Page 40 of Stop and Seek (Our Childish Games #1)

Noah didn’t hate tattoos. He’d thought about getting one before. Theo’s name over his heart. Or one of those minimalist line-drawing ones that looked classy until you realized it was an outline of someone getting railed.

But this shop was different from the places he’d been in before.

The whole thing reeked .

Sweat, antiseptic, that tang of ink and fake floral air freshener. Someone was vaping something fruity behind the front desk, and it clashed hard with the metal-as-fuck vibe the place was going for.

The walls were chaos. Flash sheets stacked edge to edge. Screaming skulls. Naked angels. Snakes wrapped around anatomically correct hearts. A demon in leather throttling a skeleton on a Harley. Cool? Sure. But also, way too much.

Noah rubbed the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he said, trying to make his voice sound casual. Chill. “Is Jagger here?”

The girl looked up. Eyebrow ring. Neck tat that said Godless like it was a religion. “Do you have an appointment? Jag’s off in half hour.”

Fuck.

“Uh. No.”

Pause.

“But I brought cash.”

That usually worked.

It didn’t.

“You want another artist?” she asked.

“No.” He tried again, leaning forward like they were in on something. “I just need to talk to him.”

She gave him a long, slow blink. “Name?”

“Joe.”

Then she stood. “Wait here.”

Noah waited. Patient as hell.

Tracking down Jagger had been easier than any of his paid gigs. Two hours of calling in favors—and bam . William Jaeger. Jagger to his friends. Apparently, he and Theo had been together for four years before it ended. Which, once Noah did the math, was straight-up slimy.

What the hell did a full-grown adult in his thirties want from a nineteen year-old kid?

Fucking. Disgusting.

Bonus round?

Noah found the other guy from the video, too. He’d deal with him later.

One piece of trash at a time .

The water from a sink in the back slowed and stopped. There was muffled conversation. A man’s voice, laughing. That laugh made Noah’s teeth grind together. Same one from the video.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say.

Hi, you traumatized the love of my life and now he won’t even text me?

The door creaked open and out he came.

Jagger. Same tribal tattoos. No dreads, just like the recent pictures. Tank top stained with black ink. He looked like someone who’d made a lot of people cry and never lost sleep over it.

“How’s it going, man?” he asked, elbow extended in a social-distance style hand-shake. Noah didn’t move. “What can I do you for?”

“Theo—” was as far as he got before Jagger started talking again.

“Did something happen?” Jagger snapped the gloves off. Tossed them into the trash. “I’m supposed to meet him—I’m late, to tell the truth.”

Theo was what?

Over my dead body.

Noah clenched his fists at his side, breathing through the rage and white noise inside his head until it settled down to a low rumble.

No.

It was fine.

He could use this.

“Yeah.” Noah let his voice wobble a little. “There was an accident and he was asking for you. ”

Jagger’s expression twitched. Just a little. Like he wasn’t sure whether to believe it.

“An accident.”

“Car wreck,” Noah lied, putting enough breath behind it to make his eyes shine. “Not bad, but he hit his head. You know how he gets with the…”

“No—yeah. Yeah, I do. No one called his parents, right? He hasn’t talked to them in years.”

Good to know.

Noah shook his head. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“I can drive, my bike is out back—”

“ No ,” Noah interrupted, fast and sharp.

Jagger froze, keys halfway out of his pocket.

Noah forced a smile. Tried to look harmless. “The hospital is wild. There was a pile up on the interstate… let me drop you off at the front. Be easier on everyone.”

Jagger hesitated. Then he shrugged.

They walked in silence, sneakers on linoleum, then on concrete.

The alley behind the shop stank of oil and something rotting in the dumpster.

Jagger lit a cigarette with a gold Zippo and didn’t ask Noah a single goddamn thing.

Not how Theo was doing. Not what hospital. Not why Noah was the one showing up.

That told Noah everything.

Two blocks down the road, and Jagger started talking.

“You got some nice wheels,” he said, hands moving over the radio knob. He cranked the air conditioning higher. “This has to be one of my favorite models. Everyone loses their mind over a BMW, but I don’t see the appeal.”

Noah blinked at the road.

Seriously? Seriously?

Not one damn word about Theo.

His knuckles were bone-white on the wheel, but he forced himself to smile like his molars weren’t cracking under pressure. This guy was unbelievable. All he had to do— literally all he had to do —was say “Is Theo okay?”

He’d been planning to beat the guy’s ass. Like with Keith. Like with Aaron. Clean, easy, no real mess. Just a message.

But now…

Now he wanted him dead.

The light turned red. Noah rolled to a stop.

Road wide open.

No one around.

