11. London
Chapter 11
London
I swing the door open the second Archer gets closer and hold it for him to enter.
"Uh, thanks?" he says.
"Who was that?" I ask him without hesitating.
"Who was what?" Archer continues inside and sets the two coffees on the counter before taking the packages from under his arms.
"The girl you were just talking to."
He turns toward me, his gaze narrowing. "Were you stalking me, little tornado?"
I roll my eyes and march over, pointing at the coffees. "Which one is mine?"
"Either one."
I take one and suspiciously sip it. "Is this a vanilla latte?"
"Yeah, why? Is that not what you wanted?"
"I didn't tell you what I wanted."
"Oh. I, um, I just guessed." Archer opens one of the boxes he brought in with a knife and pulls out a shoe box I could never mistake. "Here. These are for you."
"You bought meChristian Louboutins?"
"It's not what you think." He flips the lid to reveal a pair of stark white tennis shoes with red bottoms.
"You got me sneakers?"
"Well, the ones you came here in were worse for wear, and you only bought yourself heels when you went out the other day. I figured you could use something more practical."
"What's in the other box? Did you get yourself a matching pair?"
"No." He gives the box his attention, carefully opening it and pulling out two satchels. "I didn't know if you'd want brown or black, so I got both." Archer reveals twoSaint Laurent crossbody leather bags with gold chains.
"I'm confused." I stare at the items and then at him. "Why would you do this?"
"Why would I do what?"
"Buy me, like, seven grand worth of stuff. You've known me four days and I've done nothing but annoy the hell out of you."
Archer shrugs, his plain black t-shirt bunching over his tattooed biceps. "It's just money, it's not a big deal. You needed a purse, I said I'd get you one, and now I did. And the shoes, I mean, you needed shoes, and I know you like brand name things, so I thought these would work."
"Are you saying I'm materialistic?"
Archer runs his hand over his jaw. "You love to put words in my mouth, don't you?"
"That wasn't a disagreement."
"I did not say you were materialistic, London. I am simply giving you something you need. That is all. Don't make it into something it's not. Just say thank you. Actually, no, don't even do that, I didn't do it for a thank-you." Archer huffs and storms away, dragging his computer chair out and sitting on it with a bit too much force.
I stand there for a long moment, grab his coffee, and walk it over to his desk. "Thank you, Archer. For the coffee, the shoes, and the purses. It was very thoughtful of you."
He snatches his coffee and takes a swig before setting it down on the coaster he keeps near his mouse pad. "You're welcome."
A smile creeps across my face. "Did we just diffuse our first argument?"
"That wasn't an argument."
"Look at you arguing about whether it was an argument."
"London, I need to get some work done."
"Okay, fine, but first, you're not going to get out of telling me who that was in the hallway."
Archer exhales dramatically and faces me. "That was Camille, our neighbor. Satisfied?"
"I'll be satisfied when you give her my name for a potential sublet of her apartment."
"You're joking."
I throw my arm up. "Why would I be joking? It's perfect. We both get some privacy, and you can still keep an eye on me. What's not to love?"
"We are not going to be neighbors." Archer returns his attention to his computer, typing away at who knows fucking what.
Since I've been here, Archer has gotten these screen covers that prevent anyone who isn't directly looking at the screen from being able to see anything he's doing.
"We can't be neighbors, but we can be roommates? How does that make any sense?"
"I said no , end of discussion." Archer doesn't even glance my way, his lips pressed in a line, his eyes trailing whatever he's doing.
"You wouldn't have to worry about me finding out what's on your computer if I got the place next door," I tell him as I leave him and return to the kitchen where my new shoes and bags are.
He doesn't say anything, not that I expect him to. Archer isn't exactly one of those people who feels the need to get the last word in. His silence usually speaks volumes by itself.
I want to ask him about Camille, her apartment, and the lingering questions that remained when he left earlier in a hurry to get our coffees. Like what his actual last name is, and why he seems so strangely protective of talking about his siblings. Or maybe I'd ask how he knew my coffee order when I hadn't told him what it was. But I don't, because now isn't the time and I don't want to push my luck. If I'm going to continue living with him, I have to find the balance between annoying him and completely pushing him over the edge.
The next day
"Hey, how much do phones cost?" I ask Archer from my spot on the couch.
