Page 13 of Tainted Wings of Failure

Compared to this morning, he looks calmer and more content. Perhaps keeping him busy helped to distract him from whatever it is that is bothering him.

I prepare two plates of food and carry them into the living room, setting them on the coffee table in front of him. "Dinner's ready. I was thinking we could eat here tonight and watch some TV."

He shuts his book and looks up at me, then down at the food and nods. "That sounds like a plan."

We fall into a comfortable silence as we eat, the TV running with a show that we both like to watch. After devouring one more serving and tending to the dishes as his daily chore, Noah settles down on the sofa next to me and welcomes me with open arms. Leaning into his embrace, I rest my head on his shoulder, my eyes glued to the TV as the familiar sound of the evening news fills the room.

The Lancaster Group, known for its past association with criminal activity, is making a comeback after the mysterious and still unsolved disappearance of its former founder, Conrad Lancaster, five years ago. His son, Ash Lancaster, has now taken the stage in a press conference and announced that he will lead the company back to its former success with the goal of clearing his family's name. This has caused widespread concern and speculation among authorities.

The news cuts to a segment on the Lancaster Group, detailing its involvement in drug smuggling, prostitution and other criminal activities. It also features interviews with former employees who wish to remain anonymous, as well as old recordings of the missing Conrad Lancaster. The moment the story delves into the mysterious disappearance of the former founder, Noah's arm wrapped around me tenses, his muscles flex, and the comfort of his embrace is no longer there. It's constricting, even suffocating. I try to shift, to break free, but his grip remains firm, leaving me no room to escape.

It is not until the report ends and they cut to the sports news that his grip on me loosens. Shifting in my seat, I look at him, searching for answers, only to be met by his stoic mask. Every muscle in his face is tense while his eyes are glued to the TV as if he is disassociating, masking every spark of emotion.

"Noah?”

Completely ignoring me, he pulls his arm from around me, pushes the blanket off himself and rises to his feet, walking around the coffee table to the cabinet that holds his whiskey collection. Like on autopilot, he grabs the bottle of his favorite brand and two glasses and pours two generous servings.

I watch him lift one of the glasses to his lips and he swallows the whole drink in one big gulp before pouring himself another. He then returns to the sofa with the two drinks and holds one out to me. "Drink," he says in a demanding but strangely pleading tone.

"I'm not in the mood for whiskey," I say with a frown on my face but take the glass from him anyway.

A sigh escapes him, and he raises his own glass to his lips, this time taking only a small sip from it. "Believe me when I say it's going to be easier on you if you drink. Do I have to force it down your throat?"

I look down at the amber liquid in my hand, the frown on my face deepening, my eyebrows knitting together. Without much room for protest, I accept my defeat and raise the glass to my lips. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a big gulp and the alcohol spreads through my mouth, burning my tongue and throat. Whiskey has never been one of my favorites. This particular one isn't too bad, it’s on the sweeter side, but when given the choice, I'd rather have something else. A glass of wine or some fruit liqueur, such as peach.

"Good," he says.

Opening my eyes again, I set my glass down on the small tray table attached to the armrest of our sofa and scoot closer to where he is standing. "What is going on?" I ask.

His head tilts to the right, where our TV hangs over the fireplace. "You were paying attention during the story about the Lancaster Group, right?"

I blink rapidly and steal a glance at the TV, where a compilation of highlights from a football game is being shown. "Uh, yeah, why?"

"I killed Conrad Lancaster back then," he says, the tone of his voice cold and distant. My eyes widen and a thunderous wave of realization crashes down on me. This is why he's been so on edge these past couple of days. He already knew about the plan to rebuild the Lancaster Group.

Lost for words, not a single one comes out of my gaping lips as I look at him with big eyes. "The ones who hired me back then," he speaks, and my heartbeat quickens at the chilling suspicion of where this is going. "They tried to contact me but couldn't, so they reached out to Kyle instead and he needs my help."

"No," I say and close my eyes. A million thoughts race through my mind, blinding my vision.

"What do you mean, no?"

I take a deep breath in an unsuccessful attempt to calm my racing heart, pounding against my ribcage, trying to escape the brewing rise of my pulse. "You're not helping him." After each syllable, my voice cracks and I open my eyes again.

Setting his drink down on the coffee table, he takes off his glasses with his right hand and rubs his eyes through his lids with his left. "He needs my help," he says in a more heated tone.

"I don't care, you promised me—"

"I know," he cuts me off, the muscles in my face tense up as my left eye twitches. "But—"

"What did you promise me?" I interrupt him in return.

"That I'm done, and that I'll turn down any future offers if someone finds a way to locate me."

"Exactly. I don't care if Kyle needs your help; you gave me a promise. He can find someone else to help him." I get up from the sofa, and with only two steps, I stand right in front of him.

"He has no one but me that he can trust."

"That sounds like a Kyle problem, not a you problem, not an us problem." Raising my hand, I place my index finger on his chest, pressing down and drilling into his sternum. His gaze shifts to where my finger meets his body where his chest rises and falls against my touch, and he lets out a sigh.

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