6. Archer
Chapter 6
Archer
W ith only a few keystrokes, I locate Joe Vito, sleeping soundly in his bed in California, the camera on his computer giving me access to watch his breaths slow and steady through the screen.
I dig into his recent whereabouts, credit card transactions, and cell phone records. It isn't difficult to track a man like him when he's so fucking showy with everything he does. Twelve thousand at a strip club on Tuesday, another three thousand at dinner on Saturday, a payment to the yacht club he's been a member of since birth, passed down from his disgraceful father.
Joe Vito is fucking boring, but he's been around long enough to have respect from the right people, and because of the connections his father gave him, and the strings he pulls, he's untouchable.
He's like a cockroach that everyone wants to get rid of but ends up staying alive anyway.
Joe's private jet has been parked for over a month, the last known trip, a week-long thing to the Cayman Islands, no doubt to assess the bank accounts he has there and make sure his affairs were in order. Pretty typical of a man like Joe.
I scan his driver's license information, his date of birth, March 22nd, making him forty-three years old. Not an organ donor, go figure, not like anyone would want any piece of him when he's gone.
A few pushes of buttons later, three hundred thousand dollars have been transferred out, masked as a payment for his jet, but sentanonymouslyto a woman's domestic shelter in California. He'll never even know it's missing, let alone get to take credit for where the money went.
My cheek twitches, a smile forming and quickly fading the second London walks into the living room, her gait wobbly from that cast on her leg. "Hey, I'mgoingto run down to a few shops. I'll be backin acouple of hours."
I dim the screen and stand from my desk. "Give me a minute to shower and I'll go with you."
She waves her hand, dismissing me. "No, it's fine, really, I can go by myself."
"You're new to town, and you don't exactly get around easily, so let me take you." I leave out the part where I'm not even sure if she has anymoneyto begin with. She wasn't exactly dripping in disposable income last night on my doorstep.
"I said I was fine," she snaps back, her tone rigid and defensive. "I don't need your help."
"Excuse me for trying to be aniceguy."
"You said it yourself, Archer, you're not a nice guy, remember?"Sheputs her hand on her hip, and it really makes me wonder if she realizes how pathetic she looks right now.
The salespeople aren't going to give her the time of day in this town, and it's not like she can manage to get to the moreaffordable stores on her own.
"Fine then, go." I motion to the door. "Be my fucking guest."
London blinks harshly like she's not understanding what I just said. Her mouth parts slightly. "I—I will." She marches to the door, not daring to glance back to see if I've changed my mind. She makes sure to slam it for dramatic effect, my chest tightening at how fucking frustrating that woman is.
I run my hand through my hair and head straight for the bathroom, taking the shower I said I needed and hoping it will allow me to cool off. I'm not used to dealing with people who aren't my immediate family anymore, now that I've isolated myself from everyone else.
I guess it doesn't help that London is one of the most infuriating humans on the planet, not quite setting me up for success with my new housemate.
What was I thinking in allowing her to stay? It goes against everything I've been trying to put in place. I'm disrespecting myself and my boundaries by going back on what I've told everyone—the second she stepped foot on my doorstep, everything started to crumble. Time has only proven that I'm not ready to be a part of society yet, nor should I be socializing with other people.
Washing my body, I notice that London has moved everything around in my shower. What's so hard about putting things back in their place? Why did she find it necessary to move the men's products? How does that even make sense? I close my eyes and let the water wash over my face, my hand rubbing the soap off my body, my fingers caressing the base of my shaft, noting just how hard I am for no fucking reason. I grip my traitorous cock as it thickens in my grasp and plant my other hand against the back of the shower, my entire body in the stream of water pouring down.
I stroke my cock, long and lazily at first, only to tighten and speed it up, almost ashamed of myself for being turned on right now. I don't mean to, but London's voice comes into my head, her snarky comments setting fire under my skin the same way her delicate hand did when she slid it into mine.
I finish abruptly, intensely, and am left there, my breath ragged and my chest heaving. "Fuck," I mutter.
But it isn't even a moment later that the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
London is no longer in my apartment, meaning I am not watching over her, and my promise to Silver that I would keep her safe is nothing but a few meaningless words drifting away like my orgasm down the drain.
How could I let her get to me so badly that I'd do something as stupid as let her leave here with no money, no cell phone, no protection?
A minute later, I'm wrapping a towel around my soaked body and rushing out to my computer. In less time than it took me to get out of the shower, I've located London on a street camera outside of my apartment complex, only a few doors away.
I exhale, reposition my ass on the chair, and watch her through the screen. In preparation for her to move, I pull up two more angles and tap into the camera of the store she walks into, some overpriced boutique I've walked past a million times but never gone to.
