— Chapter 40 —
Inside Joke

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E L L I O T

"Elliot," Noah's voice greeted me. I could hear the relief—and the urgency—in his voice.

I asked him quickly, "Noah, where on earth are you?"

"I'm at the station," he told me. There was hoarseness to his tone... gravelly, like his throat was sore. "Feel like getting in the truck and picking me up, Alley Cat? I'd really appreciate it..."

My jaw was entirely slack with shock. My lips were parted, but I just couldn't manage to find the words. I had so many questions and not nearly enough time to cover them all through a phone call.

"Pick you up?" I repeated, flabbergasted. Finding my keys on the shelf by the door, I did my best to tug on my boots without falling flat on my face. "They just let you go? You've been gone all day, Noah, I don't understand—"

"I, um... well, let's just say I had a convincing alibi."

Alibi? I thought to myself. None of what he was saying made sense in my head. How could he possibly have had an alibi for everything that went down the night before?

I shook my head, deciding that it wasn't a priority. The questions tumbled out of my mouth as instantly as they crossed my mind. "Are you okay? Are you still bleeding? Have you been stitched up yet? Do I need to call Angela?"

Noah cut me off immediately.

"No!" He blurted out. He tried to disguise it, but there was no hiding how brittle his voice was. "No... don't call Angela. I'm fine. Everything's fine, just... are you on your way?"

"I'm getting in the truck now," I answered, still speaking way too fast. I was in such a rush to get to him that I wasn't thinking about what I was saying. "God, you scared the hell out of me. Are the bandages holding up? Have you eaten anything? Are you sure you don't want me to call anyone?"

Amusement laced Noah's words when he scoffed lightly, "Jeez, Elliot—I'm the one who's been in handcuffs all day. How come you're more freaked out than I am?"

"You could've bled to death!"

"Then I guess that's all the more reason for you to come and save your damsel in distress," he joked, pausing to force out a wheezy cough. How could he joke at a time like this? "Listen, I've got to go, alright? Don't call anyone, Elliot... you're the only one I trust."

"Noah, wait, I—"

But he cut me off.

"I'll see you soon, Alley Cat."

He'd left it at that, and the conversation we'd shared over the phone was still fresh in my mind as I brought the truck to a screeching halt before the police station.

Leaving it in the first free spot I could find, I tore myself right out of the truck and bolted up to the front doors.

Practically bursting through them, I was met with a gust of cold air conditioning and the familiar scent of the police station blasting me in the face. Even after all this time, it still smelled the same. Like cleaning chemicals, piss-drunk detainees, and the faint stench of cigarette smoke.

When was the last time I was here? I asked myself, my focus darting around my surroundings. Everything was so bright.

A blurry memory of my uniformed father came to mind. Whenever my mom was at the hospital and nobody was available to take care of me, my dad would bring me with him to work. I could still remember how often he used to scold me for making paper planes out of the case reports on his desk.

I was too young to know better.

The building itself was smaller than I remembered. As soon as I walked in through the doors, a large reception was the first thing that greeted me. At either side of the wall behind it, two hallways, one leading up to the offices and the other alongside blue jail cells.

There was one large cell that was only just visible from the front doors. It was where the police detained those in for minor crimes, but most of the time it was filled with people in on drunk-and-disorderly offenses.

Except, this time, there was someone in there that I knew personally.

A black cap shadowed his eyes, dark hairs falling loosely beside his temples. A Stray Dogs jacket hung from his broad shoulders, hiding the grey shirt beneath. Sitting with his arms crossed, he donned ripped jeans and thick Docs on the legs that he'd outstretched in front of him.

Noah.

His toffee eyes locked with mine the second I'd caught his attention.

But someone else's voice entirely deterred me from him, speaking up from the reception.

"Well... if this isn't a sight," they gasped.

My focus darted quickly to the curvy, pale woman behind the computer, who'd been typing away on her keyboard only moments prior.

I knew her. The tight, blonde bun at the top of her head and her freckled face was all too recognizable. Dressed in a dark-navy police uniform, she tilted her head in my direction, showcasing the lovely beauty mark resting above her parted lips. Catherine.

