Author's note: Hello! Sorry for the delay again, blame the perfectionist in me. I guess, sorry in advance for this chapter? Don't freak! I have a plan people! It'll all work out. So review, people! Let me know your thoughts! They keep me motivated, for sure.
Okay, rant over. Take it away Nora.
Nora POV
I wake to the smell of pancakes. If this start is any indication of how the rest of my day will go, it's looking like a good day. But I'm not sure if anything will be able to top yesterday, I think to myself.
I'd be lying if I said that yesterday wasn't one of the best days of my life. Patch and I stayed home all day, lounging around and … having fun. Thinking about it brings a smile to my face. I sit up in bed and run my fingers over the silk sheets, slowly waking up and getting my bearings. What passed between Patch and I yesterday still seems… surreal. The whole experience, it just feels like a dream.
It's only when I begin to move off the bed that I know it definitely wasn't a dream. I ache all over – places that have never ached before. When I stand, my legs wobble and I grab the night stand for support. I laugh at my clumsiness and then clutch my aching abdomen when my chuckles hurt. As I bend over and clutch the night stand with my right hand and my stomach with my left, my freaking back spasms. I give up and fall back onto the bed, shaking out a crick in my neck. What do they call it? I think to myself. Oh yeah, sexercise. That was one hell of a workout.
After a few minutes of self-pity, I push myself off the bed and ignore the achy-ness. If I'm being honest with myself, it was totally worth it.
When I catch a glimpse in the mirror, I wish I didn't. Two words: my hair. But, I leave it alone and decide not to anger the beast. And who knows, maybe Patch likes the sex-ruffled hair. I slip into one of Patch's button-down shirts, roll up the sleeves, and wrap my arms around myself. I follow my nose and stumble towards the smell of breakfast cooking.
There are only two categories of food that Patch has mastered: Mexican food and breakfast food. I swear, he could live off of tacos and pancakes. But technically, he doesn't need food, so the irony is not lost on me.
To my delight, there is a feast prepared for breakfast. I realize just how hungry I am as I look at it. Patch made perfect looking pancakes and cut up some fruit for a fruit salad. There's a faint trace of smoke in the air, probably from the pancakes. I can imagine Patch running to grab a towel and fan the smoke away from the smoke detector, so that I wouldn't wake up to its loud and incessant beeping.
I walk over to the island and I'm about to take a seat when I look around. There's only one thing missing. Patch.
Frowning, I squint at the food and mumble, "Where did your chef go?" When the pancakes don't answer, I huff and shake my head. I must be hungrier than I thought. I've starting talking to the food.
I retreat from the island and wander out of the kitchen in search of Patch. I search the dining room and have no luck. But then, I walk into the living room and look out the double French doors that lead onto the balcony. Aha! There he is, standing with his back to me gripping the railing. The light breeze throws a ripple through his tee-shirt, and the sun makes his hair shine.
I smile and rush over to the doors, throw them open, and say, "Patch! What are you doing out here!"
My smile fades when he turns to face me. He looks surprised to see me. "Wha-" I begin to say. My words stick in my throat when I see that he's holding his cell phone. His arm brings it down from his ear and he holds it against his chest.
"Angel, I'll be inside in a minute. Go start breakfast." He holds up his finger to say 'one minute' again. I robotically turn and open the door to go inside. I'm a little surprised and at a loss for words. Uhm. That was weird. Usually, I'd imagine that he'd open his arms and let me stand there while he finishes his conversation. That's another thing; who was on the phone? I shake my head to clear my thoughts. It's probably his like, landlord or something. What do I know?
But as I sit down and stab pancakes onto my plate, I'm still thinking too much. It's not like he's chatting with a friend. All his 'friends' - namely Rixon - are locked in hell. It's not a relative. He doesn't have any relatives – at least none he has told me about. And after that, I'm all out of options.
An idea pops into my head.
