3. London
Chapter 3
London
W ith less caution than I should, I peel each layer of my clothes off, one by one, tossing them onto the marble floor. I chew at the corner of my lip and stare at my reflection, the person looking back at me unfamiliar and so very me all at the same time. There isn't an inch of my skin that isn't covered in either a bruise or dirt. My hair is ratty and matted together, the red dulled from the torturous week I've been through.
I force a smile, my eyes not quite getting the memo, and immediately relax my face and shake my head. I'll figure out a way to pretend, but right now I really just need a shower. Maybe that will give me the will to fight another day. I've made it this far, why give up now?
My feet stick to the cold floor as I make my way over to the shower, the entire thing bigger than I thought it was once I reach inside. On second thought, this entire bathroom is nicer than I expected, given the entrance of the building. Perhaps Archer remodeled it recently, installing what appears to be state-of-the-art everything, including a quad showerhead, water spurting from all directions when I turn the faucet on.
A slight chirping draws my attention to a panel in the shower with numbers on it, and I quickly realize it's temperature-controlled. I push the up arrow, until it blinks red, indicating a warning for the water being too hot.
I step in anyway, not caring about the warning or the steam that ripples and fills the space. Tensing, I go through a few emotions one after another. Pain, pleasure, satisfaction.
Everything hurts, but it would have anyway, regardless of the heat.
Closing my eyes, I fully submerge myself, the molten water cascading over my face, my shoulders, and my entire body. I turn, tilt my head back, and let it wash some of the grime out of my hair. I struggle with the cast on my left arm, my fingers not quite moving the way I want them to when I run them through my long locks. I blink some of the droplets away and study the awkward thing stuck to my wrist. The itch has subsided, but only because the heat of the water is a bit more distracting.
I extend it toward the faucet shooting out of the wall and allow the water to rush through the opening, the water running murky for a moment before turning clear again. My stomach turns at the smell, and I wish like hell I could cut the thing off right here and now.
Luckily, one of the faucets detaches, so I use it to do the same to the cast on my leg, the part near my foot caked in debris from where I was walking on it.
Once I feel the slightest bit better, I study the various bottles on the shelves and come to the very sudden understanding that Archer must have a girlfriend. No single, straight man would have this brand of shampoo and conditioner, let alone a men's and women's body wash.
Regardless, it doesn't matter, I'm not here to date Archer, I'm here to hide out until I can get a place of my own. But what if his girlfriend has a problem with that and I'm right back to square one, homeless and on the run?
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat and clear the thought. I can't think like that, not when I've finally found a sliver of peace. I’ll worry about that tomorrow, when the severity of this situation kicks in.
To the best of my ability, I lather some of the shampoo in my hands and wash my hair, following it up with the conditioner. In the few moments of letting it sit in my hair, I pop the top on the men's body wash, the scent of it an instant reminder of when Archer leaned toward me in the doorway. His golden-brown stare had bored into me, the color so strange and beautiful and intense I was almost mesmerized by it. Only, I was more focused on getting inside of his apartment and taking a shower.
"Shit," I blurt out, seconds before I pop my head out of the opening and locate the closet he informed me the towels were in. Darting in and out, I leave a trail of water behind as I grab two towels and a washcloth, dropping the towels near the entrance and returning to the heavenly stream of water that leaves red marks on my already damaged skin.
I make quick work of washing my body, scrubbing each crevice and surface at least three times before calling it quits and standing under the stream for another few minutes.
Once I'm out and wrapped in the luxurious towels, I wipe at the mirror and take in my flushed complexion. My curiosity gets the better of me as I open every single drawer and cabinet, confirming my suspicions of Archer having a girlfriend when I spot the hair dryer and straightener, and well-stocked feminine hygiene section.
I glance at the door, wondering what she must be like, and how Archer must act around her. If he's as grumpy with her that he is with me, there's no telling how happy the two of them must be together. Maybe that's why he acts like he has a stick up his ass—he's in an unhappy relationship. I shake my head to rid myself of the useless thoughts, my mind doing anything it can to distract me from the fact that I just spent a week escaping my arranged marriage and now I'm standing in some random man's bathroom, slipping my weakened body into his clothes and using his girlfriend’s brush to attempt to untangle my hair.
With a curse, I slam the thing onto the counter and clench my jaw. "It's only hair, London, chill out."
A knock sounds on the door. "Is everything okay in there?"
"Yeah." I leave the brush behind and hobble my way over, plastering on my everything is fine face when I reach for the handle.