The audio on the camera inside the store is muffled by the music playing in the background. I study London as she enters, her shoulders thrown back, fully confident she belongs there. The two women at the counter whisper something I can't quite make out and one nudges the other.
London skims a section of clothes, her fingers grazing each one.
The shorter of the two women steps around the counter and waltzes over to London. "May I help you?"
"I'm just looking, thanks," London replies in an even tone.
The woman clears her throat. "There's a clearance section over there that might better suit your needs."
London pauses, her body stiff and still, and I go tense with her, wondering how she's going to react given I've only known London less than a day and she's done almost nothing except argue with me about literally everything. Finally, without turning toward the woman, she says, "You should really stop trying to pass these last-season trousers off as this season." She grabs the hanger off the rack and shoves it toward the woman. "Are you so out of touch that you think anyone would pay full price for an off-the-rack, out-of-season knockoff?"
The woman gasps. "It's not a knockoff."
London points at something I can't quite make out. "See this stitching. Dead giveaway. This lockstitch is pathetic. Giovanni's uses their signature herringbone here."
"But I…" The woman looks to her coworker for assistance, but by the time she turns toward London, London is already making her way out the door, her face pressed into a hard line, unbothered by the interaction.
Immediately, I click on another box, pulling the street angle of London up as she glances in both directions, deciding to go a bit farther away from my apartment. She isn't so far that I couldn't chase after her if something happened, but I don't love the distance she's putting between us, testing my ability to keep her safe.
She pops into another clothing store, this one less sterile inside than the last.
A round-faced woman greets her immediately. "Welcome into Charlotte's, can I help you find anything?" Her gaze meets London, and the second it does, she stops folding the clothes in her hands and focuses on London. "Oh my gosh, are you okay?" She rushes over, her fingers lingering in the air between the two of them like she wants to do something, but she's not sure what.
London inches back slightly. "Oh, I'm fine, yes. I do need some new clothes, though."
The woman nods her head. "Yes, of course, whatever it is you need, I can help you. I'm Charlotte, by the way."
"Charlotte Charlotte?" London motions around at the space inside the store.
"That's me." The woman smiles a sweet and innocent smile.
I lean into my chair, my bare back sticking to the seat. I ignore the awkward sensation and watch London look around the store.
"Are those the Rocco Couture from Italy?" London hobbles her best over to a table near the center of the place.
Charlotte follows her close behind. "Yes, they're lovely, aren't they? You're familiar?"
London nods and picks up one of the seemingly plain shirts, turning it front to back. "I'll take one in every color, small."
Charlotte's mouth drops open as London walks away and continues to browse.
"These trousers, do you have them in a twenty-five?" She runs her hand along something else. "And these."
Charlotte quickly rushes over, snatching two pairs of bottoms off the table and adding them to the pile in her arms. "Why yes, we do."
London turns toward her and presses her finger to her lips. "So that's five tops, two bottoms. I'm going to need a blazer, at least one pair of jeans, a cardigan, and…" Her gaze settles on the far side of the store. "That dress."
I can barely make out her last two words, she says them so quietly.
Charlotte follows her line of sight. "The Lorenzo. Only five of them were made. The silk gives it a timeless and elegant look, the dark green would go perfectly with your hair color and your complexion." She pauses and adds, "It's eight thousand."
My attention shifts to London, it not being lost on me how her shoulders seem to slump, even through the pixelated screen I'm watching her on. She nods her head slowly. "I'm going to have to hold off on that today." Without hesitating, she shifts back into action, scanning the store for something else. "Those black heels, do you have them in a seven?"
"Let me check." Charlotte rushes over, grabs the shoe off the stand, and drops the load of clothes onto the counter before disappearing into the back.
London glances at where she went then stops in front of the dress she was gawking at, her fingers barely touching the delicate fabric for the smallest second. She lets out a breath and leaves it behind as she rummages through the panties section, taking a handful of the dainty things into her good hand before placing them with the rest of her things.
Why she needs heels when she has a cast on her leg, I'm not exactly sure, but who am I to stop her? It’s not like she'd listen to me anyway.
If I were her, I would have gone with something a bit more practical, like sneakers. It's safe to say London doesn't think the same way I do, though.
Charlotte comes out with a box in her hand, holding it out triumphantly. "Shall we try them on?"
London shakes her head. "Not necessary. I have a pair of them back home. Or well, I did." Her voice trails off like she's lost in a memory. "I know they fit."
"Where is home?" Charlotte asks her. It's an innocent question, but considering the magnitude of the situation, I'm not sure if London should tell her the truth.
"Out west," she responds vaguely.
I loosen a breath at her smart answer. "Atta girl," I mutter.
"I've always wanted to go out west, I just haven't," Charlotte says instead of pressing London for any more information. "Maybe someday."
"Yeah, maybe."
