TW: contains themes that may be triggering for some readers.

— Chapter 89 —
Dandelion

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E L L I O T

The days that followed were meaningless.

The planet continued to rotate on its axis. Clocks continued to tick. For everything and everyone else, life still went on.

Not mine.

My bedroom was a coffin in the graveyard of time. Daylight had bled into nightfall over and over, until I'd lost count of how long I'd been buried away from the world.

Here, shielded under the warmth and darkness of thick, weighted blankets, I was safe. Protected. Untouchable by everything except my own thoughts.

All I did was think.

I'd exhausted myself with it. And when I wasn't forcing myself to re-live every bittersweet memory I had of my mother, I'd been unconscious in the sheets, dreaming of brutal hands squeezing around my exposed throat.

I could see him now.

My father's hate-filled stare ripped holes through my head as I clawed at his fingers. Writhing, squirming, I burned with sweat and panic underneath his relentless frame. My heartbeat quickened to a crescendo. The thick taste of terror invaded my mouth.

Then, as if taken away by ripples of water, he disappeared. I burst forward on my bed and woke myself up out of the scene. A violent fit of coughs shredded my throat apart, and I scraped at the sides of my own neck, fighting to get air down the bruised windpipe.

Waking myself up out of the nightmares was never a relief from the pain. Without fail, all it did was thrust me into another painful fit.

Breathing was a chore.

If I'd learned anything over the last few days, it was that my injuries were a lot worse than the adrenaline had first made it seem.

I couldn't breathe through my nose—the air just scratched at my throat and triggered my choking reflex. Mouthbreathing was worse. I wasn't able to take a full enough breath without one of my ribs pinching at a swollen muscle over my lungs, so I had to resort to a deliberate balancing act between the two just to avoid the pain. Or worse, to stop myself from passing out.

Painkillers were no help. Neither was water, except for the express purpose of keeping me hydrated.

Warm tea was the only thing I could tolerate.

I didn't want to try eating, no matter how good Noah's cooking smelled from the other side of my bedroom door. I didn't think I could, anyway. I wouldn't be able to stomach it.

And I didn't want to see him.

I don't want him to see me.

Consciously aware of my breathing, I flicked a glance towards the clock on the wall. It was late in the morning. I'd woken myself up five times throughout the night, then once more when I'd heard Noah's motorcycle pulling out of the lot outside.

We hadn't spoken in days.

He'd approached the boundary of my room once or twice in the last week, knocking on my door just to murmur my name—if only to check that I was still alive. I never answered him, and I never replied to his text messages.

If Chains' posts on their socials were any indication, the two of them were busy anyway. Since the night at the beach, he and Noah had been meeting up daily with other Stray Dogs. Chains' Instagram was a shadowy collage of helmets, motorcycles and biker vests, with the owner's faces always cleverly hidden.

Han, however, was nowhere in sight. I had no idea what'd happened to him after the argument.

The bikers were free to wear their patches again.

Councillor Hassan's public show of support for the motorcyclists had gone a long way in overturning the restrictions on motorcycle clubs. Bikers were now allowed to resume business as usual, which included wearing their vests and meeting in larger groups.

Nobody was planning on pushing their luck, though. The cops were still breathing heavily down their necks, and I didn't think anyone had forgotten about the illegal races that were still plaguing city streets.

In any case, I'd thought, I don't need to worry about the possibility of Noah being arrested every time he steps outside.

Holding in a breath, I carefully wriggled myself out of bed. Squinting against the tiny beams of sunlight that flittered into the cold room, I gripped the corner of my nightstand, trying to remember how to balance on my own two feet. Dressed in baggy clothes that bunched up around my wrists and ankles, I hugged myself for warmth as I tiptoed out into the apartment.

Noah had cleaned everything.

I'd stepped out of his room the morning after that night, ready to clean up the mess I'd made, only to discover that there was nothing left to clean at all.

Dust wasn't a word in Noah's vocabulary, apparently, because there was none to be found. The floors practically shimmered with how clean they were. Furnishings and picture frames had been returned to their rightful places. Not only that, but the cushions were perfectly fluffed and vacuumed, as if they'd just been bought, and any evidence of my breakdown was completely gone.

