Page 90 of Hurt

“What are you doing?” Elijah asked, wincing at how authoritative his voice sounded.

Noah jerked back and almost fell off the bike. The bottle slipped from his fingers and hit the ground.

“Aw. That was my last one,” Noah whined.

Those pouty lips of his were downturned in a frown, and his hair was a mess from driving. He had left the house without even getting dressed, wearing a baggy pair of pajama pants and a hoodie.

“You don’t have any shoes on,” Elijah pointed out with alarm.

“Oh, right,” Noah said as if he had just noticed. “Guess not.”

Elijah set his grocery bag down and picked up the dropped bottle. Finally finding an appropriate receptacle, he tossed them before returning to Noah.

“Come on. I’ll take you back to my place.”

“You will?” Noah asked, surprised.

“I can’t let you drive like this.” He indicated the six bottles of hard lemonade he had just chugged.

“You want me?” Noah asked again, wide honeyed eyes blinking up at Elijah.

Elijah swallowed and tried to keep his thoughts on track. The alcohol had made his cheeks pink, and Noah looked ruffled and cute except for the puffiness around his eyes. He had been crying.

Elijah wanted to kiss those eyes.

But he didn’t.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Come here.” Turning his back to Noah, he indicated he should get on.

“You’re going to carry me?”

“Yes. You are not wearing any shoes, and we have to cross a road.”

A tipsy Noah was a lot more pliant, and he hopped up onto Elijah’s back with very little prodding. Arms loosely wrapped around his neck, he held the grocery bags against Elijah’s chest. Strong thighs gripped Elijah’s waist, and his skin felt warm under his hands. Strands of messy copper-colored hair fell over his shoulders as Noah rested his chin against Elijah’s shoulder.

“You going to tell me why you stole Sid’s bike and got drunk in a parking lot?” he asked as they made the one-block trip to his apartment building.

“I’m an Elliott,” Noah mumbled. “They want me to be an Elliott. But I don’t want to be an Elliott.”

Elijah tried to follow his explanation, but he was lost. He knew who Noah was. He couldn’t forget even if he tried. The gap in their station was so blatantly obvious that it was laughable. Even if Noah was set to inherit the richest gang in this hemisphere, he was still innocent. His hands were clean and conscious clear. Not like Elijah, who had been ruined for far too long.

Elijah felt the space between them widening. He couldn’t afford to get drunk in a public space—it was forbidden by the Weavers, but also because he couldn’t risk getting caught by the police.

“No one wants me, Elijah,” Noah said as they got to the apartment. “They want the Elliott blood, but they don’t want me. That’s all anyone sees when they look at me.”

Elijah turned his head so they were looking at each other. There were unshed tears in Noah’s eyes. He looked tired, and it wasn’t the alcohol in his system.

He wanted to tell him that he liked him for more than that. That he saw him for who he was—a surprisingly kind person wrapped in a thorny exterior who was brave enough to never back down from a fight even when he should. The kind of person who could make anyone laugh with his expressive face, then surprise them with gentle touches when they least expected it. A man who could have let the money and heritage define his personality but chose to rise above it and find himself separate from it.

But Elijah couldn’t tell him all that, so he didn’t say anything.

Noah was asleep by the time they got to his apartment. It was a modest two-bedroom affair—plenty for the Weaver subordinates who found themselves out of it far more than in.

Laying the teenager down on the couch, he covered him in a blanket and let him sleep it off while he went to go make dinner. He tried not to think about the sadness in Noah’s voice or the way he looked at Elijah when he realized he was wanted.

It was making it harder to keep his distance.

Grant rubbed his temples and scratched out a mistake in his ledger. His mind was all sorts of slow today, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Leaning back in his chair, he laced his hands behind his head and inhaled deeply.