Page 20

eighteen

I Like the Ones Where the Bad Guys Get Away

Noah

S lowly, silently, I look up. My eyes go wide when I see Tate sitting on one of my barstools, drinking my vodka while watching my television after I just spent hours in a cold, dark hole crying for him to save me. I grit my teeth, rage coursing through my veins.

There are no fucking words.

"Wow. You look fucking crazy right now," he says casually.

"I'm going to kill you."

He looks at me like maybe he misheard me, and maybe he did. My register is lower than usual, my teeth clenched and breath short.

"What?"

"I said…I'm going to fucking kill you!"

I grab the porcelain lamp from the nightstand, pull its cord from the wall, and hurl it across the room. Tate ducks before it can hit him, and it shatters against the cabinets and falls onto the kitchen floor. I look for something—anything else—I could use to hurt him. I grab the wooden coat rack from beside the door next, taking a few steps forward before I fling it across the room.

"Shit!" Tate yells, this time falling off of the barstool and onto the floor when he dodges it. And he laughs. He's fucking laughing by the time I reach him. I pick up one of the barstools and bring it down over his back.

"I hate you!" I shout before hitting him with it again. "I fucking hate you!"

"Stop!" he yells, grabbing the barstool by one of its legs before I can hit him with it a third time. "Fucking stop!"

We struggle with the piece of furniture between us until Tate pulls himself onto his knees, giving himself more leverage, and he flings me into the kitchen cabinets, forcing me to lose my grip. I hit my head hard, seeing stars behind my eyes as I fall onto the hardwood floor.

I rub the back of my head before pulling myself up onto all fours.

Tate stands quickly, tossing the barstool behind him, and holds out his hands innocently. "Okay, that was an accident," he says. "That was your fault. You came at me like a fucking lunatic; what was I supposed to do?"

But all I see is red. I reach over and grab a shard of the shattered porcelain, gripping it tightly in my hand. Then I pull myself to my feet and bring it back behind my head.

"Noah…don't. Don't make me hurt you."

I don't listen. I scream, lunging at him, and he attempts to stop me by grabbing my arms, but I have momentum on my side. I bury the tip of that shard into his shoulder, using as much force as I can get behind it while watching blood from the shallow wound soak through his grey t-shirt. I know it's not good enough; I know I didn't do much damage, but it's still so fucking satisfying, and I don't give up. We fight for control, and, realizing I won't be able to dig any deeper, I drag the sharp end downward, unfazed as it slices into my fingers.

"Fuck!" Tate screams. He's forced to release my left wrist, using both hands to stop me. With my left hand now free, I grab at his face, digging my thumb into his eye socket while he pulls the porcelain shard out of his shoulder and then tries prying it from my fingers.

"Stop! It's done, Noah!" he says, pushing my hand away from his face. "Let go! You're only hurting yourself."

"Fuck you!" I yell before sinking my teeth into his chest. Hot coppery blood fills my mouth, and there's no gag reflex this time. I'm going to bite off a piece of Tate, spit it in his mouth, and make him fucking eat himself.

"Ahhh! God fucking damn it!"

He shakes me off, and I fall on my ass beside the other nightstand. "What the fuck, Noah?!" he shouts before pulling his t-shirt over his head. The gash in his shoulder isn't too deep, but it's a few inches long and bloody, as are the teeth marks. It gives me a weird sense of pride. Tate is probably going to kill me, but before, he said I haunted him—that I was like a missing limb—and now, I've marked him. He'll have to see me every time he looks in the goddamn mirror. He'll have to know Silas sees me on his naked body every time they fuck.

How's that for haunted?

He wipes at the wounds with the t-shirt before tossing it aside, and I laugh .

"Jesus. Have you lost your fucking mind?!"

"Yes." I grab the other lamp, intending to smash it and use it as a weapon, too.

"No!" he yells, lunging for me before I can bring the lamp down on the hardwood floor. He snatches it out of my hands, tossing it aside, and it rolls across the floor behind him. "No more fucking lamp shivs!"