Nope. Nora, don't even think about it. Stop thinking about it, Nora! My conscience yells at me, futilely trying to deter me. Shut up conscience, I yell mentally back. I listen to you far too many times for my own good. Besides, what Patch doesn't know won't hurt him… I just hope it won't hurt me, I add as an afterthought.
So as I attune my super-human hearing to Patch's phone conversation, I push that snarky bitch of a conscience to the recess of my mind.
"…Listen, it isn't the best time right now." I hear Patch whisper angrily.
"I'm not asking. I'm telling." The disembodied voice on the other end of the phone sounds gruff and deep. Even I can tell that it's a person of authority, bossing Patch around this way.
Patch sighs and responds, "Fine. When?" I can hear him gnash his teeth together in frustration and defeat.
"Tomorrow night. Meet us at the gates on the south wall." The voice sounds smug at Patch's compliance. Patch grunts an acknowledgement as a response. There's a pause before the man's voice says, "… Oh, and Patch? It would be in everyone's best interest to come alone."
The call ends with a click. I hear Patch swear under his breath and push the phone into his jeans pocket.
My very first reaction is one of guilt. I shouldn't have snooped on him like that. We've always had an unspoken agreement to respect each other's privacy. But I couldn't help it. I calm my guilt by reasoning that there shouldn't even be secrets in the first place. But then, once again, I'm at a loss for words. Who the hell was that? What do they want to do to Patch? Even worse, they specifically said to meet at night, near some sort of gated, walled space. That sounds like some shady, dangerous, and downright illegal business to me.
Even more disturbing, it scared me how Patch acted on the phone. He seemed so angry at first, and at one stern command from the caller, he gave in. This person must be really intimidating for Patch to throw in the towel like that. I shudder at the thought of this powerful person. And to top it all off, the creeper actually told Patch to come alone for 'everyone's best interest'. What the actual hell?
At this point, I haven't even had a second to think about why Patch isn't confiding in me and keeping me in the loop. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what it is that I've missed out on. My mind is reeling. But seconds later, when I hear Patch amble towards the kitchen, I do my best to cover up any emotion on my face. If Patch is keeping secrets, he doesn't have to know that I overheard his little conversation. It's childish, I know, but...
He strolls in, scowling at his feet. When he looks up and sees me, his expression clears and is replaced by a tight smile.
"Hey babe. Who was on the phone?" On the outside, my innocent expression gives nothing away, I'm sure. I've mastered the innocent questioning look from years of practice with my mom. But on the inside, I'm shooting daggers at him and just daring him to lie to me. Go ahead, Patch. Who knows what he'll say.
He gives me a seemingly easy smile, but I know that it's forced. He is trying to act like nothing is wrong and says, "Oh, that? That was just someone from Bo's. Sorry to keep you waiting, Angel." He slides into the bar-stool next to me and wraps his hands around my waist. I want to pull away so badly because of this vague and suspicious answer, but I resist. And he will not succeed at changing the topic.
Still feigning innocence, I raise an eyebrow at him and lean into his side. "What did they want?"
"Just some talks about wrapping up a deal." He playfully squeezes my sides and kisses the top of my head. While he can't see, I roll my eyes. I imagine that his eyes are squeezed shut, and he's praying I won't ask anything further.
But I won't let this continue to the point of no return. Couples don't lie to each other. WE don't lie to each other.
I push away from him and scoot my stool back. I don't trust myself to stay strong if we're touching. "Patch. This needs to stop. I know that wasn't a buddy from your pool group. I listened to your phone call, and I truly am sorry for that, but we can't lie to each other."
His eyes darken and he whispers, "I never said it was a pool deal."
I throw my hands up and huff out a sound of exasperation. "Patch!" I yell. "This isn't you. Whatever this guy said is obviously bothering you, making you keep things from me, making you distance yourself. Don't shut me out, Patch. Don't you dare shut me out."
He looks at me a moment longer before he runs his hands through his hair in frustration. His arms muscles flex deliciously as he clenches his hands into fists. So not the time, Nora. We're mad at him.
