— Chapter 66 —
Two Sides of the Same Coin

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E L L I O T

I couldn't remember the last time I celebrated my birthday.

It didn't bother me, really. After turning eighteen, I didn't really have anyone around who really cared. Some years I'd go to bed early; other years I'd sit out on the porch with a Smirnoff in my hand and wait for the day to pass me by. Last year, and the year before that, I was sure I spent those hours working at Joe's, hoping for some decent tips and the comfort of going unnoticed.

I guess I didn't see a point in celebrating when there was nobody to celebrate with. It was just one of the pitfalls of being a loner. I didn't mind.

Everything was different tonight, though.

Standing on a chipped cement pathway lining the side of a busy road, James and I found ourselves staring up at a skinny building lodged between a bustling pub and a run-down hotel. Its crooked bricks were coated in black paint and the dusty windows revealed nothing but pale, cerulean curtains. Yellow signs blared in our faces to the beat of pop music echoing from the front door.

I chuckled. "Whose idea was karaoke, again?"

James sighed and tucked his hands into the pockets of his ash-black coat. "You can thank Lucille. When she said she knew a place, I didn't think it would be... this."

"I kind of like it. Looks fun."

He raised a curious brow. "You're going to sing, then?" he questioned. "It is your birthday, after all."

"Oh, no way. Not a chance. I'm just here to watch you all get drunk and embarrass yourselves."

He tsked, some kind of humor in his eyes. "I think you're going to sing. We may need to get two-drink Elliot out of you first, but it'll happen. Mark my words."

"I'd like to see you try." Bounding up to the doors, I looked back and called, "Let's go."

Warm air greeted us as we stepped inside. After talking to the receptionist to find our room, James led me up to the third floor and into a dimly lit hallway decorated with pot plants on wooden shelves and neon-blue lighting along the edges of the walls. Our room was number 24, coincidentally, and when we finally opened the door, a surge of singing voices bombarded my senses.

Lucille stood in front of me with a scarlet cake in her hands. Riven was flayed out on a couch with a microphone, while Nate was holding two beer bottles up in the air and grinning an infectious smile.

They were yelling the lyrics to the Happy Birthday song at the top of their lungs. Riven was shouting them into his mic; Nate was most certainly butchering some words. In high school, we had a running joke where instead of singing the song like sane people, we just screamed them until our throats went sore.

For the life of me, I couldn't remember who started it. At least the walls were soundproof.

Trailing behind by a few seconds, Riven finished off with a dramatic, opera-inspired interpretation of the final lyrics. "Happy birthday to... you..."

Unplugging my ears, I mentioned, "You know I hate that song."

Lucille put the icing-smothered cake down. "No, you just hate the attention, birthday boy."

"Now that you're here we can finally cut into this cake without Lucille smacking my arm away," said Riven. Lucille snatched away the knife in the middle of the table before he could grab it, leaving him pouting on the leather sofa. "I've been waiting for decades, man. I'm so hungry."

Nate smacked his friend's arm. "When aren't you hungry?"

"I got you red velvet," Lucille announced. "That's the only flavor you like, right? I told them to go easy on the icing, but it looks like the bakers had a field day."

"It looks great," I beamed. "But... should I be scared that you still know my favorite cake flavor?"

She laughed into the air.

"Me? God, when have you ever known me to have more than the memory of a goldfish? No way. Snowball's chance in hell." She admitted, "James told me."

I looked up at James, slightly surprised. "You remembered that?"

A warm, ever-so-slight smile was pulling on his rosy lips.

"Never forgot, Tiny."

"Alright, kids!" Lucille called, waving the cake knife around as she plopped herself down on the middle of the couch between the other two. "Let's get drunk and make some poor decisions. I call dibs on the first song."

Nate plucked the blade out of her grasp. "Just put the knife down, psychopath."

Riven used the opportunity to drag the cake closer to him, but he didn't get the chance to steal even a morsel before Lucille snapped, "Riven, keep your grubby hands off that cake!"

And like that, the night went on. Riven did an expressive rendition of Old Town Road. Nate, being the sucker for rock music that he was, found his calling in Livin' on a Prayer by Bon Jovi, and Lucille refused to let me get away without belting at least a lyric or two of Mr. Brightside. The cake barely lasted half an hour; the drinks made it slightly longer.

