Page 18

sixteen

Waking Up is Hard to Do

Silas

" A re you going to tell me what your problem is?" I ask Tate after closing the car door behind me. He doesn't respond, watching Noah in the rearview mirror with his jaw tightly clenched as he pulls out onto the main road.

I reach over and place my hand on the back of his neck. "Tate?"

"Showing ourselves to her was a mistake," Tate says, shaking his head. "We should have just…done what we came here to do and fucking left. I just…"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

Tate pulls into the motel, parking in the far back corner of the lot with the tailgate facing the forest behind the motel. "I'm talking about her . She's under my fucking skin again; she's getting to me, and I…fuck! I want to choke the fucking life out of her. She's evil. "

"Evil?" I shrug. " Noah is evil?"

"She knows what she's doing. She's fucking with my head."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don't even want to ask, but…

"Tate, if you've got something to say, I'm going to need you to be a hell of a lot less cryptic and just fucking say it. "

"She always runs to you, doesn't she? It doesn't matter that I was the one who sat there and fed her and sang to her all morning. I'm not the one who made her chow down on her dad and gave her some kind of eating disorder, am I? But still, she runs to you every fucking time. She says she loves you. She needs me to know that no matter what I fucking do, I'm still the bad guy, and you're the fucking hero."

I narrow my eyes, unsure how to respond. I'm pretty sure there's at least one personal insult buried somewhere between the lines of what he just said, and it wasn't a mistake. I also know that whatever wall he's put up between himself and reality must be incredibly necessary to maintaining what's left of his sanity, because the mental fucking gymnastics he has to perform at this point for it to remain intact has got to be exhausting.

I'm genuinely worried about what would happen if he woke up. I'll do him a favor and not point out all the reasons Noah shouldn't love him, either.

"You're not wrong," I say. "Noah should hate me, and I told her that, too. You know what she was doing in the bathroom? Stealing a bunch of pills from the entire fucking pharmacy that woman has in her medicine cabinet so she can eat and sleep and get through the day without being in constant pain. And that's my fault. I already hate myself for it; I promise you, I don't need you to tell me how fucked it is—I already know."

"I didn't mean it like that."

I crinkle my nose. "Mmm…yeah, you did. And you're mad that she said she loved me. Have you ever told her you loved her? "

"I don't love her. I fucking despise her." He turns off the vehicle, pulls the keys from the ignition, and unnecessarily throws them against the windshield. "And I did tell her. Once. I practically said it, anyway."

"Practically? Then no, you didn't tell her."

"She knew what I meant."

"We're talking about Noah. I practically told her isn't good enough; you know that. You know better."

I rub the back of his neck, and Tate crosses his arms in front of him, leans back in his seat, and sighs. "I know you think she's innocent, but she's not."

"I don't know about innocent; I don't care about that. But no matter what you think you practically told Noah, you told her something different when she left."

In his head, it wasn't a big deal; it was preservation—for all of us. But he knows Noah. He says he understands her, so he has to understand how it hurt her. Maybe he's just been through so much that he thinks if it's not killing you, it can't be that bad.

But he tried to kill her, too.

"Yeah? What'd you tell her when you killed her mom?"

"You told her you wouldn't hurt her. I never told her I wouldn't kill her mom."

Tate scoffs.

"If you don't want to be the bad guy in her story, then don't be the fucking bad guy."

"I never said I didn't want to be the bad guy. I love being the fucking bad guy; I relish it. And she knew that. She always knew who I was—it's not fair for her to suddenly reject me just for staying true to character. "

I shrug. "You break character for me."

I lean in and kiss him on the lips, lingering there for a second until he parts his own enough for me to slip my tongue past his. But as soon as I can taste him, before I can wrap my arm around him and deepen the kiss, he pulls away.

"You taste like traitor pussy," he snaps.

Tate snatches the keys from the dash and climbs out of the car. I take a moment to laugh and wipe the smile off my fucking face before following him around the back of the vehicle.