He looks up at me, stone-faced. "Nora." Shit, things are serious when he drops his little nickname. "I can't put you in harm's way. Please, I'm asking you nicely to stay out of it."
I stand up. He mirrors my action. I get dangerously close, until we're nearly chest to chest. I lean in, squint my eyes and whisper, "You won't tell me what to do, Jev." I find that whispering makes my delivery sound more threatening. And if he didn't feel threatened enough by that, I used his freaking real name. Which I never do.
He narrows his eyes are retorts loudly, "God, Nora. I will NOT risk you this time. If you're mad at me, fine! Stay mad at me! I'm not keeping things from you because I want to. I'm keeping things from you to protect you!" His eyes burn with conviction, begging me to see things his way. But in this case, I just can't understand.
I squint my eyes right back at him and my mouth drops open in a look of disbelief. "You think this is protecting me? Can't you see that all its doing is hurting me?" I calm my breathing for a moment and say, "I'll give you one last chance. Tell me what this is about."
He doesn't respond. His silence is louder than anything he could have said.
I make a move to step back, to get away from this whole situation. But as soon as I step back, Patch reaches out and grabs my arm to stop me. His fingers grip my forearm, his hand big enough to encircle my whole wrist. It isn't a terrible, excruciating, leaving-bruises type of grip, but I pull my arm away as if it had burned me. "Don't." I growl.
He immediately pulls his hand back and runs it through his hair. He squeezes his eyes shut in what looks like pain, but I know that it is frustration. He huffs, "I'm sorry – it's just, just… I need you to stay out of this."
I cross my arms over my chest and say, "No, Patch. I won't just 'stay out' of it."
He throws his hands up in exasperation and says, "Can't you ever just do as you're told?"
I slap him across his face. Hard. The sound of flesh on flesh resonates through the room. I've never slapped anyone. Ever. But damn, it felt good. His face is turned slightly from the impact and he stares off into space for a minute or two. My hand stings, as I'm sure his cheek does, and adrenaline is pumping through me. When he looks back at me, he whispers, "I guess I deserved that."
"No shit, Patch! Don't ever tell me to do as I'm told. I'm not some play object that you can boss around and tell what to do!" I resume my crossed-arms stance and I let those words sink in.
Unfortunately, my mind wanders in the space of those two seconds. It comes to a horrible, gut-wrenching conclusion. My face falls, along with my arms to my sides, and I'm sure my eyes glaze over. I begin in a soft voice, "…Is that what I am Patch? A play object? Something you screw in bed for kicks and hope they don't get too involved? Because that's sure as hell how I feel right now."
His face looks horrified. He rushes to apologize and assure me that I'm not just a play toy. But I can't even listen.
Suddenly, I feel disgusting. Standing in front of him, wearing his shirt. I can't get away fast enough. I run through the halls and burst into the master bedroom… our bedroom. When I take one look at the bed, the rumpled sheets, the evidence of its use yesterday, I can't stand it. The thought of us together make me nauseous, and I run into the bathroom.
He's right on my heels, begging me to 'wait', and to 'let him explain'. I slam the bathroom door in his face. I don't really care anymore. Somewhere along the way, I started crying. Not sobbing, just crying.
As I listen to Patch knock on the door, I walk over to it. I turn around, lean my back against it, and slide down to the floor. My knees are curled and my arms encase them. I rest my chin on my knees and squeeze my eyes shut, letting a few stray tears run their course. I haven't gotten to the self-pity level of rocking myself yet, but I'm sure it'll come.
He's still knocking. He whispers through the woodwork, "I'm sorry, Nora. So sorry. Please come out." He makes a sliding sound, which means he is now sitting on the floor on the other side.
I mumble a "just leave me alone," and he goes silent. I know he's still sitting there, but he doesn't say anything else. As much as I hate to admit it, I would be sad if he got up from the floor.
We sit there, separated by the bathroom door, for hours. I drift into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
A/N: An arrow can only be shot by pulling it backwards.