Page 135 of Hurt

Taking the steps two at a time, he came to the first floor of the building, spinning around an old man with a yappy dog, before ending up at the parking lot. Jamie had brought Sid’s bike over from the convenience store and had been trying to get Noah to let him drive it for days.

The keys were in his pocket, and he straddled the bike. Shaking hands struggled to get the key in the ignition.

Cyanide.

He knew all about the poison. The bitter almond scent was as familiar to him as the man who wore its smell like a cologne.

Luther was a fan of poisons. He loved to watch the body rot from the inside. His collection of rare and exotic venoms and poisons could rival that of a hospital. Bottles upon bottles of the stuff glared down at Noah every time he was called into his office for yet another dressing down.

Cyanide is cheap and easy to get. It holds up well, and it can be easily hidden in something sweet.

Sid’s bike roared to life. Noah wheeled the bike out of the parking lot and popped a curb to pull into the two-lane main street. Two cars swerved to avoid him, laying on the horn.

The off-road bike wasn’t street legal. Noah leaned low against the handlebars and ducked under the worst of the wind tearing at his face. His hair whipped out behind him as he careened around curves, popping the front tire up onto the sidewalk to avoid traffic jams.

While Luther had never formally announced his visit, Noah knew he was here. He had to come. When his goons came up empty-handed, the short man would come looking in person. He couldn’t risk losing Noah. His hold on White Sand Mesa was contingent on having a strong blood heir to back him up.

And there was only one place in town his uncle would stay.

The Prime Meridian hotel was an ostentatious place. A hotel that had no business being that fancy, it screamed chintzy glitz. The brochures said it had a ‘rich old Hollywood charm,’ which Noah assumed meant they had cocaine, misogyny, and forced back-alley abortions.

It was the perfect place for Luther.

Engine screaming, Noah cut across a garden bed to get to the front door of the hotel. Mulch and cheap perennials were ripped from the ground by his back tire, spinning into the air. Anger fueling him, he didn’t release the accelerator. The automatic glass doors just barely opened in time for him to zip through.

Noah slammed on the brakes, and the bike wavered against the slick marble floors. Someone screamed, and several guests dropped their bags as they dove out of the way.

A horrified-looking clerk had his hand pressed to his lips. “You can’t!”

Noah cut the engine and kicked out the stand. The smell of burnt tire filled the room. He glared at the employee under windswept fringe.

He picked up his phone, hand trembling in excitement. “I’m calling the police.”

“Go ahead,” Noah spat.

He looked out of place. Not just because of the motorbike with the smoking tires, but because he was the youngest person in the lobby by a large margin. His ratty hoodie and jeans were far from the dress code of a place like The Prime Meridian. Old men and women were gossiping in their pearls and golf shirts as they retreated from the lobby into the attached restaurant.

Noah waited a moment. He knew it wouldn’t take long.

Two Mesa guards came running into the lobby, weapons drawn. They leveled their guns at him.

“Where is he?” He walked straight to the guards, knocking their guns aside.

The terrified underling immediately lowered his gun and stammered an apology. “Sir! We didn’t recognize you…”

Noah didn’t have time for this.

He pinched the man’s nose between his knuckles. Squeezing hard enough to make his eyes water, he got into his space, ignoring the six-inch height difference.

“Room. Number.”

“5….5126,” he stammered, hands hovering as if he wanted to push the small teenager away but knowing he couldn’t.

Noah shoved him aside and headed for the elevators. He heard the second Elliott goon begin to bargain with the traumatized hotel clerk. No doubt money would exchange hands.

The elevator door opened, and Noah slammed his palm down on the button for the fifth floor. There was a mirror on the back wall of the elevator, and Noah studied his face.

His cheeks were rosy from anger. His hair was windswept, the straight hazelnut strands sticking up in all directions. Normally, his face looked young and round. His upturned nose and rosy lips did nothing to offset his baby face. But today, his lips were pale and pressed together. Eyes narrowed in anger. He didn’t recognize the man looking back at him.