He shifts his focus from his computer to me. "What?"
"A cell phone. How much do they cost? I want one."
"Monthly, or the cost of the phone itself?"
I guess I hadn't thought there was a different cost for both. I've never had to think about money in the past, I just went out and got things, and my father paid for them. One of the perks of being under his constant torture.
"Both," I tell him and plop his iPad onto the cushion next to me. "And where do they sell them?"
"What kind of phone do you want?" He types on his computer, and I can't tell if he's paying attention to me or not.
"I don't know. What do you have?"
He doesn't say anything for a long moment and I contemplate throwing a couch pillow at him but I don't think I know him well enough to gauge how he would react. I decide to clear my throat a bit too loudly. "Hello?"
"I ordered you the latest edition, it will be here the day after tomorrow. The plan is included. Will that be all?"
"I don't even get to choose the color?"
Archer licks his lips. "I got you a gold one."
"Oh, well, I guess it'll match the bags."
"That's why I chose that color."
"You really think of everything, don't you?"
"I try to."
I almost laugh at his response, knowing damn well that Archer is a massive control freak, that's why he thinks of everything. It's hard not to wonder why he is the way he is, but I'd be an idiot to think I could ask him and he'd tell me the truth.
"Do you want some privacy?" I hop up from the couch and Archer glances in my direction.
"You're leaving?"
"I'm going to take a shower. Is that okay, big guy?"
Archer immediately returns his attention to the computer. "Yeah."
I roll my eyes and make my way toward the bathroom, my cast scraping against the floor. Counting on my fingers, I attempt to do the math on when I can get these things removed.
"What's today?" I mutter, unsure of how long I've been here. The days sort of melt into each other, and considering I spent the last few resting, I can't be certain how long it has been. Either way, I should only have a couple more weeks until I'm free of the obnoxious coverings. Maybe I should find a doctor, that way I can get them removed immediately instead of having to wait around on one.
The bathroom door latches shut behind me and I strip my clothes off as I head to the shower. I turn the water on and crank the heat up, the room filling with steam within seconds.
I sigh, stepping under the scorching water and tilting my head up, realizing that I need to wash my hair. I had been avoiding it since that first day, considering how difficult it was to navigate with my arm in a cast. Sure, I have access to my fingers, but they're not as strong as my other hand, and the cast sort of disallows me from having full control over them.
I wash my body instead, holding off on washing my hair for now. The bruises have shifted their colors, faded reds, purples, and greens covering most of my body, my torso with the brunt of the damage. Luckily for me, I can conceal it under my clothing and minimize some of the sad stares.
Everything still hurts, though, from my head, down to my toes. I thought the pain would have subsided, but I have to remind myself that my father nearly killed me two weeks ago, that doesn't go away overnight.
Even taking deep breaths is difficult, my injured lungs still healing, too. The headaches have died down, a steady throb that intensifies randomly.
He's abused me countless times, but the fractured skull was a new addition to his résumé of damage he's inflicted on me.
I put my arm in front of the faucet and rinse the inside of my cast out, the water nowhere near as disgusting as the first time I showered at Archer's place. I cringe at the memory of how dirty I was when I showed up on his doorstep. I can't believe he let me inside. Not that I look much better now, but still, I was disgusting to say the very least.
The water courses over me another few minutes and I decide it's time. I need to wash my hair, I can't keep putting it off. I didn't exactly do a good job the last time I washed it, some of the shampoo no doubt remaining in my hair after I got out of the shower.
I squeeze some of the shampoo into my hand, still wondering why Archer has women's products in here. I go to lather it with my other hand and the entire lump of shampoo slides out and plops onto the shower floor.
"Fuck," I blurt out and go in for another pump of the product. I manage to hold on to it this time, and raise my arms to work it into my hair, my ribs aching at the new position my body is in. "Fuck," I say, this time a bit louder. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Tears well in my eyes and I lower my arms to my sides. Maybe I can find a salon nearby and pay to have my hair washed. But considering how much money I spent on clothes, I don't really foresee having the luxury of paying someone to wash my hair in my future. I have nearly half the money I came here with and no idea how I'm going to get any more.
The door to the bathroom bursts open, and Archer rushes in a second later. "Is everything okay?"