"Gosh, I must've had too many shots of coffee," she shook her head, rubbing her eyelids in rough movements. "These graveyard shifts are killing me... I'm seeing things."

She looked up at me again and squinted.

"Alright, kid," she said to me. "You weren't this tall the last time I saw you."

Sighing, I uttered, "Hi, Catherine."

Her jaw dropped.

"Elliot Taylor!" She exclaimed in shock.

Jerking her head to Noah momentarily, as if he'd somehow share her surprise, Catherine snapped her eyes back to my figure and blinked repeatedly. But it wasn't long before a look of critical disappointment crossed her face.

"What the hell have you done this time?" She interrogated me. "Graffiti, again? You promised you'd never show your face back here, young man! A five-year streak and you pick now to—"

"I haven't been arrested," I corrected her quickly.

Walking up to her in long strides, I scratched the back of my neck shyly as Noah's piercing stare refused to lift from me. I wanted to quiet Catherine down before Noah overheard something about my past that I'd prefer him not to know.

"Then what on earth are you doing here, Eli?" The female officer continued. "Does your father know you're at the station? How is your father? I haven't seen him since he retired, you know."

Catherine was like an aunt to me—the kind of aunt that was always talking. But despite that, she was marvelously pleasant and was one of the smartest people I knew. She used to help me with my math homework behind the reception on the nights where my father was too busy in his office.

"Am I missing something?" Noah's voice suddenly spoke up from my right, interjecting into the conversation.

Standing with an exhausted expression at the bars to his cell, he nodded to the guard stationed at his door. The guard responded by pulling a set of keys from his belt.

Off to the side, I mumbled quietly to Catherine, "I'm here to pick him up."

I don't think I'd ever seen her eyes so wide before.

"Eli, what in God's name are you thinking?" She inquired in a hushed tone, stopping Noah from picking up on her words. "Do you have any idea who that is?"

I confessed, "My roommate."

Her thin brows shot right up. "Your what?"

Stepping out of the cell once his guard had pushed open the bars, Noah rubbed his wrists and stalked over to us tiredly. I could see the small limp in his step, even if the other officers couldn't. The dark shadows at his eyes were strikingly obvious against his pale skin.

I asked Catherine quietly, "Are we good to go home now?"

She continued to stare in silent shock at Noah. Then, without even looking, she picked up a clipboard of papers and handed them to me. With a stammer, she told me, "You just... need to sign the release forms..."

Embarrassed, I asked, "I need a pen."

"Huh?" Shaking her head, she processed my request and scrambled for a pen beneath all the documents on her desk. Distracted, she finally passed me a blue biro, her focus never once shifting from the tall and handsome biker standing at her desk.

Noah shook out the back of his hair and sighed.

"Alright, lady," he said bluntly, "do you think I could get a copy of my mugshot now?"

I frowned at him, perplexed. "What could you possibly need that for?"

Noah shrugged. There was a small smile playing at the side of his lips while humor seemed to dance in his eyes. "It's an inside joke."

Catherine gave him a look.

"Uh... sure," she decided, beginning to type away at her computer. While Noah had his focus somewhere else, she mouthed inaudibly to me, "What the hell?"

I gave her a sheepish look as Noah turned to get my attention.

"I'm glad you made it," he muttered. "She was about ready to chat my ears off."

Catherine pursed her lips and glared briefly at him, but she voiced her displeasure at me instead.

"Tell you what, Elliot, you sure know how to pick 'em," she said quietly. "First that councilman's no-good son, now this..."

I sighed. James.

Noah ignored Catherine's insult and turned to me.

"Do you two know each other or something?" He asked, an exhausted look in his eyes.

I finished signing the first page of forms and opened my mouth to answer, but Catherine spoke up first.

"Elliot here used to stop by the precinct with his dad all the time as a kid," she explained. "Real sweet kid, too, by the way. Always helping me out and saying hi to the other officers."

A smirk tugged on Noah's lips as he turned to me and asked, "Oh really? Do continue."

I carried on with reading the forms and began to pray for a swift death. Perhaps a bolt of lightning at my head, so that I wouldn't have to listen to the rest of this conversation.