I remembered thinking to myself, If he's trying to make me feel guiltier, it's working.

Turning on my heel, I beelined for the bathroom.

The staff of Joe's were having another meeting this evening, which meant I couldn't come up with any more excuses to keep myself holed up away from the world.

I was going to make use of the morning.

I managed to clean myself up for starters, redoing my bandages and scrubbing my face clean with cold water. Dabbing away the blood at my irritated wounds, I winced at the stinging sensations that followed and sealed away any sensitive scratches with a Band-Aid.

When I peered towards the mirror though, my efforts didn't seem to have made a difference.

Jesus.

The corner of my lip was still busted and bloody. My face was pale, my skin dry, and purple-brown bruises marred my cheekbone and cut forehead. In the mirror, my reflection stared back with quivering eyes and deep, dark circles.

I hadn't really been sleeping.

Not for more than a sparse hour or so at a time over the last few days, at least. It'd given me a nasty headache and a shaky tremor in my hands.

Thick coils of hair instantly cascaded down to my shoulders when I dismantled the remains of my disheveled bun. Falling over my eyebrows in haphazard waves, overgrown brunette roots faded unevenly down into the bleached ends of my hair. The sight made me cringe. I looked like a barbershop's worst nightmare.

I look dead.

Without thinking, I dragged open the top drawer underneath the sink.

I fished out a pair of scissors, sectioned out some of my hair towards the front, and sliced straight through it all with one cut.

A brief moment of nothingness followed. Then,

Oh my god.

Regret struck me like a battering ram.

The scissors fell onto the counter immediately. My hands flew to cup my mouth.

Swallowing thickly, I stared at the desecrated remains of my dirty blonde-brown hair in the porcelain sink. Trailing my gaze up towards the scissors, then to my reflection in the mirror, I let dread consume me whole when I finally witnessed the results of my actions.

Oh shit.

I knew in that second that the rest of my day was going to be exceptionally fucking awful.

===

It wasn't long before I found myself in the south end of Boston.

I'd taken Noah's biker jacket with me.

It'd been resting on the sofa on my way out of the apartment. When I spotted it there, I used the prestige it offered as an opportunity. An idea had crossed my mind sometime in the last few days, and I was fully determined to follow it through.

There were still so many things I had yet to know about my mother.

I had a million more questions about her death.

And I knew the address of the one person in Boston who'd be able to give me answers.

Nestling into the jacket, I immediately found comfort in its warmth as I trudged along the pavement. I'd parked Noah's pickup around the corner, a bit further up the road, out of sight from people who could recognize it. This was Pit Viper territory, after all.

I'm not supposed to be here.

As much as I didn't want to think of Noah today, his jacket felt like a shielding hug—one that I was too prideful to ask him for. Wearing it made me feel like he was right here with me, with his arms wrapped around my shoulders, keeping me safe from all harm.

How ironic.

My first stop had been to a rickety barbershop I'd noticed on the way down.

Aside from an old woman manning the front desk, the place was deserted. Considering how well-kept it was on the inside, I found the lack of customers strange. It was the middle of the day and the street outside was busy with people roaming up and down the sidewalk. Riddled with anxiety, I ignored the funny feeling in my stomach and strolled myself in, fiddling with the cap that was working hard to hide my unruly hair.

The older woman, whose name I learned was Rosia, didn't waste any time. She'd sat me down with quick, gruff gestures and barked a few questions at me, then before I knew it, the horrible mop of bleached hair I'd been living with for so long was gone.

"Who knew there was a face under all that fur?" she'd remarked, brushing away the last of my severed hair.

It's... different.

I wasn't sure if different was good.

Either way, I thanked the shop owner for her expert work and left with a soft glance.

Now, as I walked down the sidewalk to a house Noah had sent me to once before, I kept the trucker cap pulled down close to my eyebrows.

My nerves were antsy and I couldn't put my finger on why. Between the new haircut, Noah's jacket, and my unfamiliar surroundings, I just felt out of place. I didn't feel like myself. The less self-assured side of me wanted to be home again, back under the blankets, tucked away from everything.

Pressing onward, I soon found myself trudging up the busy front porch of Sage's spot. My presence immediately turned heads.

