Four years later
I get my first up-close glimpse of him in the most unusual of places, at an unusual time.
But somehow, as I watch him from my spot behind the oak tree in the middle of the dark, foggy burial plot filled with generations and generations of dead Westbrook Blues royalty, I can’t help but be drawn to the sad, bad boy drinking himself silly at three in the morning and he’s all by himself.
He’s alone, but I have to admit, there’s something about the guy with the tousled curls, an incredibly sexy lean body that every girl wants a piece of—that makes him seem like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
He seems far removed from everyone, isolated, inherently alone. So why then did he do everything possible not to look that way to anyone who watches him? Why did he put on a show?
Strange.
Being alone is an unusual phenomenon for someone like him, but then again, there’s no one else quite like him.
The way he moves, the way he brings his energy and incites a crowd to match it.
See, I’ve been in Westbrook Blues for barely a week, but from what I’ve seen so far, Noah Montreal’s almost always surrounded by people.
I had a feeling he liked the chaos, the pandemonium and noise that random people bring. He’s even gone so far as to entertain them, cracking jokes, hyping them up, right before he ruthlessly makes an example out of a few unfortunate pathetic souls who just happen to say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
In those rare, almost otherworldly moments, people catch small glimpses of the savage that is Noah Montreal, but I had a feeling there was so much more going on with him than meets the eye.
First of all, I think he doesn’t really like people.
Well, apart from his four—well, three—best friends who I don’t think I’ll ever get over their dynamic.
The Blue Boys of Westbrook Blues are untouchable, deliciously sinful, they have level of carnality that drives people crazy with lust, but it’s more than that.
They are powerful.
They are power.
They carry themselves like gods. Every inch of this wealthy town belongs to them and they dare anyone to prove them otherwise, and I wanted, no, I needed to know more about them.
They’re all close, with a strange but enviable brotherhood bond between them that makes them behave like a unit.
A well-oiled, high functioning, smart, ruthless, dangerous, yet strangely out of this damn world, unit.
Then there’s the gorgeous and mysterious girl who just came back from London after her brother’s unfortunate and sudden death. She so happens to be the reason why I’m in this town to begin with.
But the reason why I’m shivering and cold at this godforsaken hour of the night, is all because of Noah Montreal.
The one everyone loves.
The one that commands attention so effortlessly and so addictively that you can’t help but be sucked into his infectious yet questionable joy, all while teasing and insulting people but they still want more of him.
But was that all a hoax?
Here he is now, alone and visibly livid, standing over his dead brother’s grave, glaring at it.
“Who are you, Noah Montreal?” I whisper to myself, knowing he can’t hear me as I watch him.
After a week, I think I have a rough idea on who he is.
You get to see a lot from the terraces. I saw a lot with the other Blue Boys, besides the dead one, but I wanted a closer look at the knight.
He has an air of… not sadness per se, it’s more like this untapped raw energy of anger and undealt with misery, grief and trauma that darkened his eyes.
The brokenness was so clear, imbedded in his every word, every slightly crazed but overly infectious smiles and in the cunning looks he gave with ease. But somehow, the people who should’ve seen it, missed it.
It’s a wonder that I see it now.
His brokenness made the thing in my chest—that hasn’t been working in years—tug just a tiny bit. Not because I felt sorry for him, far from it.
It’s just, whenever I looked at him, all the shit I’ve worked so hard for years upon years to stay buried and forgotten in a tiny, rusty box at the bottom of my bleak soul, seems to pop up whenever I looked at Noah Montreal.
I saw my own trauma, my own grief staring right back at me when I looked at him.
It was fucked up and I hated it.
But still, I’ve been following him for hours, trying to find any information that might help me save my sisters.
The fucked up thing is, he isn’t even my target but still, I want to know him!
I’m playing a guessing game and for all I know, he might be a psycho that likes hanging around in bars at midnight then cemeteries at three in the morning.
But I can’t help but notice him.
Noah just has this vibe that makes him stand out more than anyone else in this town, especially for me.
He’s never alone, but I think he’s lonelier than he lets on.
It’s the kind of loneliness that is born from layers and layers of darkness that sinks into your bones over time.
By the time you realize you’re sinking, it’s too late because you still feel it even when you’re standing in the middle of a crowded Post Malone concert full of screaming, hot and bothered girls who want to have his babies.
I would know, loneliness is one of my permanent roommates, among others.
It’s that indescribable reason why I’m here right now, watching and waiting.
I watch as Noah Montreal chugs the bottle of alcohol he’s been drinking since he made his way out here.
He’s still staring down at his brother’s grave with an agitated energy that bothers me. It’s almost as if he’s angry at his brother for dying.
Although it happened four years ago, the tragic story of Craig Montreal is still whispered in dark corners of this town.
The nature of Craig’s suicide and the fact that it was Noah who found his own brother… dead in their luxurious mansion, it’s fucked up on so many levels, but some people don’t understand the scars or the trauma of walking into a room and finding a loved one in severe distress or in Noah’s case, dead.