I scream, struggling against him as he pins me to the floor with a hand on each of my wrists.

"Get off me!"

"No! You need to stop, Noah. I'm bigger than you, I'm stronger than you, and you need to fucking stop!"

I fight for a couple more minutes—until my muscles won't cooperate and my body refuses to move—and then I finally give up. I turn my head to the side, bite my lip and blink back tears I refuse to let him see.

"I'm sorry," Tate says softly. "It was a good try."

I sniffle. "Thanks."

"You got me good with that chair, John Cena," he says. "That fucking hurt. In your next fake life, maybe you can join the WWE."

"It's not funny," I tell him. "You left me there—in that hole, in the rain—to die. You always…"

"What? What do I always do?"

I notice he's loosened his grip on my wrists and try again to get free.

"Nope," he says, shoving me back onto the ground.

"Just let me go or kill me, Tate."

"What do I always do, Noah?" he asks again .

I shake my head and look up at the ceiling.

Hurt me. All Tate ever does is hurt me.

"Why'd you leave me?" Tate moves his knees from my thighs and lies down on top of me, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Why did you run away from me?"

"You were going to kill me! You said you were going to murder me in my sleep."

"What about the first time?"

"You were going to kill me then, too; you were just doing it differently. The result would've been the same, though." I look away, fixing my gaze on the television over his shoulder.

"I wish you would have trusted me the way you trust him. Now, I can never trust you."

"I don't trust Silas, either," I say defiantly.

"You're lying . I can tell when you're lying."

"Yeah, well, I can tell when you're lying, too. That's why I don't trust you. You're always fucking lying!"

"I was good to you." He leans in, running a hand through my hair, his lips close enough to mine that I can feel his words against them. Blood drips from his wounds, mixing with the dried mud on my chest as gravity pulls them in different directions down my body. "You were happy; I saw it. That wasn't a lie."

"You made me feel worthless. And then you expected me to apologize for it."

"I made a fucking mistake, Noah. Jesus. You can't just abandon people who care about you after ten years because they make one fucking mistake."

"That's what Mia did to me. "

"We weren't a mistake," he says. "We certainly weren't one mistake." He nuzzles his cheek against mine and presses a kiss to my jaw before trailing his lips onto my neck.

"Tate…" I pause, shrugging him off. "Don't."

"Why not? Let's just call it even for a minute, okay? I left you in a hole—fine. I'm sorry."

"I almost died in that fucking hole, Tate! I—"

"And you…" he interrupts. "You beat me with a barstool, stabbed me, and tried to eat me like you ate your fucking dad, so…that also wasn't very nice, Noah. You're not a nice girl. And it makes me fucking angry when you pretend you're a nice girl."

"Yeah, well, it makes me fucking angry when you pretend like you care about me! When you act like you care if I eat, and you feed me and sing to me or when you tell me we're what love looks like to you, and then you go and…" I can't even say it, so I don't. "You were always a manipulative fuck."

"Thank you," he says. "Yes, I am. But not to you, Noah. Never to you. The four of us…" He traces my jawline with his fingertip. "We were different; you know that."

"No. Not in the end."

In the end, we were just like everyone else. Selfish. Spiteful. Vengeful. Afraid.

I was afraid. And I'm so tired of it.

"We're even," he says. "Hey, look at me." He releases my other wrist and, with a hand on my cheek, guides me to meet his eyes. "Let's be even…just for now, Noah. Because I want to touch you and taste you so badly. You got me all muddy, and I got you all bloody. You can take another chunk out of me tomorrow if you want, but just not right now, okay? "

I nod. "Okay, Tate."

He sighs with relief, smiling slightly before pressing a kiss to my lips. "Thank you."