Jagger shifted in his seat. “Mercy’s the closest hospital, shouldn’t you—”

“We’re not going to the hospital,” Noah said. “We’re going back to your place.” He tossed a quick look toward the passenger seat, eyes flat. “Theo’s fine, by the way. Not like you care. ”

Jagger was going to try and make a break for it—

Yep, there it was.

He tugged on the handle, hard. Noah got to watch as it snapped off in his hands.

That kind of satisfaction never got old.

“It’s a nice car, right?” Noah asked as the light turned green again. “Custom fitted. My first big to me, from me birthday present.”

“I’m calling 911.”

Noah shrugged, still smiling. “Oh yeah. Do that. I haven’t talked to the Sergeant in a hot minute. Better yet…”

He lifted his hips, wiggling as he dug out the work phone. Second contact on the list. Putting it on speaker, he tossed it to the dash like he was showing off a toy.

The cop’s voice came on. “Terry.”

“Hey, Grant,” Noah sang. “How’s Monica doing in the school play?”

Jagger freaked. As expected. Scrambling over his words, panicking into the cold air. “I’m in a car, going down—down Jupiter. I can’t get out, I think this guy’s kidnapping me—”

“No one’s kidnapping you,” Noah cut in. He leaned toward the phone, talking over the noise. “Total drama king.”

“Next time, Mr. Bryant,” Grant said, dry as hell. “You don’t need to call. Let Ms. Sterling do her job.”

Click.

Noah shot Jagger another look. “No one cares. You get that yet? Not the cops, not your shitty employees at your third-rate tattoo shop. Not me.”

“I don’t even know you . ”

That one hit a nerve. Noah had to inhale, deep, because that sounded exactly like Theo. For a second, it stung.

“You’re right,” he said, low and way too calm for someone this keyed up. “But you did a number on my boy. And—hey—you’re not the only one guilty. You’re just… the most guilty. Make sense? You fucked up my relationship with Theo. Now I have to step in and fix it.”

“What about my side of the story—”

“Don’t care.”

He pulled up. Put the car in park. Unclipped his seat belt with a click . His heart thudded against his ribs, adrenaline rushing through his veins

The door swung open, and Noah had really hoped he’d be more impressed.

Jesus, what a dump.

Clothes all over the floor, take-out boxes stacked like a sad little tower in the corner—was this where Theo spent his nights? This was the vibe?

Noah scrunched his nose. It smelled like weed and stale fries. No candles, no incense, no air freshener. Just funk and ego.

No wonder Theo’s apartment had been a disaster that first time. He probably picked up his habits from fucking Jagger .

Shutting the door behind him, Noah scanned the space—living room, stairs, hallway with some basic-ass pictures. Kitchen in the back. He filed it all away, just in case.

“You got beer?” Noah asked. He shoved the keys into his pocket and his eyes landed on a photograph hanging—Jagger and Theo.

His Theo.

Theo had his arms wrapped around Jagger’s neck, big, open mouth grin—so wide it practically glowed. His glasses were different. Hair a little shorter. Still him. So him it made Noah’s heart ache.

Noah wanted to black out Jagger’s face, keep the picture as a souvenir. He trailed his fingers over the frame, staring at Theo’s smile.

I hope he looks this happy with me.

Before he could snatch it off the wall, Jagger came back, the beer hissing as he opened the can and handed it over.

“Now what?” Jagger asked. “Do you want me to grovel?”

They were so past that.

“Where are you meeting Theo?”

Jagger popped open a second can, and the sound of him sipping made Noah grip the beer tighter. It was warm. That alone should’ve been considered a crime against humanity.

“You could have asked me this at the shop,” Jagger mumbled. “Roots. It’s a restaurant in Cleveland above the—”

“I know the place. Expensive. Good cocktails, though.”

The aluminum was cutting into Noah’s hand and he couldn’t force down any more of the beer .

“He’s a big foodie,” Jagger said, like he wasn’t in a world of trouble. “I figured he’d appreciate it more than my other dates.”

Date. You fucking wish.

Noah’s eyes floated back to the picture, and Jagger was still talking. Probably to fill the space. Probably because he was nervous. It turned to white noise in Noah’s head—something about astrology or some shit. Cancer, Scorpio—none of it made sense to him. None of it mattered.

His breath came slower, heavy and uneven, but the pressure in his chest kept squeezing tighter, like part of him was wound up and ready to snap. His hand shook when he set the beer down, and the weight of everything Jagger said just sank deeper, each word a nail driven right through his ribs.

The way Jagger talked about his Theo ? He had no right. He didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as him. Walk on the same earth as he did.

Noah’s stomach turned.

That wasn’t forgivable.

That wasn’t anything close to forgivable.

The sound dropped away for a second.

The world turned off.

And before he could think, his hand was moving.