I watch as he flips his hoodie back with unnecessary force that almost rips it off, but I don’t think he gives a damn.
Then he recklessly runs a hand through the curls that are always well put together in a devil may care style that I know is done with a lot of care on his part, especially when he’s in public…
But when he’s alone, he looks like a haggard mess, as if he’s going through a lot of pain that he doesn’t want the world to see.
I frown.
How is it that he doesn’t want the world to see him, when everything he does is loud as fuck?
I mean, Noah Montreal, the bad boy that everyone loves and wants a piece of, is definitely an extrovert.
He drives fancy, expensive cars that have custom plates and custom designs with his name all over.
He wears designer brands and never repeats a stitch! I bet he tosses out his boxer-briefs… well, that is if he doesn’t just go commando.
In a word, he lives out loud.
I wonder if he fucks out loud too…
Damn, snap out of it, Kim!
But to be fair, he has major sex appeal, like out of this world sex appeal.
The way he smiles is carnal. The words that come out of his mouth are vulgar, tempting and devious and I hate how he makes me feel.
The thing is though, his appeal is the kind that’s a bit on the toxic side, if you’re not smart enough.
But I know better than to drop my pants and bend over for him only to be discarded like yesterday’s lunch.
I mean, in the few days I’ve been in this town, I haven’t met a girl that hasn’t already slept with him or is dying to get a chance, but still, they all say the same thing: Noah is a considerate and sweet person.
But that’s not true. It’s definitely not what I’m seeing r
ight now.
This guy is angry, as evidenced by the way he’s staring at the grave.
Just then, he gives his brother’s resting place one last withering glare, then he makes his way toward the other side of the private plots. The side that belongs to the Fields family, where the fresh grave that was only recently dug, lies.
Okay, this night might be more than just stalking a non-important player in this game.
I creep closer, blending in the shadows as I follow him.
I keep my distance of course. There’s no way I’ll break my cover because of him.
Besides, Noah’s part of the larger, grand, incredibly interesting picture that involves Astraea and her Blue Boys that are currently in some twisted trouble.
Anyone who Larry found interesting usually was in trouble, but this is seriously different.
There’s something going on here that I need to find out before I report back anything.
“George, you son of a bitch,” I hear Noah say, his voice low pitched. “You know, I don’t actually think you’re dead, you piece of shit.”
Whoa.
Why the animosity, but more than that, he thinks George might still be alive?
That’s not what he was saying when he was with his BFFs yesterday.
“King and Emmett are sly motherfuckers and honestly, if either one of them were to drop dead right fucking now, I wouldn’t question it. King is a self-destructive asshole who’s going to hell no matter how you spin it, and the god, well, his silence is getting out of control.”
Well shit!
The punk might be three shits to the wind but even I know drunk words are honest words.
My mother was more forthcoming and honest about my existence in this world when she was drunk a few years ago.
When I’d thought she and Larry had been a couple or at the very least, that Larry was her client, I found out instead that the devil had…
No, we’re not thinking about that!
See, this is what I hate.
I’m pretty good at not feeling. At this point in life, I’ve made it this far by not giving a damn because not giving a damn saves lives.
But now, standing a few feet away from Noah Montreal and my mess and scattered emotions are showing up to the pity party?
Not today, Satan.
“And to make things fucking worse, you son of a bitch, your twin sister is back!” he shouts into the cold, seemingly endless night. “The audacity of her coming back here with a fucking chip on her shoulder and anger in her eyes like we’re the ones that just up and left! She left!”
I pause.
The passion in his voice as he talks about Astraea… could it be that he’s in love with her as well?
But wait, are all three remaining Blue Boys in love with Astraea Fields?
I mean, it would be hot and I don’t judge but why am I suddenly irritated and pissed that Noah might have feelings for her as well?
“She’s my best friend, and she left me!”
Hmmm, maybe it’s just unresolved abandonment issues after all.
But then, why would a guy who has never had to wonder where his next meal will come from or where he’ll be sleeping for the night, a guy like him all wealthy and privileged, why would he have issues?
It just doesn’t make any sense to me.
“Still following me, I see.”
A yelp escapes my trembling lips before I can even stop it.
When my eyes come back into focus, I’m staring into dark eyes so livid, I swallow the ball of fear as we stare at each other in the dark.
“What? Don’t tell me I scared you,” he growls, tilting his head to the side as he watches me. “Did I invade your personal time?”
“No…” I choke out. Shit! I wasn’t supposed to get caught. Shit, fuck! “You didn’t scare me.”
“I’d bet so, since you’ve been watching and following me for the past two days.”
FUCK!
He noticed me.
“Guess that part shocked you, huh?” he snaps. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I—”
“You know what, I don’t give a damn. I know what you’re after,” he says, his words clipped and angry. “I’d fuck you, but my dick is out of commission at the moment and I don’t do mentally broken stalkers like you.”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open, his voice seeping into me like a rich, expensive bourbon.