"So, you're new in town, what brings you out here?"
London shrugs. "A fresh start, hopefully."
"I like that." Charlotte pats the pile of things that London has accumulated. "Okay, we've got a lot of your basics covered here. You mentioned a blazer and cardigan, what about…" Charlotte leads London to another side of the store, helps her pick out a few more things, and adds them to the stack. "These jeans here are a more relaxed fit and should accommodate that cast." Charlotte holds a pair of jeans out for London to take a look at.
"I'll take two of them, the dark wash and the light, please."
A woman walks in the front door and Charlotte greets her with a smile. "Let me know if there's anything I can help you find," she tells the woman as she starts to ring London's items up.
I squint to see the total but can't make it out. I punch in the information to the store’s Wi-Fi, locate the point-of-sale system, pull up the order screen on my own, and watch the tally of items go up. It shouldn't be this easy to log into someone else's interface, and yet it is…
I guess Charlotte isn't protecting anything top secret, and an average person would never hack into her store. I'm not exactly an average person when it comes to hacking, anyway.
The total shoots from a couple hundred dollars, to two thousand very quickly, and I wonder where London is going to get the funds to pay for this. Surely, she's not stupid enough to use a credit card that could be traced back to her, and I would hope she isn't carrying that much cash on her. She might be in a relatively safe area in Manhattan, but crime happens everywhere. On the off chance that she is stupid and has a card with her, I furiously type away to pull up the power to the store, ready to shut it off the second she whips a card out. My finger hovers over the button, watching in anticipation for which level of disappointment I'm going to have in her.
"Your total today is going to be two thousand two hundred twenty dollars and twenty-one cents." Charlotte starts to bag the items as she asks, "Will that be cash or card?"
London fidgets with the front pocket of her jeans, revealing a wad of cash a moment later.
I shake my head and rub at my jaw. How could she be so foolish? Didn't Silver tell her not to flaunt cash like that? Not to mention, she's here to start over, shouldn't she have budgeted better and saved some of her money instead of spending it the first chance she got? But, considering she said she already had a pair of those overpriced heels, perhaps London is just showing her true, very materialistic, colors.
Once Charlotte has finished bagging everything up in four different, quite large, bags, she counts the money that London handed her and makes change.
"Do you live around here?" London asks her and reaches for a couple of the bags.
Charlotte scoffs. "Yeah right, this neighborhood? Too rich for my blood." She rips off the receipt and stuffs it into one of the remaining bags. "I'm in Hamilton Heights. It's not too far from here. You can take the A or D and be in Midtown in, like, twenty minutes."
"When you say too rich for your blood, what do you mean? How much are places around here?"
"I mean, you can't buy a studio around here for less than a million, and that's a fixer-upper. Something nice?" Charlotte laughs. "Who am I kidding, everything is nice in Manhattan. I'd say you're looking at over two million to buy something small. Five grand a month to rent something. I have one customer who pays eighteen thousand a month for a place a couple of blocks from here. Kind of depends on what you're looking for." She pauses and adds, "You looking for something?"
London shakes her head. "I'm staying with a friend for now." She takes the bags into her hands, struggling to hold them with her injured arm. She shifts them all onto the other. "Thanks for the help, Charlotte. This is a great place you have here."
"Of course, yeah, anytime. Don't be a stranger."
London lingers her gaze on the dress in the corner. "Hold on to that for me." She slips out the door before Charlotte can answer her.
I switch cameras, hating how the street views don't give audio, only visuals, and very shitty visuals, at that. Still, I can keep my eyes on her while she, hopefully, makes her way back here.
It's uncomfortable, watching her struggle with the bags, but I can't exactly run down there and help her considering she has no idea that I'm stalking her. I'm only doing it to keep her safe, though, not to be a creep. Silver asked for my help, I'm only following through on my word.
London slowly makes her way past the store where the girl was rude to her, and catches sight of something across the way. She waits for the pedestrian sign to change, and crosses the street, prompting me to change cameras again.
"Where are you going, little tornado?" I whisper as I hit the keystrokes on my computer and follow her.
London enters a coffee shop I've been to a few times; the bakery items are not so bad, and their coffee is what my oh-so-serious big brother would deem acceptable for his sophisticated palette.
It takes me far too long to gain access to their interior cameras, and when I do, I've already missed London speaking to someone. She smiles politely at another woman and says thank you as she leaves her bags behind with the stranger and heads toward the counter. Two men stand in front of her, the one directly in front glancing over his shoulder at her far too many times for it to not be blatantly obvious that he's checking her out.
"Hey, I'm Roger," he says and turns himself toward her. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure," London responds immediately.
I pinch my eyes shut for a brief moment. Why, London, why?
"I'll have a large cappuccino, dry, and whatever the lady is having."
