

His bed.

There was something on the floor just beneath it. Silver. It peaked out, shimmering softly despite there being no light in the room.

Noah's chain.

The one that he never took off his neck—it was lying on the floor. My eyes turned back to Noah.

Had all the fuss been over the one little chain?

As he continued to scramble for breath, I made a grab for it, with the cold ring dangling off the smooth metal.

Noah hadn't been paying attention me in the slightest. Though he was making desperate attempts to control his breathing, he only inhaled in short bursts and let out even shorter exhales. His face had been flushed red with warmth. Sweat clung to his temples. Rocking against the wall, he refused to part his palms from his ears.

The lightning had died down slowly in the last few minutes, but it didn't appear to matter. Noah seemed to think it was right in the same room as him—he was hypersensitive to the sound.

Think, Elliot.

I quickly put the chain on over his head. Using the cold ring to catch his attention, I drew one of his hands to mine and rested the ring in his palm. Noah gripped tightly onto it in reflex, but that didn't stop him from flinching at the next roll of the thunder.

"Noah, hey," I said, speaking clearly for him to hear. "Listen to me, alright? You're having a panic attack—it's going to be okay. You'll be okay. You're safe here. You're safe."

The only reply from him was a strained gasp for air. He was in pain. Physically or mentally... I didn't know which was worse.

After a few moments, I managed to shuffle Noah forward enough to sit down behind him.

Pale skin, sweat, dark eyes and raspy breaths... but it wasn't till I felt the fiery heat radiating off his trembling body that it finally occurred to me. Noah had a fever. He was sick.

I decided that could wait. Holding him in a secure embrace, I pressed my torso to his back and prompted his focus to the ring clasped in his hands.

"You're always wearing it," I began, watching as his unstable gaze locked on the chain. "This chain. You never take it off... it's always hanging around your neck."

The tensing of Noah's fingers beneath mine was the only sign I had that he was listening. Whatever the ring was to him, Noah seemed to be holding onto it for a dear life.

"The ring," I reiterated. "Tell me what it means."

"I can't... I can't—"

I shook my head and kept his focus trained on the metal.

"Hey," I spoke softly to him. "It's okay. You're safe with me. Here, take a deep breath. Do what I'm doing."

I inhaled deeply through my nose, causing my chest to press firmly against his back. Holding the air in for only a second, I then let out a long exhale. I did it a few times—the routine of my breathing against Noah's back seemed to guide him into doing the same.

Because he finally managed to suck in a steady breath of air.

"That's good," I said quietly.

Noah let the breath out of his nose and, with his eyes tightly shut, repeated the motions once or twice more. As the lightning continued to echo beyond the apartment, he did his best to block it out, but the panic exuding off his trembling body remained.

"Noah, the chain," I told him. "What does it mean?"

"It's... it's an h-heirloom," he muttered, gripping tightly on it. "I got it from... from..."

He paused to take a breath. "It's okay," I reminded him gently.

"Curse," he whispered, "it's a curse. A curse."

The ring was a curse?

The notion, in a sense... felt unusual. Archaic. It wasn't something I had expected to hear, especially not from Noah's lips. He'd told me once before that he wasn't one to be superstitious.

"It's not cursed," I promised him. "The only power it has is the power you give it. So don't give it control over you, Noah. You can choose not to. I promise you can."

A strike of lightning shattered through the air and made Noah jerk in my embrace, forcing his eyes shut and pressing a free hand to the side of his head.

"It's going to kill me," he gasped. "Just... just like... no. I'm already dead. I'm already dead. I'm damned—I deserve this."

If he believed the ring was his damnation, then some kind of complex and painfully profound moment in his past had clearly left a scar deep within his psyche. That wasn't something I could fix—but I would at least try to alleviate his pain. Even just temporarily.

"You're not," I said. "You're right here with me, Noah. You're alive. You're breathing. Your heart is still beating in your chest. And you're in