"Tate…"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," he says as he unlocks the trunk. "What are we going to do with all of these? There isn't much room left under the upholstery."

"I know that. We'll have to put the smaller ones inside the door panels. I'll need some tools, but I can do it. I'll break into the body shop after they close, get what I need, and put it back before they open in the morning."

Wouldn't want them to report anything missing. I doubt things like that happen often in a place like this, and I'm sure Noah's ex would be pretty quick to point the police toward her sketchy friends from out of town.

We picked a good time to be criminals, though. You can find instructions on how to do almost anything on the internet. Picking locks and breaking into safes, hacking phones and cameras, making money disappear without a trace. That's how we learned how to make fake IDs, too. Tearing the interior of this car apart and putting it back together shouldn't be that difficult. I've always believed a determined person can learn anything .

"Good. I'll fuck the place up while we're at it. And if that blonde fucking asshole is there, I'll slice him open and hang him from the fucking car lift."

Yeah, I know he will. Which is exactly why he isn't fucking coming with me.

"You can't go."

"What? I'm kidding."

"No, you're not—you're not kidding. And we need to be stealthy; you're far too reactive, and you've joked about killing this guy at least three times a day since we got here."

The truth is Tate wouldn't last long without someone like me or Noah taking care of him. Surely, he knows that, too.

"You're no fun," he pouts. "Guess I'll just kill Noah instead."

My eyes darken.

"Didn't like that one, huh?" Tate smirks before reaching for the top of the trunk to push it closed, but I stop him, closing a hand around his wrist. I pull his arm behind his back and move behind him, pressing my body against his.

"No, I didn't," I growl. "Tell me something, Tate—if you hate Noah so much, then why could I see your dick hard against your leg when she was crawling around the house earlier?"

"I'm always hard. You know that."

He isn't wrong. Tate is almost always hard, always horny. Most mornings, I wake up to his lips wrapped around my dick, sucking on it like I'm his favorite fucking pacifier, and I could let him and that tongue ring suck me dry all day. With my free hand, I unbutton his pants and take out his cock under the cover of the open trunk. Sure enough, it's hard as fuck .

He groans as I stroke it in my hand, twisting his arm tighter behind his back.

"You don't miss it, then?" I ask. "Noah naked on her back beneath you, her legs spread and her pussy bared, my cum all over her tits, bouncing while you slam your dick into her?"

"No…" he whimpers.

But his dick jumps in my fist. I rub my thumb over the tip, smearing precum all over the head. He's lying.

"You don't miss taking turns with her pussy and her mouth? You don't miss watching me fuck her and getting hard all over again?" I ask as I pump his cock in my fist.

"Oh, fuck. Don't stop."

"You never gave her a break, did you? You had her legs shaking all night, just like they were under the table at the bar yesterday. She was so relieved when you finally came; she looked like she was going to cry."

My own dick throbs at the thought. I picture Noah with her eyes watering and my dick in the back of her throat, Tate kneeling beside her. I picture the two of them licking me together, taking turns getting their throats fucked, and it twitches, begging to be sucked and fucked.

"She never asked for a break—she was a slut," he groans. "She couldn't get enough of it."

"Just like you, Tate," I say, releasing his arm and pulling his jeans down over his hips. I bend him over, and he holds himself up with his arms inside the car's truck. I spit in my hand and then rub it over the head of my dick before thrusting inside him.

"Oh, fuck. Yes. Fuck me… "

I find my rhythm, my hips slamming into his ass cheeks and rocking the car forward with each thrust. Tate whimpers, already on the edge of orgasm.

"More…" he pleads.

"You know, maybe you should go over there later…" I tell him through clenched teeth, grunting with every thrust. "You could slip your dick inside her tight little pussy while she's sleeping…"

"Fuck yes…"

I wrap my hands around his biceps, using them for leverage as I pound my dick into him harder and faster.