Expecting the hostile welcome, I plastered on a stolid expression and kept walking, ignoring the four or five Pit Vipers that moved to approach. Clad in leather vests and tattoos, they scowled with piercing glares, but nobody dared to lay a hand on me in awareness of the jacket adorning my back.

"Look what we have here," the familiar Pit Viper named Dagger caroled, slithering into my path with a smirk. "If it isn't the puppy-dog bitch."

His insult didn't sting.

Rather than taking his insult on the chin, I tilted my head up, offering him a curl of my lip. Dagger stopped spinning the silver knife in his hand.

He raised a brow, then scoffed. "Guess you finally grew into that jacket, huh?"

Guess so.

"I assume you're here for Sage," he concluded, stepping out of my way. "Second floor, third room on the right. Keep your grubby hands off our shit."

Clamping my mouth shut, I walked past him into the house without sparing another glance.

The stench of weed smoke burned the back of my throat the minute I found myself roaming the busy halls. Music echoed faintly from some distant corner. The people inside were much more tame—most of them were high on something anyway, ignoring my existence as I trudged through the murky, dark rooms. Keeping my gaze forward, I tucked my hands in my pockets and tried not to breathe too deeply as I made my way up the creaky stairs.

There were fewer people up here, which was a relief. Following Dagger's instructions, I approached the third room in the hallway, soon overhearing the sound of voices inside.

"...too much riding on that evening. Everything has to go exactly as planned," Sage's voice echoed, completely unaware of me standing at the door. "Remember Ruby, only you can be here when I get back."

The other person, Ruby, asked, "What if he's here too?"

Who is 'he'?

"No. He won't be." After a breath, Sage told her, "Sunday's shipment is too important for him to miss. Midas will want to be there in person to make sure nothing goes wrong."

Eyebrows shooting through my hairline, a sinking feeling collapsed onto my stomach like an anvil. Midas? I thought. Shipment? Sunday? Those three words ripped up a million thoughts in my head, and none of them were remotely pleasant.

Ruby murmured to the kingpin, "He's going to know you're planning something."

"He might," agreed Sage. "But only if I fuck it up."

Fuck up what? What plan?

I didn't have time to ruminate on those words, noticing the silence that emanated from the room. Worried that my eavesdropping was at risk of being noticed, I swallowed my pride and quickly pushed open the door, plastering on an empty expression.

Hinges creaked. Sage reacted like a bullet.

Sitting on top of a cluttered desk in the middle of the room, she snatched her gun in a fraction of a second and aimed it steadily at my head. Ruby blinked, unphased. Noticeably the shortest in the room, her russet hair was cut in a straight bob that brushed across the tips of her shoulders.

I offered them both a dumbfounded look.

The woman with emerald eyes tilted her head like an owl, watching me unwaveringly through the sights of her weapon.

"Go ahead," I soon decided, my voice like gravel.

Sage frowned. "What?"

"Shoot me."

"You think I wouldn't?" she asked. A wicked edge flashed over her face at the notion.

"I know you would," I countered. "That's why I asked."

"Have you lost your mind?"

Peering towards the apathetic Ruby, then back to Sage, I sucked in a painful gulp of air. "To be completely honest, in the last year, I've stared down the barrel of a gun more times than I can count. So shoot me, don't shoot me. It won't make a difference."

Sage pressed the sides of her temples and slowly lowered her gun. Queasy somewhere in my core, I let go of the breath I was holding.

I think I'm going to need a new stomach.

She gestured at Ruby in a motion to leave. The petite redhead didn't need to be told twice. Ducking her stare to the ground, she moved soundlessly towards the door and disappeared like a cloud of smoke.

Oh-kay?

Resting the gun down on her mahogany desk, Sage broke the silence first.

"Something's different about you," she said.

Her words dazed me for a moment. "I got a haircut."

And I wasn't the only one doing something new with my hair today, either. Rather than her staple curly buns, Sage was fashioning a pair of waist-length jumbo braids, neatly decorated with golden rings.

She swept them over to the front and huffed.

"I meant that you're not acting like your usual mousy self." Taking a moment to analyze me, she pointed out, "You toughened up."

"That doesn't sound like me."