After a shot or two of liquor, I ended up with my head on James' shoulder, laughing along with him as he took videos of our friends messing around on the microphone. My phone rang in my pocket a few times throughout the night.

At some point, once the others were too drunk to care, James murmured to me, "Feel like getting a breather?"

I nodded, all too eager to get some fresh air.

We didn't get much further than halfway down the stairs, but I didn't mind. It'd rained a little since we'd first stepped inside the building. I decided it was nicer to stay inside where it was warm.

"I knew you'd end up singing," James teased me, leaning against the guardrail. He showed me a video of it on his phone.

I couldn't help the grin on my lips. "You got half a lyric out of me and some yelling. None of that was singing."

He tilted his head. "Agree to disagree."

"Your brother keeps texting you," I pointed out, noticing the messages that kept popping up on his screen. Aside from Jayden's nametag, all the messages were in Japanese characters. "Anything important?"

He scratched the back of his neck, and for a moment, I could've sworn his cheeks went slightly pink. "Yeah... it's nothing, really. He just wants to know if I'm bringing anyone to the wedding."

That piqued my interest. "You're not?"

"Well... I was hoping to ask you, actually."

My focus shot up to meet the milky abyss of his obsidian eyes. "Me?"

"You don't have to say yes," he made sure to emphasize, "but I'd like it if you came. It's in a few days—Saturday. Saves me having to go alone."

"Are you sure?" I murmured. "I've never even been to a wedding."

He took hold of my right hand to sway me around on the landing of the stairs. "I'll be playing a few pieces on piano at the afterparty. There'll be good music, and dancing—" he twirled me once beneath his arm— "and enough desserts to rot your sweet tooth. Besides... I think you'd look nice in a suit."

I tried not to smile as I contemplated the idea. "It's been a long time since I last heard you play the piano."

He let go of my hand as I stepped away, and the shimmers in his eyes made them look like pools full of stars. We used to dance, sometimes. I still remembered.

"Is that a yes, then?"

He held my gaze. I opened my mouth to answer him—only the sound of my phone's blaring ringtone cut me off. A huff of air left my lips as I fumbled the phone out of my pocket to read the screen. In big, bold letters: Noah.

I couldn't say exactly why I picked up the call. Probably because it was the fourth time it had gone off in the last fifteen minutes. Probably because I didn't want it to go off again. Probably because the two shots of liquor were enough to stop me from thinking anything through.

Probably because I still missed Noah, and that homesickness never stopped following behind me.

Trying not to shrink under James' unmoving stare, I asked into the call, "Hello?"

"About time. Is this Darla?"

It wasn't hard to notice that the raspy voice speaking to me from the other end of the line certainly wasn't Noah.

"I'm sorry," I said with a frown, "who is this?"

A pause followed, and a rustling of movement. "Oh—my bad. It says Darling here. I'm very fucking fried. Anyway, are you Edge's old lady or something? You don't sound like his old lady."

It was hard to follow the caller's trains of thought. Trying to pick through the details, I said, "Why do you have his phone?"

"Yeah, about that... the Stray Dogs voted to disband this morning, and—"

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, so as you can imagine Edge is pretty broken up about it. Very drunk on tequila. Also maybe popped some ecstasy, but I think that was accidental." The stranger on the other end of the line chuckled to himself. "Anyway, he's all over the place. Turns out we bikers aren't really the best influence on each other. Who would'a thought?"

Stunned, I checked for clarification, "He took drugs?"

"Oh yeah, just downright abused them. Why?"

"Okay, who is this?" I inquired. "Where are you? Are you drunk?"

"Tats, that's the name," revealed the stranger, finally. "We're at Crave. As for drunk, me? Uh, no? High as a motherfucker though. How many grams are in a line of coke? Times that by three—should be pretty accurate. By the way, you religious?"

"Uh... no? Why?"

"Cool, cool. He's just been saying the most out-of-pocket shit about god for the last ten minutes. Called the big guy a pussy." Tats laughed to himself. "Pretty sure he's catholic, so... don't tell his mother. She'll be horrified. Oh, hold on—"

"Hello?"