"Ahh…just like that," he says. "Don't stop. I'm gonna come."

"Show her what a good boy you can be when she lets you use her body to milk your dick. Make her scream when she comes—I bet she'll love you then."

"Oh, god," he moans, writhing against me, wrapping his hand around his leaking cock. He pumps it in his fist, whimpering and milking it until it runs dry.

My balls tighten as I watch, my dick throbbing as I slide it in and out of him until I explode, filling him while he clenches around me.

I hiss as I pull out of him, stuffing my dick back inside my pants.

"Do you feel better?" I ask.

"No," Tate says as he stands and adjusts his pants. "I'm still mad."

I laugh a little, shaking my head, and kiss him on the lips. This time, he doesn't complain that I taste like pussy. "Whatever. Lock the trunk and let's go inside. "

Tate follows me into the motel, bolting the door behind us before lying back on the bed and turning on the television.

Well, he might claim he's still pissed, but he's subdued, at least. For now.

I shower and then take out my laptop, lie on the bed, and start researching how to discretely remove and replace side panels on car doors. I take notes on what tools I'll need, fairly confident I'll be able to get all of this done before the sun comes up.

Once I'm finished, I close the window and search for somewhere to eat, settling on a Mexican place a couple of blocks away. I pick up the motel landline and place two orders, one for pickup and the other for delivery, telling them I'll pay for both with cash when I get there.

"You ordered Noah food, too," Tate says. It's not really a question, but I respond as if it were, anyway.

"Yeah, I did. Why wouldn't I?"

He moves over, resting his head against my shoulder. "You don't need to hate yourself because of Noah and the food stuff," he says. "I shouldn't have said that."

I know that's the closest I'll ever get to anything resembling an actual apology from Tate. "Thanks, but…I actually do."

"You're still her hero, though, aren't you?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I don't feel like a hero. I'm going to go grab the food."

"I guess that means I can officially start drinking."

"What are you talking about?" I scoff. "You've been drinking since we got back. "

"But that wasn't my official drinking," Tate says. "I've had a challenging day."

He's up to something; I narrow my eyes. "Do I need to be worried about you after I leave tonight?"

"Whatever do you mean?" he asks, grabbing a handle of whiskey and pouring some out into a coffee mug. He toasts to me and smiles before taking a drink.

Straight whiskey in a coffee mug. Very official drinking.

I love Tate. I love his unpredictability, and I know Noah loved it, too. It's what's always made being with him thrilling in a way that I've never felt with anyone else. The world has more color when Tate is in it, even if oftentimes, that color is red.

However, that same unpredictability—the same things about Tate that challenges me and makes life more exciting—is what makes it hard to breathe sometimes.

But a little oxygen depravation feels good, too.

"What are you planning on doing?" I ask. "Not killing Noah's boyfriend or anything, right?"

"Don't call him that," Tate hisses. "He's not her boyfriend; she doesn't even like him. That fucking nerd isn't even her type."

I bite back laughter. I don't want to piss him off again, but…sure. Tate's not in love with Noah at all. I hope he's done playing this fucking game soon, because I miss us—the three of us. I miss sleeping together with Noah in the middle, all our legs intertwined and smelling her hair as I fall asleep.

I want to take care of them both. I don't need money; I don't need fame or notoriety or anything like that. I just need a purpose. And that's my purpose.

"So, the nerd is safe, then?"

"He's safe as long as he stays out of my sight," Tate says. "I'll probably just hang out here. Maybe I'll go visit freckles later…you know, after she's asleep, like you said."

That probably wouldn't be a bad idea…for either of them, really. Maybe they can finally tear each other's walls apart, and we can all go home.

"Don't hurt her."

He puts his hands up innocently. "I won't. But could you leave me her keys and the phone when you go tonight?"

I shrug. I don't see why not.

"Yeah, I can do that."