Page 246 of Hell Hath No Fury
“You’ve had a rough night,” Noah insists. “Let me just order you a car.” He's being diplomatic, I know, but I also hear the words he’s holding back.
He doesn’t think I can handle myself. And after what just went down in the dunes, why would he? For some inexplicable reason, I find that idea more shameful than anything else.
“No thanks. I’m good,” I persist, refusing to be babied. I’m fucking eighteen, for God’s sake, barely months younger than Noah himself.
I don’t await a reply, because I’ve no doubt it would just include more of the same. And I’m not sure I could even really begrudge him that after everything.
But too much has occurred to make even the most basic sense of, let alone debate, so I simply turn my back on my undeniable savior—as humiliating as it is for me to admit that that’s what Noah was tonight—and I start walking the twenty or so minute trek up-beach, toward Arizona Street, knowing that home is the only place I might find some respite in this moment.
I keep my gaze focused on the low-set horizon, the rippled reflection of the nearly-full moon casting its light onto the empty beach in soft light and dim shade.
Despite telling myself to keep my eyes peeled—to remain careful and vigilant—my recent trauma overtakes rational thought, and I only scarcely register the lone jogger on the boardwalk thirty or so yards to my right, and two stories above me.
Similarly, it’s at least a few minutes before I realize I’m not alone on the beach, either.
A wary glance over my shoulder reveals just as I suspected, and, uninvited as he may be, I’m relieved to confirm that my company is a comfort and not yet another threat.
Noah.
CHAPTER FOUR
He has maintained a safe, respectful distance of no more—and no fewer—than ten feet behind me, the whole way past the grassy dunes. And he shows no sign of slowing. Or accelerating, for that matter.
It would appear he’s decided to follow me, like some kind of protective shadow or something. At least, that’s where his agenda seems to lie, if recent events are to be taken at face value, anyway.If it were literally anyone else, I have no doubt I would be frightened or annoyed enough into a confrontation.
Another one.
But something in me sincerely believes that Noah’s intentions, irritating and borderline insulting as they may be, come from a genuine place of good. And with the night I’ve had—we'vehad—I can’t bring myself to give him more shit over it.
It’s equally comforting and off-putting. Noah appears to have taken it upon himself to become my self-appointed goddamned chaperone or something, and the thought agitates me more and more with each footprint I leave in my wake, with each of Noah's ensuing steps as they heedlessly bury mine beneath his own.
I manage to hold onto my temper until we’re passing the beach of the Aqualina club, when I finally turn to challenge him. But Noah, caught or not, doesn’t waver, his expression as impassive as ever, like he never actually cared whether or not his self-assigned bodyguard-mission was stealth or not.
I lift my chin in my trademark defiant attitude, even if I know not so deep down that Noah doesn’t really deserve it. But Ican’t quite bring myself to let go of whatever pride the night has allowed me to retain.
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” I spout more aggressively than I mean to.
Noah shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “I’m just walking here, Liza.” He gestures to the ten-foot safe-zone between us. “But if you don’t want me in your space, I’m not going to force the issue.” If he means to set himself apart from Jonah, it’s entirely unnecessary, and I suspect he knows that. I also doubt he actually believes my issue is that Idon’t want him in my space, that I might not want him around. I mean, who wouldn’twanthimaround?
I sigh inwardly. I just don’t want him to feel as if his presence, his protection, isnecessary. Like I need a guardian. Like I’m some kind of incompetent, helpless little girl. That is the absolutelastway I want Noah Reed to see me.
I’m eighteen years old, same as Noah, and I wish there was a way for him to believe that what happened tonight with Jonah was the exception, not the rule. That I cantake care of myself. Most of the time.
“Just go back to the party, Noah. You’ve done your duty; you can keep your superhero status. I can make it from here,” I snark.
I’m surprised by Noah’s light-hearted chuckle. “Oh, I know you can.”
But he doesn’t turn back to the direction of the party. In fact, he keeps following behind those ten feet of distance, as if he wants to prove he respects my boundaries. It softens my heart more than I’d like to admit. I stop walking.
Noah stops, too, holding his position like some kind of sentinel.
I blow out a deep breath of air, releasing with it some of the stress of the night. “Well,” I concede, gesturing to the sandbeside me, “if you’re going to walk with me anyway, I guess I rather you not stare at my ass the entire time.”
Noah laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. One that soothes away even more of the evening’s unprecedented violence, the persisting soreness.
“Well, Iwasn’t complaining…” His eyes linger on my behind a moment longer than he seems to intend, before his eyes shutter, seemingly shaking something off. “But…” He takes just a few long steps, which is all his six-foot-two frame needs to make up the space between us. He chews his bottom lip before lifting it into that same playful half-smirk I caught a glimpse of earlier. “I think I will take you up on that.” He shrugs. “I definitely look less creepy this way.”
My laugh hides my internal thoughts, about the irony of Noah appearing creepy, while Jonah has everyone fooled.