An irritated scoff crossed her cherry-red lips as I took a seat on one of the chairs in the room.

"You shouldn't be here," she cautioned, swaying her stilettoed boots. "I thought I told you that I didn't want to see any more Taylors on my block again."

"About that. I'm thinking of changing my last name."

"Oh, yeah? To what?"

"Maslow. After my mother." There was a bite in my voice as I asked, "You remember her, right?"

Sage's eyes narrowed.

"You know," she worked out.

That Blitz killed my mom? I fought against a scoff. Yeah, I know.

"I found out."

She flicked a bandaged hand in the direction of my injuries. "Is that why you look like you just survived an attempted murder?"

Conscious of every scrape and bruise, I huffed.

"My old man beat the shit out of me after I showed up to his house uninvited and accused him of killing my mother." Pulling my trucker cap off, I mussed my hair. "Guess that's never happened to you."

"Can't say it has," she agreed. "But then again, my dad spent most of my childhood locked in a prison cell, so my brother usually took charge of the ass-beating."

"Your dad's in prison?"

"He was. Then he died." She inspected her fingernails. "He still has his ways of taking care of me, though."

"I'm sorry for your loss," was all I had to offer.

"Don't be. My testimony put him there."

Curious, I wondered out loud, "And your brother?"

"Dead," she chirped. "Deader than dead. Good riddance."

A snake-like grin had crossed her face with those words, like she was happy about it, like it was some kind of glorious accomplishment. It served as a stark reminder that I was currently sitting in the dragon's den of a woman who could most definitely mutilate me just for looking at her the wrong way.

I murmured uncomfortably, "That bad?"

Sage scoffed at the question. With a brush of her fingers, she moved aside the layered necklaces around her neck, exposing a myriad of faded marks and scratches I never would've been able to see otherwise. They looked like... choking wounds, and the crook of her neck showed signs that it'd been cut up with knives more than once in the past.

"You think I gave myself these scars?" she asked.

A flash of pity came and went. Bewildered, I thought, Her brother did that to her?

Then, for the first time in a while, I actually chuckled.

"It's kind of funny," I said.

She scowled. "What is?"

Noticing the murderous glint in her eyes, I clarified, "People always say that family has the most power over you. Family forces you to do what they want, the way they want it, and make threats when things don't go their way. But when it comes down to it, and they finally get their hands wrapped around your throat... they never actually have the decency to follow through with it. To put you out of your misery."

"And deep down you wish they would," the drug lord muttered.

There was a sensitivity in her words that I wasn't prepared to hear.

Sage crossed her arms over her chest and changed the topic. "Does Edge know you're here?"

I shook my head. "He would've stopped me."

"Perhaps he has good reasons to be worried."

"Why?" I grumbled quietly. "Do you plan on holding a knife to my throat?"

"Please. That's Chains' shtick. Besides, it looks like you've been tortured enough." Tilting her head, she picked apart my mood and asked patiently, "Why did you come, Elliot?"

Can't get anything past her, I guess.

"I just... I wanted to hear it from you."

Sage understood. "You want to know my side of the story."

"Please."

She thought for a long beat of time, then sighed.

Swiveling around, Sage ignored my presence and made herself comfortable by lying down on the counter of her oversized desk, her long braids dangling off the edge of it.

"My brother was still in charge around here when Blitz first showed up in Boston," she began. "One night, Midas came to our door. He came alone, strapped to the nines, and sat down with my brother.  He put a heavy briefcase on the table and said that he had a new drug—one that people would pay big money for—and told us all that we'd get a hefty cut for being the first to sell it out on the streets." She licked her top lip. "At the time, we didn't know it was toxic, so needless to say... my brother took the deal."

Fiddling with a chunky, beaded bracelet at her wrist, Sage's brows knitted into a frown.

"What happened after that is vague," she mentioned. "I know bits and pieces. From what I gather, your father somehow caught wind that Blitz was floating around town. When he started investigating it, Midas did some digging of his own. That's how he met your mother. And rather than punishing Malcom for his policing, Midas offered up Blitz as a cure for your mother's illness." The neon purple of her peculiar bracelet glowed in the greens of her eyes. "He exploited a weakness to make sure that Malcom would be indebted to him. And boy, did your father spin our block once she was hooked."

