Page 30 of Hurt
This was why he could never approach that beautiful boy. Because he was stained. Because he couldn’t afford to make mistakes like this. Because his heart and his loyalty already belonged to the Weavers.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he walked out of the station and tried to think about what he would tell Roland and Grant. He didn’t want to think about bright bronze eyes or what it might feel like to have someone hold his hand, blood stains and all.
7
SOMETIMES TO WIN, YOU’VE GOT TO SIN
Noah hopped down out of the truck and waved as the semi pulled out of the parking lot. It had taken him longer than he had hoped to get to The Sunspot. Hitchhiking was always so unreliable. The first guy had seemed nice enough, even though he was driving a minivan. Noah usually had a strict no van rule when he was hitchhiking, but he had been lulled into complacency by hunger and irritation.
The man had put one hand on Noah’s inner thigh before Noah showed him exactly what his air freshener tasted like.
When he left him, he was still choking on the pine tree scented carboard.
Head down, thumb out, he trudged for a mile down the two-lane highway cutting through the desert before a nice trucker picked him up. Luckily enough, he knew the bar and was happy to give him a lift. He even let Noah pick the music.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he stared up at the bar. It had been two years since he had been back here, but the place looked exactly the same. He had run away back then, too, hopping a cargo plane from the Swiss boarding school Luther had deposited him at, and from there hitchhiking and train hopping until he found himself standing in this exact same spot. He had been sixteen then, optimistic but terrible at planning. His trip this time went a little smoother.
The moment he was handed his diploma, he tossed his cap at the principal and took the first bus out of the state. Luther wouldn’t know he was gone from this latest school for a few days, at least. But even after he found out, there was nothing he could do about it. Noah was eighteen now and legally allowed to go wherever the hell he wanted.
His diploma was crumpled up on his desk back at school, along with all the other shit he didn’t want. Luther had put guards on him, but they weren’t hard to slip—he’d been doing it his entire life.
Noah was an ungrateful brat, after all.
That’s what they all said. Those people his uncle called friends. The people who thought they knew everything just by looking at him. To them, Luther was an angel—the man who swooped down and rescued his orphaned nephew when he lost his parents. Saved him from a life of poverty and gave him the best of everything. Noah had been given a lavish lifestyle. Luther’s mansion was so large that when they first pulled up the drive, he thought that they were pulling up to a museum. To a nine-year-old who had been living in an apartment the size of a postage stamp, it was a lot to take in. There were staff, cooks, tutors, and special rooms he wasn’t allowed to go in because he might break things.
The first night he cried. Locked alone in a bedroom that smelled new and sterile, with books he couldn’t understand and a bed that was too big, he sobbed. He sobbed until Luther sent a maid in to tell him to stop—what was there to cry about? He was the heir to White Sand Mesa. He would be given everything.
What they didn’t understand was that he didn’t want everything. He just wanted to be loved.
He wanted that small bed that he had shared with his uncles. He wanted Willow’s elbows in his ribs and Kurt’s strong back. The man didn’t like to be touched, but he would always let Noah brace himself against his broad back, use it like a shield. He wanted the old comic books that Willow would read him, doing funny voices for all the characters and acting out the scenes while they stayed up too late waiting for Kurt to come home. And when he did, he would always scold them but then stay up and listen to Noah tell him about the fights—complete with whams, bams, and whooshes.
His new home didn’t allow comic books. Noah wasn’t allowed to read anything his uncle didn’t deem educational, and he wasn’t allowed to watch TV. His new school uniform itched, and it was too clean, but he was scolded if he got it dirty. Despite the massive size of the estate, he wasn’t allowed to play outside. It was too dangerous, they said.
Noah wasn’t sure when he realized just who the White Sand Mesa’s were. It was like one day, he just knew that all the glittering gold in the home was paid for in blood. That his serene-looking uncle with the dimples was actually a ruthless monster. He had his minions do the hard work, of course, but Noah knew that it was Luther pulling the strings.
It was about that time that he realized just who he was. The last Elliott. It sounded medieval.
Noah was a pariah. His classmates wouldn’t play with him because they knew who he was, and by the same token, his teachers wouldn’t punish him.
As much as he threw his weight around during the day, it was at night when he curled up in the corner of his bed and repeated ‘Beckett, Beckett, Beckett' over and over again. His body was Elliott, but his heart was Beckett.
He was twelve the first time he ran away. It was a shockingly bad attempt, and he ended up at their old apartment only to discover there was some college student living there. She had been nice. Made him hot cocoa and called his aunt and uncle.
It had been three years since he had seen them. Willow hugged him tightly. She looked the same, a little thinner and with bags under her eyes, but she still had that same exuberance about her. The callouses on her fingers were familiar as they scraped across his skin, and Noah felt himself smile for the first time in years.
Excitedly, he had turned to Kurt, ready to be affectionately scolded. But the man staring at him wasn’t his uncle. There was a darkness in his eyes. His cheeks were hollow, and his lips were twisted into a sneer—not his usual gruff scowl, the one that didn’t fool anyone, but something dark and cruel.
“Go back,” was all he said before walking away.
With tears in his eyes, Willow fiddled with Noah’s clothes. She tried to make some excuses, but Noah was too shocked to hear them.
The next day Luther’s minion came to fetch him. The unpleasant man didn’t say anything the entire flight home, which was fine with Noah. He couldn’t get the image of his uncle out of his head.
Noah ran away quite often. Always ending up at his maternal family’s doorstep and always sent back. Luther would send him away—the farther the school, the better. But it didn’t matter. Like a homing pigeon, Noah would always find his way home.
He knew it was an effort in futility, but it didn’t matter. Every step away from his gilded cage was a step toward freedom. A chance to breathe. A chance to feel like Noah instead of the White Sand Mesa heir.
Every time he saw his uncle, he was worse. More ghost than man. Willow stopped making excuses.