I put the car in park and let the engine idle, my eyes drifting to the entrance. I’d only ever been to this shithole with Matthew once.
Buthehad been here all the time, and never invited me to come along.
If I had come with him, I would’ve seen Noah. Maybe things could’ve been different.
The sound of him shifting in the backseat snaps me back to reality. “Tell me you’re not serious,” I say, voice barely a whisper, as I catch the flickering lights from within. “This isn’t a good idea. They could call us in.”
He slides toward the passenger rear door and then looks at me. His face is gray, his lips raw, and for a second, I think he might actually die right here in my backseat.
“I need help,” he deadpans. “And this is the only place thatmightgive me a leg up. Worst-case scenario, tell the cops I took you by force or something. You’re great at making up stories.”
“If I go in there,” I chew the inside of my cheek, ignoring the jab, “They might recognize me…”
“They’ll recognize me first.” His voice softens, but just for a second. “And you’re going to stay right here. If it takes anylonger than thirty minutes, or if you hear something concerning, leave.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what consists ofconcerning?”
He kicks the door open. “I think you can imagine that on your own.”
“You’re sure about this?” I reach out and catch his good arm, a wave of anxiety suddenly crushing my chest. “I don’t want them to… hurt you.”
Noah’s lip twitches upward, as if he might smile, but it dies to a shake of his head. “Just stay here. Don’t talk to anyone. If something happens, drive away.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
“Lock the doors.”
He leaves before I can answer.
I watch him walk up the gravel path, fighting the urge not to chase after him. When he gets to the door, he pauses and rips it open with his good arm.
Then he disappears inside.
I start counting breaths.One, two, three, four.I lean my head forward, resting against the steering wheel, and close my eyes.
Please get us out of here.
5
NOAH
It smellslike shit in here.My lip curls at the stench of men, booze, and other wretched fucking scents that I don’t care to identify. The door slams shut behind me, and I’m left trying to adjust to the dim, yellow glow of lights flickering overhead.
Even after a decade, the Iron Traitor Clubhouse looks the same—ratty pool tables, decrepit bar, and couches that reek of unspeakable things.
I scan the lounge and shake my head.Not a soul in sight.
My arm is throbbing, and the fingers on my left hand have gone numb. I don’t know if it’s the bullet wound or the cold. Or some mix of the two.
Could also be an infection setting in.
Nasty lake water in an open wound probably isn’t the best mix.
I make my way around to the back of the bar, leaning over to rifle through the contents stacked on the shelves below. I grab the first aid kit and a bottle of alcohol, then set them on the counter. As soon as I go to unlatch the plastic box, a throat clears.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Shit.I shut my eyes and then slowly straighten, gritting through the pain as I hold my hand out in a low surrender. “I just need a little help.”
