Unhinged (Necessary Evils #1)(11)

Noah had almost made it to his trailer when a beer bottle crashed against its side inches from his head, beer and glass hitting his skin. Noah might have startled if not for Bailey’s little pink pills. It wasn’t the first time a bottle had been chucked at his head, wasn’t even the first time that month. People in cheap strip clubs often made poor decisions.

“Hey, you little shit. Don’t you run from me.”

Gary whirled him around and slammed him up against the trailer, his head thudding hard enough to make him see little cartoon stars. “Hey, Gary. What’s up?” Noah asked, a giggle falling from his lips.

They must have looked comical to outside observers. Gary was a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, and his meaty hand around Noah’s throat might have been able to encircle his whole neck if he wasn’t pressed against the metal siding of his Airstream.

Noah’s stomach soured at the stench of sweat and beer and bad breath coming from Gary, who was an inch from his face. “Did you take it?”

Noah frowned, then blinked, forcing himself to concentrate. What was in those pills? “Take what?”

His head jerked to the side as Gary slapped him in the face hard enough to send the world spinning. “My backpack. Did you take it from my office?”

Noah could feel himself grinning, then laughing, but he couldn’t stop. “I didn’t even work tonight. I’ve been out with friends. Why would I steal a backpack?” He schooled his face into a serious expression. “What was in it? Was it your sense of humor?”

Once more, Gary slapped him.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to make you buy me dinner,” Noah taunted, licking his top teeth mockingly, stumbling as Gary released him abruptly.

“Your dad was a friend, but you’re pushing your luck. If I find out it was you, I’m gonna bury you in this tin can you call a home. You hear me, fucker?”

Before Noah could formulate a response, Gary turned, trudging back towards the entrance of the club.

Noah managed to get into the Airstream, shoving the flimsy lock in place. He gave another cursory look through the window to make sure Gary was gone before heading to the ugly floral couch in the tiny living area and popping the bench seat off, pulling the ugly camo backpack from its hiding spot.

Gary was a fucking moron. Noah had swiped it last night, and he spent so much time fucking his dancers he hadn’t even noticed it was missing until almost twenty-four hours later. He knew exactly what was in the backpack. A fuck ton of cash, all fake, a Ruger snub nose revolver, some scraps of paper, and his keys.

The keys were what he was after. He’d already made molds and taken them to Kevin at the key shop to have copies made. He’d also made a copy of Gary’s license, hoping his address was current. Somewhere in Gary’s house was the key to solving Noah’s mystery. A shudder wracked his body, like somebody had walked over his grave.

He’d planned to put the backpack back where he’d found it, but then Bailey and her girlfriend had conned him into hitting the club. Drinking, dancing, and partying seemed like a much better prospect than sitting in his beat up trailer, obsessing over his current project. He didn’t regret his decision either. If he hadn’t gone out, he never would have kissed Adam, felt his hands on his face, had him looking at him with that same overwhelming intensity he had the first night they’d spoken.

The night he’d tried to kill him. That night had changed everything. In some ways, everything was now so much worse, but some things were better, too. He no longer felt guilty for not saving his father. He now knew the truth about what happened to him as a child, for better or worse. Mostly worse. Definitely worse. Maybe not all of it. But enough.

What he couldn’t remember was probably best left buried, but that didn’t mean he was going to let it go. Because the things he did remember…well, they were fucking awful. Nightmarish shit that no child should have to endure, and Noah didn’t know much, but he knew he wasn’t alone. His father hadn’t been alone either.

Noah shook the thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about that tonight. He wanted to think about Adam’s lips on his and the way he’d sounded when he said he couldn’t stop thinking about him. It didn’t seem real. Noah was nothing special, small in stature, slender build, definitely no six-pack. He had blah brown eyes and freckles.

Adam was a fucking runway model. He used to be anyway. He looked more like a rock star with his inky black hair and painted fingernails and lashes so black it looked like he was wearing eyeliner. And those blue eyes, so pale they were almost white. He didn’t seem real. It was like somebody had ripped him from a teen drama. The bad boy. The supermodel. The killer.

Noah made his way back to the bed that took up the back half of his trailer, stripping down to his underwear before falling face first into the mattress, Adam still on his mind.

He supposed wanting to fuck his father’s killer was a level of fucked up that would probably require years of therapy that Noah couldn’t afford. But Noah had felt something between them that very first night. He’d known the instant Adam had taken control of the situation, had felt the balance in power shift even with Noah holding the gun. Adam could have killed him at any time. In the moment, that thought was as exhilarating as heroin. Sometimes, he wished he had killed him. Death seemed peaceful where Noah’s life was chaos. Death seemed preferable to loneliness. And Noah couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t lonely. Had he ever felt like somebody cared?