I quickly put two and two together. "So that's what you meant? When you said you didn't want to see any Taylors coming around here again?"

Sage nodded. "Your father would have done anything to secure your mother her next fix. If that meant beating down our front door and waving his gun in our faces for more pills, then so be it. Anything to keep her alive for a little bit longer."

My nerves jittered, and I clenched my fists.

"She couldn't have known," I said. "She never would have taken it if she knew what he was doing to get it."

Sage rolled her eyes.

"Look," she stated, "I have more important things to do than sit here and pick apart every good memory you have left of your mother. At the end of the day, the only thing she wanted was to get better for your sake. Midas took advantage of that by pandering to your father's desperation."

My lower lip quivered. "And you've known all this? This entire time? Has everyone else known but me?"

"Does it even matter? Poor old Sylvia died all the same. The truth wouldn't have changed anything."

"I had a right to know."

"And what would you have done with that knowledge? Come on, Elliot. I'm sure you were already in enough grief. Your mother was dead, your father was beside himself, and James was on the other side of the country. There wouldn't have been a point in forcing more pain onto you."

Heat brushed my cheeks. "I wouldn't have spent so long blaming myself."

"Maybe," she said, considering the thought. "But would you have preferred to live the rest of your life in anger about something you had no control over?"

I'm angry either way!

Taking a second to compose myself, I breathed in slowly, wincing at a shallow pinch in my side.

"Did my dad ever consider that Blitz was making her more sick?" I asked her, my voice gravelly and uneven.

"He knew that Blitz was never approved as a medical treatment," Sage replied, letting go of her bracelet. "It was a risk, and I think he understood that. I also believe that for better or worse, he thought he was doing the right thing." Sweeping herself up off the desk, she stood to her feet. "But he is not a saint. Whether his actions gave you more time with your mother or not, I guess we'll never know."

I didn't get to offer my take on her explanation, watching as she circled her desk and stopped in front of me. Invading my personal space, the drug boss tilted her head and observed.

"What do you think you're doing?" I stammered.

Ignoring me, Sage pinched a lock of my hair between her fingers.

"You went to Rosia's, didn't you?" Sensing that she wasn't looking for an answer, I kept quiet and tried not to squirm in my seat as her fingers ran through my chopped hair. "She's good. Crabby old bat, but she knows her craft."

"She didn't appreciate the jacket," I managed to get out.

Rosia had given me a dirty look when I'd first walked into her shop, and she'd refused to take payment from me after our session. She'd said, Keep it. I don't take cash from boys in patches. Never know where it's been or what's been done for it.

I'd taken the middle ground and left the money in a charity box on her counter instead.

Sage spoke again, removing me from my thoughts. "I'm not surprised. She despises bikers. Won't even let them in the shop. Funny... she must've liked you."

"Or pitied me."

"Yes, perhaps." Letting go of my locks, she moved to her desk and said, "You know, it's strange seeing your natural hair. You should keep it this way."

If she was trying to compliment me, the kindness didn't land.

"I hate it."

She raised a brow. "Why?"

Because I don't like my reflection in the mirror when I see it, I couldn't force myself to say. Because this color makes me look too much like my father.

I skirted the question and thought back to the other reason I'd made a stop at this house.

Carefully, I said, "I didn't pass Han on the way in today."

"You're surprised about that?"

Watching her lean against the side of her desk, I masked my confusion and read between the lines. "I heard he's missing."

"Relax, Elliot," Sage said with a chuckle. "You don't need to play dumb. I know it's the Stray Dogs who have him."

What?

"They do?"

"Yes, what—" Her frown was quickly replaced by a mean smile. "Oh... I see. They haven't filled you in, have they?" Ruffling my hair, she sing-songed, "Unlucky Little Maslow, always the last to know."

Why didn't Noah tell me Han's with them? I thought, frustrated.

Does that mean he's still breathing?

Circling around to her lofty office chair, Sage gracefully slumped down onto the brown leather and took the liberty to explain the situation.

"Your boy Edge has our lovely little Han holed up in a... hole, somewhere. I'm willing to bet they're wasting their time trying to torture information out of him."