"Vanilla latte, small." She keeps a bit of distance between her and the man but it's not enough to not give him the wrong impression. Men are stupid and think everything a woman does is an invitation for them to harass them.
But maybe she likes him. Maybe she wants to get to know this guy and have a coffee with him. Who am I to step in the way of what might be true love?
The cashier takes his credit card, and it only takes me the time they're waiting for their drinks to pull up everything there is to know about this man.
He's married, a teacher, and with more debt than he could ever dig himself out of and a very expensive porn addiction. I'm surprised the nine dollars’ worth of coffee didn't decline when the barista swiped his card.
"One large dry cappuccino and a vanilla latte for Roger," the bright-eyed, blue-haired barista calls out.
They each walk toward their drink, picking them up at the same time.
"Thanks," London tells him and goes to walk away.
"Wait, that's it?" Roger calls after her.
She stops and turns on her heel, facing him. "Yeah, Rog , it is. You bought me a coffee, that's it. End of transaction. I said thank you, what would you prefer I do? Strip out of my clothes and bend over the counter? Not going to happen. Now, if you don't want me to raise my voice and tell this entire coffee shop that you just made a lewd comment about the, no doubt, underage barista back there, I suggest you move along."
"I said no such thing," Roger says, his third mistake.
His first was asking to buy London a drink, and the second was implying she owed him something in return.
London takes a step closer, her entire demeanor intimidating despite how freaking tiny she is. She's like a Chihuahua. "Who do you think they're going to believe, Rog? You, or me?" Her voice is so low I can barely make it out, my hearing so fucking strained to listen in on this entire conversation anyway. Be great if she'd go to less crowded places. It would make my stalking easier.
Roger hesitates for a minute like he's considering whether London will follow through with her threat. "Crazy bitch," he mumbles before giving up and walking straight out of the coffee shop.
I let out a laugh, a strange sense of satisfaction rolling over me. Maybe London is more capable of taking care of herself than I was giving her credit for.
It has only been less than twenty-four hours since she stepped foot on my doorstep, I shouldn't assume I know anything about her. London might not even be her government name. Not that it's any of my business—Silver was right, the less I know, the better. I can't afford to care about her outside of my promise to Silver. I don't want to earn a favor with him, but Silver is a great ally, and someone I'd like to stay on their good side. As much as I want to be out of the life, it's impossible when I keep one foot in the door and my family is fully immersed in it. I was the stupid one for ever thinking I could escape it by staying alive. Maybe one day I'll come to terms with what happened, but the wounds are too fresh for that day to be today.
My attention returns to London when she moves from her spot near the counter and back to the woman she left her bags with.
"You good?" the stranger asks her.
"Yeah," London replies. "Nothing I can't handle."
"I wasn't worried about you in the slightest." The woman pulls a chair out for London. "Here, have a seat." She extends her hand. "I'm Grace, by the way."
Grace is well polished, not a lock of her blonde hair out of place, her dress slacks perfectly pressed. Even from the view I have on my screen, I can tell Grace was born with money and privilege. She's conventionally pretty, but in a kind of way that screams politician’s wife.
"I'm London." She settles into her seat and takes a cautious sip of her latte, more cautious than she was this morning when she burnt herself. Perhaps she learned her lesson—has she never drank hot coffee before?
"You new in town? I haven't seen you around here before. Sorry, I don't mean to pry, I just feel like I know everyone who comes in here. Even Roger, the regular creep. He's mostly harmless, I'm sure."
London shrugs. "He paid for my coffee, that's all that matters."
"What did you say to him? He looked spooked when he left. I almost felt sorry for him." Grace drinks some of her coffee and pats the corner of her lips with a napkin.
"I may have threatened to tell the coffee shop he was a pedophile."
Grace's eyes widen and a giant smile spreads across her face. "You did not. That's hilarious. Wow. I think you might be my new best friend. Designer clothes and fearless. I love it."
"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do…"
London tugs back the sleeves of her sweatshirt, revealing the cast on her arm, matching the one on her leg.
"Damn, you're worse for wear. Want to talk about it?" Grace spins the base of her cup, leaving a gap for London to fill in.
"Not really," London answers. "It's in the past."
Grace leans forward at the hip and lowers her voice. "Do we need to have anyone killed?"
I almost miss what she says because of the stupid fucking music.
I push a few buttons and shut it off, the barista near the register throwing up their arms as they say, "Wasn't me, I swear."
"Okay, that was nearly terrible timing," Grace adds.
London laughs. "Maybe your FBI guy heard you say that."
"Maybe your FBI guy heard me say that." Grace nudges London's shoulder playfully.
If only they knew it wasn't either of their FBI guys watching, but the random man whose doorstep that London showed up on the night before.