Another pause. More rustling.

Though he couldn't hear any of what was being said on the other line, James' expression had turned into one of displeasure over the course of the phone call. For a brief moment, I could hear yelling in the background. Just before I could ask for Tat's again, his voice returned.

"Yeah," he chortled. "Sorry, he just clocked some redhead in the face. Thought it was serious. Don't worry."

My stomach sank. "He did what?"

Tats chose not to elaborate. "So, anyway... if you can come to pick him up sometime in the future, that would be great. Preferably before someone calls the cops. Thanks."

"Wait, hold on a second—" but the sound of my phone beeping cut me short. I looked up to James and blurted, "He hung up on me."

He asked me, "What was all that about?"

"I need to go."

The frown on his face deepened. "What? Where?"

"Crave." Already peeling down the stairs, I explained, "My friend's in trouble and I'm worried he might hurt someone—or worse, himself. I really have to go."

"It's that biker, right?" James scoffed, his feet still planted on the landing. "Figures."

I stopped in my place, teeth sinking into my lower lip. There were times when James was so easy to read—like now, when his disposition was making it abundantly clear just how much he disliked the sight of me running off to save—in his words—a street rat. Especially when we'd all been having fun up until this point.

"Sorry," I stammered, trying to hide my trembling palms. "I'm really sorry, I know you guys planned out the evening. Tell Lucille I owe her one."

James sighed as I turned to walk away again.

"Wait," he said, coming down the stairs. "Hold on. I'm not going to let you run off on your own. My car's out front—I'll give you a ride. Lucille will understand."

My eyes widened slightly. "You'd do that for me?"

"I can't stop you from caring about him, but that doesn't mean I care about you any less." Meeting me where I stood, he gave me a resolute nod. "Let's go. From the sound of things, we might not have much time."

I tried not to pay too much attention to his hand gently clasping onto mine as we headed out the front doors.

===

The line outside the doors to Crave extended halfway down the block, but what left me stupefied was the ease with which James had us jumping the queue. It was as if the bouncer had James' face ingrained into his memory—all it took was one look for the velvet rope to move out of our way. Hurrying through the front doors, a million sights, scents and sounds plunged me into sensory overload.

James didn't let go of my hand as he guided me further into the club. Groups of inebriated partygoers thrived under the bass-heavy music, which pulsated up from the soles of my feet to the nerves in my head. The only thing that smelled stronger than all the marijuana smoke was the pungent odors of liquor, and with a hundred strobe lights blaring colors from every band of the rainbow, trying to adjust to it all left the edges of my vision in vertigo.

James called for me over his shoulder. "You okay?"

I didn't think I'd be able to yell loud enough over the music, so I just gave him an exaggerated nod.

"Come on," he urged, "I think I see him."

Thank goodness, because I sure as hell couldn't.

It wasn't until we were pushing through a small crowd on the dance floor that I finally spotted Noah's tresses of dark hair. In hindsight, the crowd should have been my first red flag. The second flag planted itself as I came to see Marcus, bloodthirsty and bruised, holding his fists up in the air. He was saying something—words I couldn't catch—but from the looks of things, he was only egging on his opponent.

Noah looked to be in a world of his own. A thin chain hung loosely around his neck, its silver ring catching under all the strobe lights. Shaking out his hair, long eyelashes only made his dark eyelids even darker, while his dilated pupils stared daggers into Marcus's head. Outfitted in distressed jeans, chunky sneakers, and a black shirt that was tight against every rigid contour of his muscles, the biker's cheek and knuckles were stained with garnet blood.

Noah and Marcus were going to beat each other senseless.

I listened to the entertained shouting of the crowd as Marcus went bounding for the Stray Dog, pummelling a bony fist into Noah's stomach. It didn't have any weight to it—Noah barely strained himself as he tore back Marcus' flame-red hair, flexed his ringed fingers into a tense fist, and struck his full force into his opponent's jaw.

I could've sworn I'd heard the heart-stopping crack of a bone being broken. Something had to have broken. And as Marcus went tumbling down onto the dance floor by the feet of his friends, I found myself praying that we'd finally come to the end of the fight.