I cover what I can of my private parts. "What the fuck, Archer?"
"You sounded distressed," he says, his voice still clipped like he's not convinced someone isn't in here trying to murder me right this second.
"Have you ever tried to wash your hair with a cast on? I am distressed."
A long pause fills the steamy room.
"Hello? Some privacy?" I say, hoping he'll get the hint and get the hell out.
But instead, Archer reaches into the shower area and pokes at the panel on the wall. "You really shouldn't use that hot of water. You're going to hurt yourself."
I chuckle. "More than I already am? I'm pretty sure the water is the least of my worries, big boy."
Archer steals a glance at my body as he pulls away, his arm lingering, water droplets forming on his tattooed skin. "Christ…"
"Take a picture, Archer, it lasts longer."
He shakes his head. "No. Your…I didn't realize you…"
"Spit it out and get out." I continue to attempt to conceal myself, the cast covering most of my bare, soaked chest.
"Your entire body, London. You're bruised all over."
"Tell me something I didn't know."
Archer blinks a few times and I wish he would just spit out whatever it is he's thinking and go away, leaving me to stew in my embarrassment and the hot water. "Get out of the shower," he says, the words confusing me.
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry, I mean, when you're done, obviously. Get out of the shower and I'll wash your hair. We can do it in the sink in the kitchen."
"I'm not going to have you wash my hair," I protest for no real reason.
"Why?"
"I…" I struggle to find anything to say for the first time in my life.
"I'm not taking no for an answer." Archer reaches inside and takes the shampoo and conditioner off the shelf. "There, now you can't do it yourself."
"Dude, I'm naked here." I move to shield myself as he comes closer.
"Chill, I'm not trying to look at you like that."
"Wow," I scoff. "Thanks."
"Well, do you want me to? Make up your mind, little tornado." Archer walks away, going over to the counter and wiping the water off the sides of the bottles in his grasp. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready."
He leaves a moment later, not giving me a chance to protest or say anything.
I stand there, a bit dumbfounded, and crank the heat back up to where I had it, mumbling under my breath at Archer and his audacity.
It takes me two whole minutes under the blazing water to come to my senses.
The situation isn't ideal, but Archer is offering to wash my hair, something I can't manage on my own. Sure, it's weird and awkward, having some man I met a few days ago washing my hair, but I don't really have any other options unless I suffer my way through it myself.
I pat my body dry and wrap a large white towel around myself before making my way out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, my wet feet leaving a trail that will no doubt infuriate Archer. It's just water, it will evaporate eventually.
When I arrive in the kitchen, I find Archer rolling a towel up and setting it near the sink. His gaze flickers up at me, returns to his task, but then quickly falls on me again.
"Hey, so I, uh, I was thinking it would be easiest for you to lay on the counter and put your head in there." He points to the long island where the sink is located.
"Okay." I stroll over and stop next to the counter, realizing I can't boost myself up with my injured arm.
"Right, yeah." Archer seems to understand the problem immediately, and comes to my side as I face him.
I look up and put my arms out to give him space.
"I'm going to touch you, okay?"
I swallow and nod.
Archer puts his strong hands under my armpits and lifts me onto the counter with ease. His eyes meet mine, his grip still tight and gentle all at the same time.
"Thanks," I whisper, our faces just a breath apart.
"Yeah." Archer releases me and steps back. He walks around the side of the counter. "Lay back," he says, his hand hovering behind my head. "I've got you."
With his help, I comply, resting my neck on the towel he had bunched up and leaning the rest of my head into the sink area.
He turns the faucet on, adjusting the temperature too many times until he gets it right. Archer covers my forehead with his left hand and pulls the nozzle down to spray my hair. The water is lukewarm at best.
"You can make it hotter," I tell him.
"I'm sure you'd like that."
"I would, you're going to freeze me to death."
Even with his palm covering my eyes, I can make out him shaking his head.
"Were you personally victimized by hot water?" I ask him.
He stops, moves his hand, and says, "What?"
"It was a joke, Archer. Have you ever heard of those?"
Archer doesn't answer me, yet continues his task, returning the nozzle a second later to put some shampoo in his hands. He lathers it up before running his tattooed fingers through my hair, and I'm not entirely sure I haven't died and gone to heaven when he massages my scalp.