I let my eyes close as he trails kisses down the length of my throat, unconcerned with any mud or blood he's dripped onto my skin. He reaches behind me, and I arch my back so he can unhook my bra, feeling him hard against me when I do. Tate groans, rocking his hips from side to side, just as eager for more friction as I am.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he says, removing my bra from my body before sucking one of my nipples into his mouth.

"Don't…don't talk to me," I say breathlessly.

He sucks harder, letting the nipple slide through his teeth before he releases it, causing me to yelp. "I can't do that. That's not part of the deal, Noah." He kneels between my legs, his movements slow as if he thinks maybe I'll change my mind and start kicking and fighting again.

Maybe I should.

As soon as I think it, it's like he sees it in my eyes. He holds up a finger and says, "Don't do it. I'm tired, Noah, and it's not just from the blood loss and the vodka. Whatever's left of my soul…is really tired of fighting with you."

"I'm really tired, too," I tell him, choking on the words.

"Okay," he says, nodding. "It's okay."

Then he hooks his fingers under the sides of my underwear, pulling them down my legs and over my feet.

Still moving slowly, cautiously, he palms the back of my thighs, pulling them apart before lowering his body to the floor, keeping his eyes fixed on mine until he dips his head, straight, shaggy black hair falling in front of his face, and kisses my pussy.

He's soft at first—slow and gentle in a way that's unusual for him, but thorough. His tongue ring circles my clit, and I moan, lifting my hips off the ground.

It's then that I realize I've been fighting against him without realizing it. I unclench my thighs, relax my knees, and let my legs fall apart. Tate reaches under my knees and grabs my hands, lacing our fingers together.

"Mmmm," he moans against my clit. "There you go. You taste like heaven, baby."

He dives back in, flicking his tongue ring against me, increasing the pressure while I buck my hips against him, my head swimming. It's a high, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think his hand was around my throat because I can't breathe, I can't think. It was all just too much—this night, the emotions, the cold, the fear, the rage—it was too much and now this is too much, too.

It's him. He's too much.

"Tate…" I whimper, my body writhing beneath him. I squeeze his hands in mine and close my eyes, my breath heaving as that delicious tension coils even tighter in my core.

Tate reacts by moving in closer, his tongue working me faster until I explode, my back arching off the hardwood floor as the pulse between my legs takes over my body and pleasure shoots up my spine.

He licks me through it and then some, still running his tongue up and down my pussy, sucking my cum from me through the aftershocks and that too-sensitive feeling. It's almost a relief when he lifts his mouth.

"Baby, let go," he says.

"What?" I ask breathlessly, my mind post-orgasm mush.

"Just for a second. I need my hands."

"Oh…" I say, realizing I've still got a death grip on his hands and releasing them. "I'm sorry."

He smiles, laughing just a little. "It's okay."

Then he sits up, pulling his sweats down over his hips, and it's the first time I really look at him.

How is it possible that they both got even more beautiful? Tate has always had a lean build versus Silas, who is more muscular, but just like Silas, his shoulders and chest are broader, and he has more muscle and more defined abs. And the tattoos covering his neck, chest, and down his arms and onto his hands…those are beautiful, too. The bite mark and the bloody cut only make him more beautiful somehow.

"Where have you been?"

"All my life," he says as he fists his dick. My pussy clenches as I watch him, fully erect and hovering over me, holding the base in his tattooed hand.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"I think you mean, where have you been all my life? And I've always been with you."

"No, I mean—"

"I know what you mean, baby. Not right now, okay?"

I hold my breath as he slowly lowers his body, guiding the head of his cock to my entrance and pushing inside me.

"Tate! "

"Fuuuuuuuck," he groans, his jaw tight as he buries himself to the hilt. He grabs my hands again, pinning them above my head as he drives into me, and I lift my hips to meet his thrusts. "You feel so fucking good, Noah. You have to know you were made for me."

He leans in, flatting his tongue over my nipple and then sucking it into his mouth, toying with the hardened tip before moving on to the other one. I moan, squirming beneath him, desperate to have more of him on me, more of my body touching his, more of his dick fucking into me, but with my hands restrained by his, I'm…limited.