I open the door to find Archer leaning against the frame, his hand posted on the side, eyes fluttering from me to inside the bathroom then back to me again.
"What was that noise?" he asks like I set his apartment on fire or something.
"I was using your girlfriend's hairbrush."
Archer glares at me so intensely it's almost as if he's trying to set me on fire. "I don't have a girlfriend."
"Oh." I shrug. "Fooled me."
He continues to watch me and for a moment, I allow it, unsure of what he's trying to accomplish other than burn a hole through my forehead.
"Are you done yet?" I say once the moment has turned awkward.
Archer lowers his tattooed arm and steps out of the way. "I called Silver again, no answer."
I stalk out of the bathroom to find the couch made up with sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. Turning toward him, I offer what I can only hope is a polite smile. "Thank you," I tell him.
He runs his hand over his jaw. "That's not for you." He points to the door off in the distance. "You can have the bedroom; I'll sleep on the couch."
"What? No." I pat the corner of the pillow. "I'll take the couch, really. It's not a big deal." I should be grateful he's offering me his bedroom, but things are already weird enough that I just got naked and showered at his place. Do I really need to take things to the next level and sleep in his bed? Silver said I could trust him, but still, Archer is a stranger—even if he's a damn good-looking and grumpy one.
Archer's gaze flickers to the desk in the corner with the elaborate computer monitors adorning it.
I press my hand to my chest. "I promise I won't touch your computers, if that's what you're worried about."
He draws in a breath, his face almost unreadable. "I think you'd be more comfortable in the bedroom."
"I think you'd be more comfortable in your bedroom." I plop down onto the couch and stake my claim. "I mean, what are you, like thirty-seven feet tall?" I lower myself onto my side, stretching all the way out. "See, I actually fit, I doubt you do."
"I fit," he blurts out in a feeble attempt to defend his already weak argument.
"Okay, big boy." I drag my right hand under my head and adjust myself onto the couch. "This is pretty comfortable, though." My eyes grow heavier by the minute, the exhaustion fully catching up and daring to drag me into the abyss.
"Are you hungry?"
"No," I lie and beg my stomach not to betray me. I'm so fucking hungry, but I'm more tired than I am famished, and nothing sounds better than getting a solid hour of sleep without having to worry about some creep on a bus getting handsy.
"Are you lying?"
"No."
Archer contemplates my answer but decides to let it go. He points over at the open kitchen area. "Help yourself. There's stuff for sandwiches in the fridge, and there're snacks in the pantry."
"I'm a vegetarian," I tell him for no real reason.
"Oh, right. Yeah. Um, there's probably a vegetable somewhere in there."
I narrow my gaze up at him, his stature exaggerated from this angle. "Being a vegetarian doesn't mean I only eat vegetables."
Archer turns his hand over. "I don't know what vegetarians eat."
"Veggies, sure, but other stuff, like cheese, bagels, fruit, tofu, you know. Any of those things ring a bell?" I raise myself onto my elbows and wince at the pain. "Fuck," I mutter, accidentally breaking that cool streak I had going on.
"Are you hurt?" Archer's brows pinch together.
I let out a breath. "What do you think?" Swinging my legs around, I drape them over the couch, my feet dangling just before the ground, not quite reaching all the way. "I'm fine, though, really."
"You should see a doctor."
"Do you think I put these on myself?" I extend my cast-covered arm and wiggle my leg.
"Why are you so difficult?"
"Why are you so difficult?" I repeat, no doubt annoying the shit out of him. I don't mean to find such enjoyment out of bickering with him, but I do find it's sparked a light in this otherwise dim world I was living in. And since I don't have much else going for me at the moment, I'm going to keep this up as long as I can.
Archer tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and releases it a second later. "There's food over there. Do not touch my computer. If you need anything, I'll be in there." He motions to the bedroom he offered me and leaves me sitting there with a triumphant grin on my face.
Only, he doesn't go straight to the room, he goes to the bathroom first, a few curse words muttered from his lips when he enters the door.
My gaze skims his place but it's too dark to make much of anything out aside from the rough features of furniture and walls. The weight of my eyelids deepens, and I give in to the urge to return to a horizontal position, not even covering myself before I close my eyes and get drawn under into what I can only hope is a restful sleep.
Except it's nothing of the sort, because when I wake, my body is lined with sweat, my throat raw, and Archer is kneeling beside me, his sleepy face racked with panic, his hair tousled over his forehead.