"Fuck," I mutter, but nothing like the fucks I was letting out in the shower.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, not at all. That was a good fuck." I close my eyes and savor his touch.
Archer scrubs all around my head, even getting the base of my skull and around my ears. It's fucking pure bliss, and I don't want it to stop.
"Other than your arm and leg, what's wrong with you? So I know." His question completely pulls me out of the blissful moment. Leave it to him to ruin something so damn good.
"What?" I peek through one lid at him.
"Your injuries. Clearly, you're worse off than I thought you were."
"Oh. It's not that bad."
"Not that bad, London, your entire body is one giant bruise."
"If I tell you, will you let it go?"
Archer rinses my hair, covering my forehead again to save me from the splatter. "Maybe."
I exhale and think through my list of injuries. "Fractured right leg, left wrist, skull. Bruised and collapsed lung, I mean, it's not anymore. Um, what else? Broken ribs, some cuts and scrapes, nothing too crazy." I lick at the inside of my lip, where it's still a little swollen. "I think the stitches on my lip have already dissolved."
Archer stops everything, his mouth hanging open when I glance up at him. "London…"
I roll my eyes and point to my head. "If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to do the same to you. Now, finish my hair or I'm going to do it myself."
"Do I even want to know where that scar on your stomach came from?"
I sit up, wincing from the abrupt pain. "I'm done."
Archer carefully puts his hand on my shoulder, his tattooed touch burning through me. "Okay, I'm sorry, let me finish."
Reluctantly, I go along, because what other choice do I have? It's not like I can do my hair myself, at least, not well.
He applies conditioner from mid-length to my ends, combing his fingers through and cautiously tugging the tangles out.
With the conditioner sitting in my hair, I reposition my neck toward him. "I think it's only fair you show me a scar or two. I mean, you just saw me naked. We need to make this even."
Archer raises a brow and plants his hands on the edge of the counter. "You want me to get naked?"
"You wish I'd want to see you naked."
"You don't want to?" The muscles in his arms flex and it's everything I can do not to shift my attention from his face to study his chiseled body.
"Archer, are you flirting with me?" I wink at him. "I didn't think you had it in you. Is that why you stormed into the shower to get a peek?"
"I did not storm in there."
"What else would you call that?"
"Okay, well, it wasn't to look at you. I thought something was wrong."
"You always think something’s wrong. What's with that?"
"I think it's time to rinse…" Archer reaches for the faucet and rinses my hair, spending way more time than I expect him to on it. He grabs all my hair into his fist and squeezes any excess water out before grabbing the towel he had sitting off to the side and ruffling it around my head.
I sit up, carefully, and reach for the towel, our hands grazing in the process. "Come on. I think I earned at least one scar. Or hey, maybe tell me about one of your tattoos."
Archer sighs and runs his hand through his own hair, the dark locks falling back onto his forehead. He lifts his shirt, only slightly, and points to a puckered, inked stained spot on his stomach. "Here."
Not caring at all that I'm a towel away from being naked on this stranger’s counter who just washed my hair, I extend my hand and press my finger along the raised spot. "Gunshot?" I ask him, even though I can't imagine it would be much else.
"Yep."
I glide my hand along his stomach until I reach his back, feeling for one on the other side. "And there's the exit wound." I turn my face toward him. "At least it was clean and straight through."
"Why do you know about gunshot wounds?" He asks me, his stare intense. Archer reaches back and grabs my hand, bringing it around to his front. He hovers it over his stomach, across his abs, and onto another scar, then another. The next one surprises me, the length and texture are drastically different. This scar is longer and jagged.
"Knife?" I ask him, unsure of whether I'm right.
"Yeah." He lets go of my hand and puts a step between us. Archer folds his arms over his chest like he's hoping it will prevent me from finding anything else about him.
"Guess we both have our secrets," I say, scooting myself off the counter before he can help me get down. I nearly lose the towel wrapped around my body, but I catch it as it tries to fall off.
"Guess so." Archer doesn't take his eyes off me, and it leaves me wondering what he's thinking, a thought I'm almost always assaulted with. Sure, I know how to make him mad, but aside from Archer being a grumpy control freak, he's sort of a mystery. One I find myself unable to not want to figure out.
But I'm no stranger to secrets, and sometimes they're better left buried.