How is it that he has the most beautiful baritone voice that can both give you peace and make you feel terror at the same moment?
Is it because of the thinly veiled rage I see in his eyes as he consciously tones down his displeasure toward me so as not to frighten me?
Is that why all of a sudden, I start to feel edgy, like I’m in trouble, hanging over a cliff and only held back by a thin thread?
“Are you mute?” he bites out angrily.
Mute bitch, looking just like your pathetic mother!
I hear the taunt in my head and something ugly rears up in me.
“I’m not mute!” I snap, more harshly than I intended, making me wince.
Noah stares at me, an eyebrow raised.
“Apparently,” he mutters slowly. “That still doesn’t give you the right to be here, but since you might have restless leg syndrome, what the fuck are you doing here and why are you following me?”
Immediately, I start forming a lie in my head.
“I… I sleepwalk.”
“You sleepwalk?” he huffs sarcastically. “That’s the card you’re going to play?”
“I’m not playing a card since this isn’t a game.”
He tilts his head slightly to the left, studying me. He’s dressed in all-black like the Angel of Death. Black ripped jeans, with a black, hooded men’s parka that molds perfectly to his lean, muscular body so well, I can’t help but just stare in admiration at the way he can look so good with an outfit he no doubt threw together.
I can see the glint of moonlight on the silver rings on each of his fingers, and for some insane reason, I want to know why he wore them. Was it because of what happened earlier?
“So, you expect me to believe that you made your way from bumfuck nowhere, then all the way up to these private estates, past those heavily protected gates and straight out here to the burial plots, all while dead asleep?”
Shit, even I can hear the incredulity of the lie like I got it from some dollar store, but I’ve already committed. I have to see my shitty lie through to the end.
“Well, it’s possible that at some point I woke up,” I say, rolling my shoulders back, as if daring him to question me.
But what I’d soon find out was, Noah Montreal speaks fluent crazy. He does it so well until you start feeling like you’re actually a few screws loose upstairs. And when you feel like that, you start doubting yourself and your intellect, as if his target all along was to break you down psychologically until you feel too dumb to even open your mouth in his presence.
“You woke up along the way?” he repeats in a monotone voice, clutching the bottle to his sides like his closest and most loving companion.
“Yes! I woke up!” I cling on to the lie. I mean, he’s drunk. He’ll forget all about this by the time he wakes up with a roaring headache in the morning. “I woke up along the way and well, I felt the rush of wind in my hair and I thought, let me just continue on this… spiritually enlightening journey.”
Have you ever been stared down my someone whose worth and value is several times to the power of wealthy, bigger than you? No? Have you ever been given the stank eye that makes you feel so reduced until you start questioning your own sanity? And by a drunk guy even?
Well, that’s the look he’s giving me right now and it makes me feel… pissed! Not because of the way his penetrating gaze feels, but because I’m allowing him to make me feel all that mess.
“Spiritually enlightening, huh?” he says after a while, then takes a nice long draw from his bottle of brown liquor, his gaze still on me. “I
n a cemetery full of fucked up dead people?”
“Is something wrong with the location?” I ask innocently, but suddenly so curious. “I mean, you’re here. That must count for something, right?”
“It shouldn’t,” he says, then steps closer to me. “I’m going to ask you one last time and one time only.”
I gulp nervously.
“Why. The. Fuck. Are. You. Following. Me?”
It’s as I stare into his eyes that I start questioning if the guy is even drunk or not. Not because they’re clear, no, his hazel gaze is awash with emotions that flash in his eyes so quickly, I have no time to categorize them.
It’s the way they make me feel, watching me, piercing through my hard solid walls as if they’re not even there. And just when I’m about to step back, sensing danger, he hisses.
“Don’t you dare fucking run.”
I freeze, my chest heaving up and down so fast, I’m pretty sure if he keeps looking at me like this, I’m going to pass out.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
“I bumped into you at The Pit earlier and you got into a fight with that other guy.”
He watches me silently, so I go on, recounting the true events that made me follow him in the first place.
“You came in like a storm cloud and you went straight for that guy. It’s as if you were there just for him,” I say, now breathless as I feel electricity passing between us. It’s not all the way pleasant. In fact, it feels dangerous.
“He stepped on my white Jordans,” Noah says impassively.
“No,” I whisper breathlessly. “That fight wasn’t annoyance. It was bottled up rage.”
Silence.
The wind picks up, but we just stand there by the big tree in the middle of a cemetery at this godawful hour of the night, staring at each other.
“Why did you break his jaw?” I whisper, my question echoing around us. “You jammed your fingers into his eye, I’m sure he’ll never see again with that eye.”
He watches me.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
That might be true, but I saw him tonight. I saw the way he grabbed the guy by the roots of his hair, then dragged him all the way across the bar and then outside like he was dragging a dog.
Petty Rage: Westbrook Blues Book 4 Page 3