My eyes shot wide.

"Torture?" I parrotted. "Is he okay?"

"Jesus." Sage kicked her boots up onto the desk and remarked, "You know, if you were any more innocent, you'd be a freaking dandelion. But don't worry. Unfortunately for Han, he's still alive."

"Aren't you worried that he'll talk?"

"Not at all," she said. "Han is Midas' plaything. If he's missing, it's not really my problem, is it? Besides, even if he does talk... well, that just makes it more fun, doesn't it?"

I cleared my throat. "What about Jesse?"

"Han's grandmother? What about her?"

"Midas is keeping her hostage, isn't he?" Sitting up, I inquired, "What's going to stop him from killing her when he finds out that Han is talking to Stray Dogs?"

"What makes you think she's not already dead?"

My breath hitched in my throat. I blanked on words, letting the question permeate the air and render me sick.

A trilling laugh reverberated through the room.

"Like I said," Sage teased. "Dandelion."

The look on my face was anything but humorous. Noticing that I wasn't seeing the funny side of her dark joke, Sage grumbled under her breath and sighed.

"Listen, she might be alive. She might be dead. She might even be dying as we speak. Whatever the case, if Midas is using her as leverage, then her destiny is out of my hands." Exposing her palms, she unveiled a shameless smile. "I'm just a spectator to the show—same as everyone else."

I bit the side of my cheek. "So... you're not even going to look for Han, then?"

"I don't need to," she said with a disinterested shrug. "I know exactly where he is. I knew where he was before he was even there. Not only that, I could tell you who's watching him now, right as we speak."

A scoff left my lips.

"Yeah, right."

She shot me a look. "What, you don't believe me?"

"No," I said truthfully, "I don't. Sometimes I think that you pretend to know everything when in reality, you're just as clueless as the rest of us."

Sage chuckled in a dry echo.

"Wow," she uttered. "How insulting. Don't you get it? I'm letting Edge keep Han hostage. If I wanted to, I could just as easily swipe him out from under your noses."

Her words struck me somewhere, and another bad idea invaded my thoughts.

Sage was right. She really did know things—too much for her own good. She knew more than Han did. She even knew where he was right now, and where Midas was going to be in the future—if I'd overheard her correctly about that, at least. And if Han was really being tortured for answers right now, then...

"Prove it," I said.

"What?"

"You said you know where he is. So let's go."

Her brows furrowed. "You want me to take you there?"

"I want you to put your money where your mouth is. Since you know everything, I mean." Dangling up the keys to Noah's truck, I decided, "Let's go see Han, right now."

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing."

"Then what are you trying to prove?"

A huff escaped me. "I'm not trying to prove anything. Han and I have unfinished business, that's all. You just happen to be the fastest way of getting me to him."

"Please. That's some bullshit." Leaning her cheek into her palm, she easily made assumptions about my attitude. "You're trying to get back at Edge, huh? I heard you two had a very public lovers' spat during that event on the beach. What did that boyfriend of yours do to get on your bad side?"

It's not what he did. It's what I did.

"Why don't you mind your own business?" I bit back.

She passed me a warning glance for my tone. "You made it my business. I'm just making sure you've at least thought things through."

I sucked in sharply.

"Look," I told her firmly, "he's not my boyfriend. He doesn't tell me what to do, and I don't need his permission to do anything. I'm not his bitch."

"Maybe," she said with a breathy chuckle. "But from the state of things, he's already on a warpath. And now you're here, talking to me of all people—against his will, might I add. Are you attempting a speedrun on pissing him off?"

I pondered the question, then gritted my teeth.

"Why not?" Remembering flashes of our fight, I muttered, "It's not like he listens to me anyway."

Sage examined me for a moment.

"Hm." Gesturing with a manicured finger, she confessed, "You know, I think I'm starting to like this devious side of you, Little Maslow."

I watched her pull back her chair and stand to her feet.

"Alright," she conceded. "Fine. I suppose I can indulge you on a little field trip—but just so you know, I'm driving."

=||A/N||=

Don't worry, Elliot's just having his Howl moment.
I wonder what he's thinking...

Around ten chapters left! Can you believe it? The next one will include Noah's POV ;)