"Oh yeah," Catherine nodded eagerly. "After a while, I stopped seeing him, and I thought he must've been busy with school and whatnot. But one day, a few years later, he just... waltzed back into the precinct again. This time in cuffs. Got his first mugshot that day, too."

Oh, here we go.

"Show me," Noah grinned, his irises glittering with excitement.

I glared at Catherine. "Don't you dare."

"But it's my favorite photo!" She laughed. Typing away at the keyboard again, she added, "You were really going through your emo phase."

I muttered, "It wasn't—never mind."

While she pulled up the photo, Catherine ignored me and continued telling the stupid story to Noah. "Elliot started stopping by again, more and more often as a teenager, but for all the wrong reasons. Drove his father absolutely crazy. But then..."

She trailed off at the end, a sorrowful look bringing her lips to a close. I already knew what she planned to say, though. But then Mom died, and James moved away, and everything in my life changed.

"Aha!" She suddenly announced, cutting through the mood. "Take a look!"

Turning her screen for the two of us to see, the sight of my old mugshot made me cringe in the deepest depths of my soul. Jesus.

Noah burst out into laughter the second he saw it.

It was a photo of my sixteen-year-old self, holding up a blackboard with my details written in white marker. My frame was paper-thin, and my face had a few cuts along the chin and left cheekbone—the result of my fathers beating from the night before. But the problem with the photo was my noxiously pink hair, and the inky eyeliner staining my waterline.

I was dressed in a tattered, black hoodie and a studded jacket. Chain earrings hung off my lobes. My hair reached down to my neck and was cut messily, falling softly down my forehead and framing the sides of my face. Wool gloves were running up my forearms.

I don't think I'd ever seen Noah laugh so hard in my life.

He was struggling to breathe, bent down beside the reception, and thumping his fist on the counter repeatedly. It was such a deep and attractive laugh that I nearly forgot I was the punchline to the joke.

"Okay," I grumbled, cheeks warming red. "It's not that funny."

"Your hair is pink! " Noah cried out in laughter, clutching his side. "Why was your hair pink? And that eyeliner!"

I rolled my eyes. "Alright, alright, laugh it up."

Catherine joined in and shared in the humor, wiping her eyes. "Tell you what, Elliot, you were an absolute punk back in the days. I'm glad you grew out of the phase."

"Please tell me you still have that studded jacket," Noah said as he tried to catch his breath, nudging my arm. "This photo of you in it makes you look like some kind of rock god."

I said, "I burned it for that exact reason."

"You're no fun," Noah sighed, taking a few seconds to compose himself. Turning to Catherine, he grinned, "You can print that photo out too. It's gold."

Great.

I dropped the pen on the stack of forms I'd finished signing and left them down before Catherine.

Turning to Noah, I grumbled, "I'll be waiting in the truck for you when you're done."

But before I could turn away, I spotted a figure walking out of an office not far from where I was standing.

I recognized him. Lieutenant Kessler.

My father was good friends with him back when he was still on the force. The man had always managed to make me uncomfortable. He was intimidating, the kind of guy you probably didn't want to argue with. And muscular—much bigger than me in every sense of the word. Kessler was someone I did my best to steer clear of.

The Lieutenant glanced at me, then did a double-take. From the way his jaw clenched and his lips pursed together, it was clear he recognized me too.

I need to get out of here.

Turning for the front doors, I drowned out Catherine and Noah's mixed laughter as I walked away, feeling self-conscious enough to go find a hole to die in.

There was something off about the way Kessler had looked at me.

===

"Took you long enough," I grumbled, sticking the keys in the ignition of the truck.

There was a small pull on Noah's soft lips as he pulled open the passenger side door. When he got into the seat beside me, he gestured to the set of papers in his other hand—our mugshots.

"I'm framing yours up somewhere when we get home," he teased, strapping himself into his seat in strained movements.

"No, you're burning it."

He drew in a breath, amusement in his eyes. "First the jacket and now this. What's your obsession with burning things, Alley Cat?"

Backing carefully out of the parking space, I answered, "Out of sight, out of mind."

"Pink hair, earrings and eyeliner," he chuckled. "You look so... adorable."

I brought the truck to a stop before we left the parking lot of the precinct and turned to Noah, my brows pressed together in a frown.

"Get out."