I whimper in desperation.

He looks up at me as he thrusts in and out of me, his face smeared with mud and his blood. "Greedy brat," he says.

Then his lips crash into mine; his kiss is hard and just as eager as I feel, and he changes his pace to match. I cry out, spreading my legs wider and hitching one around his waist.

"Oh, god…Tate…"

My knuckles rub painfully against the floors with each punishing thrust of his hips. And that's how it feels—like a punishment. Like a deliciously thorough, well-earned punishment.

My eyes run down his body, and I watch the blood mix with sweat and drip down his abs and onto my body. I watch his dick move in and out of me, hard, veiny, and slick with my arousal.

"You like watching my dick sink into your pussy?" he asks. "You better answer me."

"Yes! Oh, god," I moan again, my eyes rolling back in my head .

His wet dick slips out of me, and he almost roars in frustration, gritting his teeth together as he's forced to release my hands. He grabs his throbbing cock, running the head over my clit and down my slit before thrusting back inside me, picking up the same brutal pace.

This time, he grabs me by my ankles, pinning them next to my head, and my body picks up right where it left off, on the edge of orgasm, the head of his cock hitting me at just the right angle.

"Tate…fuck…"

"Are you gonna come on me now?"

"Y-yes."

Before I can finish the word, my legs are shaking and my pussy squeezing his dick while I come apart, writhing against his tight hold.

"Oh, god!"

"You are going to kill me," he rasps. "Jesus Christ, Noah. Fuck…"

He slows, pumping into me for a minute more, before he comes inside me with a loud groan.

And then he releases my legs and collapses on top of me with his head on my chest and his dick still inside me. He always liked that—staying inside me for a really long time. I wonder if he still does.

I wrap my arms around him and stroke his hair, the room now quiet aside from our labored breath and the television playing in the background. My eyes roam over his tattooed skin until bold serif letters beneath a small butterfly like the one on my shoulder etched onto his deltoid catch my eye .

NJB.

Noah Josephine Barlowe. Those are my initials. That can't be a coincidence, right?

I blink back tears again, hold him tighter, and kiss the top of his head.

I'm not sure how long we stay like that, but it's long enough that I start getting cold again. And fucking nervous.

"…Tate?"

He sighs, slow and heavy, before propping himself up and placing a hand on my cheek. "Stay right here, okay? Don't move."

"Okay…"

"Promise you'll stay there?"

I nod. "I promise."

He stands, pulling up his sweats, and then grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed and covers me before disappearing into the bathroom. Wrapping up in the blanket, I lie there on the floor while the intro to another episode of Unsolved Mysteries plays on the television. I hear the water running and assume he must be taking a shower.

He returns maybe ten minutes later, still dirty and bloody.

"Okay," Tate says, walking toward me from the bathroom. "I'm going to pick you up."

"Tate, no," I say, clutching the blanket as I sit up. "You can't."

"Pfft, be serious," he says before leaning down, scooping me up, and carrying me to the bathroom. The tub is filled, the lights are off and two candles near the mirror are lit. Steam rises from the water and my still-cold body aches to sink into it .

And I'm still filthy. My hair is caked in dried mud, my fingernails are disgusting. I hold them out in front of me and…

"I lost one," I say, looking at the bloody nail bed on my left pinky.

"Oh…yeah. You didn't know?"

"My hands were numb. I guess I didn't feel it. I must have gotten it caught on a rock or something when I was…" When I was trying to claw my way out of the grave you left me in.

"It's not a big deal," Tate says. "It'll grow back. Get in the water; you'll feel better."

I drop the blanket and climb into the tub. My toes and feet are still cold enough that the water stings my skin on contact. I suck in air through my teeth as I sink into the water.

"Is it okay?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "I was just…so cold." I lean back, soaking my muddy hair, and watch the water turn to a grey, foggy color, like dirty dishwater.