Marcus didn't get back up. Noah rolled his eyes, and I watched him push through the crowd in the direction of a nearby table. Finding a bottle of alcohol waiting for him, Noah poured himself some liquor in what looked like a champagne flute—even though people were still staring holes into his back, astounded.

"Noah!" I called for him, but it was no use. Even if he were sober, I doubt he would've heard me over all the noise. James held me back to stop me from running over to do something stupid.

Noah brought the champagne glass to his lips but paused before he could take his first sip. He was searching absently for something around his neck.

His chain—it wasn't there anymore, and Noah's demeanor changed as the realization slowly struck him. His jaw clenched and unclenched; his nostrils flared and unflared. With his shoulders tensed, he placed his drink in the hands of a nearby woman and articulated, "Don't drink that."

Sauntering back to Marcus on the dance floor, Noah found the chain caught in the redhead's grasp, dripping and covered in blood. Snatching him up by his shirt, Noah tore his chain out of his opponent's fist, but not before Marcus snickered something by the biker's ear.

A scowl settled on Noah's face. He let Marcus fall to the ground once more and, with the chain tucked securely into his fist, beat the side of Marcus' face again and again. Eventually, as the blood dripped from Noah's knuckles, I found myself dazed at the sight of James stepping in to take control of the situation.

James, with his expression as flat as ever, took a grip on Noah's forearm before he could send another blow hurtling towards Marcus. "Enough."

Noah froze still. His neck craned to catch sight of whoever had dared to impede his actions—and when he realized it was James, Noah's lips curled into a truly nasty smirk.

Oh no.

He gripped onto James' coat with the same arm, pulled him forward, and slammed their two foreheads together in a headbutt. James stumbled back. My hands flew to my mouth as a gasp left my lips. But it didn't end there, and while Noah flexed his fist again to deliver a punch to James' head, James managed to regain his senses.

Where Noah was drunk, high, and looking for an ax to grind, James was calm, composed, and ready to use Noah's intoxicated daze against him.

James dodged out of the way of a blow and snatched Noah's arm. Letting Noah's weight drive him forward in my direction, James used his spare hand to pull Noah's hair back. He kicked the back of the biker's knee, forcing him to kneel down before me. With his chin tilted up and an arm restrained behind him, Noah had no choice but to stare up and meet my gaze.

His thirst for violence visibly evaporated at the sight of me.

The smirk that had been creasing his lips turned into a sugary grin. Having lost the desire of fight, Noah was finally set free from James' grasp. He threw his arms up and laughed in delight.

"Darling!" he sing-songed. "You made it!"

Oh, he is so hopelessly, incredibly drunk.

"We need to get him out of here," said James. Blood was trickling down one of his temples. "Somebody will have called the police by now."

Noah stumbled onto me as I hooked one of his arms over the back of my neck. Biting my lips against the searing pain, I found relief as James went to share some of Noah's weight, guiding us through the crowd.

Noah remembered to reach for his champagne glass as we walked, taking it from the woman with a charming smile. He poured the liquor down his throat like it was water and frowned at the taste.

"God I hate champagne," he winced, carelessly tossing the flute somewhere behind him. Sounds of glass shattering echoed mere moments after.

And... that's a tripping hazard.

"Why would you take drugs?" I mumbled to him as James and I finally stepped out of the doors of the nightclub, Noah hanging off our shoulders. "Damn it, Noah."

Seemingly confused as to his surroundings, Noah pleaded by my ear, "Please don't tell Elliot about this. He's gonna be... so disappointed. I don't want him to be disappointed, 'kay? This is our little secret. Shh."

I deadpanned, "Boy, do I have some news for you."

Noah chuckled to himself and pressed his face into my hair, lower lip grazing the shell of my ear. "Hey, wait a second... you smell like him, you know? Smells good..."

The three of us found James' sports car parked at the side of the road. Before we could hurry up with getting Noah inside, I caved under the weight and shook my head.

"Wait, wait," I told James. "Just... put him down for a bit."

Letting Noah sit on the curb, I adjusted my shoulder and clenched my fist against the pain.

"Everything okay?" James asked me, concern etched into his eyes.

"Fine. He's just heavy—I strained my shoulder."

James was two steps ahead though, opening