He gave me an apologetic look and sighed. "Aw, come on. I'm just having some fun."

"You were just arrested," I hissed. Snatching my mugshot from his hands, I scrunched the paper into a ball and tossed it out the truck window.

"Hey!" He snapped, passing me a deep-set frown. Then he quietly mumbled, "Whatever... I have copies."

"There's nothing funny here!"

He shook out the back of his hair. "What's the problem, Elliot?"

"Look at yourself!" I told him. Reaching over to his side of the truck, I shoved his jacket out of the way and finally caught a glimpse at all the blood dripping through his gauze. "How can you possibly be laughing right now? You've been shot! The police had you in custody all day, and I've been worrying about you for hours, and you're just... you're just laughing..."

I opened my mouth to speak up again, but Noah had already taken a careful hold of my wrists.

"Elliot, stop clenching your hands."

Sucking in a deep breath through my nose, I rested a frustrated glance at my hands in his grasp. He was right—I'd been clenching them the entire time I'd been speaking. I could already feel the sting in my palms.

I let out a shaky exhale.

"I just... I have so many questions," I stammered, slowly pulling my hands away. "Are you okay?"

A reassuring look crossed over his face, and for the first time since I saw him sitting in that police station, a real emotion crossed over his eyes. He wasn't doing so well. He could mask it with sarcasm and humor all he wanted to, but I knew whatever had gone down in that race had left him agitated.

"I've been better," he finally confessed. "I don't think I've slept in two days."

I bit my lower lip at the knowledge. "Why didn't you tell them you were injured? At the very least, they would have taken you to a hospital."

My focus went back to driving the truck as Noah shook his head. "There's a million reasons why that would've done more harm than good."

"But that doesn't make any sense."

It seemed like I wouldn't be getting anything more than vague answers out of him tonight, because he changed the topic rather quickly after that.

He asked, "What's your next question?"

"They had you locked up," I pointed out, bringing up the next point in a long list of confusions. "Why did they decide to let you go?"

"I told you on the phone, didn't I? I had an alibi."

I exasperated, "What alibi?"

Slowly, a clever gleam came to cross his spell-binding irises.

"There's a reason the Stray Dogs like to hang around at a shitty bar like Joe's, Elliot," he began to explain. "After the old diner shut down and Pete renovated the place into the bar it is now... he didn't bother to fix the security cameras."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

Noah chuckled lightly and met my gaze.

"Basically, out of the half-dozen cameras in the place, there's only one that works..." he drawled slowly, "and it sits right across from the TV. So when I got you to put on my jacket and stare up at the screen..."

Just like that, I finally managed to put two and two together—and it all clicked into place.

"...The cops would've checked the footage and mistaken me for you."

Noah clapped his hands together. "Bingo."

Keeping my eyes on the road, I rasped, "You risked going to prison on an alibi they might not have even bought?"

"Guess so," he shrugged. Leaning closer to me with his head tilted, a soft smirk stressed his cheeks. "Come on, Alley Cat... do you really think I'd go with the police willingly if I didn't have an alibi to back me up?"

I raked my fingers through the fringe that had fallen over my eyebrows. "They're not stupid, Noah! They're going to figure out that your alibi was fabricated. They're going to figure it out and you're just going to be arrested again."

"That's not going to happen."

I retorted, "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I have something on someone, alright?" he quickly confessed. "And that's all you need to know."

With a huff, I leaned back in the driver's seat and tapped my fingers nervously against the steering wheel.

"Too many things could've gone wrong," I told him softly. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know."

"And feel free to keep the shirt," I muttered. "You got blood all over it."

Noah, despite his increasing exhaustion, managed to pull a soft smile at my words. He brought his hand up underneath his shirt to feel for his wound, and I watched him shift uncomfortably in his seat with every movement, letting the concern ripple through the nerves in my spine. He needed proper medical care—but he just refused to take it. And that fact alone left me incredibly anxious.

But I didn't say anything. Instead, I asked, "So... what now?"

He drew in a slow breath.

"Just drive us home," he quietly decided, resting his head against the window. "Preferably before I pass out from blood loss."

"Oh, sweet Jesus."

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The tension between me and writing the next chapter...