Tate, never comfortable in silence, plays music from his phone again and sets it beside the sink.

It's Lana Del Rey.

"Scoot over," he says, dropping his pants.

"I'm filthy," I caution as he climbs into the tub behind me. "The water is gross."

"That doesn't bother me. And I'm bloody," he says, rubbing my shoulders. "You stabbed me."

I almost apologize, but I'm still not sorry.

Tate wraps his arms around me while leaning over to kiss the side of my face and then reaches for my shampoo bottle. He squeezes some into his hand and takes his time massaging the shampoo into my hair. I let my eyes close, relishing the sensation of his fingernails against my scalp.

It's okay, I tell myself. It's okay to love this. What's the worst that could happen?

And that little alarm that's constantly going off in my head anytime he's around gets quieter, the same way it did that summer. Not silent—never silent—but quieter.

"I missed you, Tate," I whisper.

"You didn't have to," he says. "Seven hundred and eighty-six days, Noah. Is that a fair thing to do to somebody?"

"What?"

"That's how many days we missed together," he says, rinsing my hair. "It could have been like this, you know."

"You hurt me."

"I didn't mean to; it wasn't what I wanted. And you hurt me, too—you hold onto grudges just as tightly as I do. We're more alike than you're willing to admit, and now, I've got the scars to prove it—inside and out."

I lean back against his chest and turn, looking up at him. Tate is beautiful—it's how he gets away with so much. He looks so much like Mia, especially with his hair away from his face. Thick lashes frame bright hazel eyes, his cheeks full and smile impeccable.

He has dimples when he smiles.

"What if I did die in the hole?" I ask, not expecting a serious answer.

He sighs and pulls me closer, resting his cheek against mine. "I'd get smaller again, like I did when Mia died. Maybe it would be too much, and I wouldn't exist at all. Sometimes, I can't stand how small I feel without her. I didn't realize how much of me was her. I didn't realize how much of me was you, either."

I sigh, letting my eyes close again.

"I care about you," he says, trailing a finger along my jawline. "You mean so much to me—you know that. I was good to you, Noah."

I don't know how to answer that, so I don't. Tate really is good when he wants to be…the best, even. But I watched him manipulate others the exact same way our entire lives. And as I got older, I wondered how much of Tate was genuine and how much was just something he'd learned to do—like he'd read it in a book or seen something on television and decided to imitate it, thinking, This is how you people .

Then I fell in love with him, and I tried not to think about it anymore.

He used to draw hearts inside my palms while I slept. He let me drive his car when I was fifteen, and when I hit a telephone pole, he took the blame so I wouldn't get it in trouble; I never asked him to. People who don't really care don't do things like that, do they?

And he made me laugh, even when I didn't want to. It was always impossible to be sad around Tate until just thinking of Tate made me sad.

We stay there until the water gets cold, and then I help him bandage the gash on his shoulder. The bite mark isn't nearly as deep, so it should be fine, but it will leave a mark. Without thinking about it, I dip my head and press my lips to the same spot .

Like it's still just something we do. Like he's mine to kiss wherever I want.

He smiles, wrapping his arms around me, and holds me against his chest. "You're sweet, Noah," he says.

Early morning sunlight refracts from the chandelier by the time we leave the bathroom. I dress in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and crawl into bed beside naked Tate.

"True crime is an interesting choice for you," I say before I turn off the television.

"I only watch the unsolved ones. Or the cold cases," he says, spooning me. "I like the ones where the bad guys get away."

I never did. They scared me. Horror movies always scared me, too. When we were younger, Mia and I would stay up late watching slasher movies we had no business watching and scaring the shit out of ourselves. It was awful, yet somehow a good memory.

Or it was. Until I lived a horror movie.

He kisses the back of my head, and I let my heavy lids close.

"Some of them are really bad people, though, Tate," I mumble before I fall asleep.

"I know," he says, holding me tighter. "But I'm really bad, too."