18. Archer
Chapter 18
Archer
L ondon and I haven't spoken in forty-eight hours and I don't know what's worse, her silent treatment or her incessant nagging. Part of me wishes she'd go back to yelling at me about nothing and everything instead of closing me out.
But closing me out is what is best for us. Every time we talk, we argue, for no real reason, and it ends in the same heated passion between us that neither one of us can seem to ignore.
This is better. London is here temporarily and once she's gone, I'll return to my life of solitude. My life of numbing the pain and ignoring everything else as much as I possibly can.
"Will you wash my hair?" she asks me, the sound of her voice startling me from my daze.
I blink a few times and turn toward her, unsure of whether I imagined her to begin with.
"Uh, hello?" She snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Archer."
I clear my throat and stand from my desk. "Yeah." I make my way over to the bathroom but notice she's already got the supplies sitting in the kitchen on the counter. How unaware was I that she managed to do that without me noticing? I change my course of action and go to the counter, my mind begging to be anywhere but here.
London stands at the end of the island, her hands to her sides, her eyes trained on me.
"Right." I approach her, grab under her arms, and hoist her onto the counter.
"Are you okay?" she asks me while lying on her back. "You're being weirder than usual."
"I'm my normal weird," I tell her and turn on the water, adjusting the faucet until I get the right temperature.
"Are you going to keep giving me the silent treatment?" London looks up at me from her position on the counter, her eyes squinted when I bring the nozzle over.
"I thought you were giving me the silent treatment," I tell her and rinse her hair, making sure to cover her forehead and not splatter her too much. I lather some shampoo into my hands before massaging it into her hair, paying special attention to her scalp and not pushing too hard. The last time we did this she mentioned a skull fracture, and I don't exactly want to make that worse.
"Truce?" London says, and I can't tell if she's being genuine or not. "I mean, I'm still mad at you for ruining my birthday, but you kind of made up for it."
"How about I let you ruin my birthday? Then we can call it even?" I rinse the shampoo from her hair and squeeze as much water out as possible before putting some conditioner through her ends.
"Deal." London closes her eyes and for a minute it's like she's enjoying this. "Hey, we should probably go to the grocery store."
"Yeah, we're getting low on supplies. I was going to go tomorrow morning, but if you want to go."
"I've never been."
I stop moving and look at her. "What?"
London shrugs. "We had a housekeeper and I'm pretty sure she went."
"Okay, yeah, we're definitely popping your grocery store cherry then."
"Ew, that makes it sound gross."
"We can go when we're done with your hair, if you want." I finish getting the conditioner out, smoothing some of the tangles, and wrap her hair in a towel. "I can blow-dry it for you."
London sits up, holding the mass of her towel-covered hair, and looks at me, a hint of suspicion lining her brow. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"I'm not. I'm just trying to avoid hearing you complain for an hour." I wipe off the counter and grab the supplies, taking them back to the bathroom where they belong. "Come on," I call out to her.
Once I've put everything away, I plug the blow-dryer in and point to the counter for her to sit on.
London scoots on top and turns to face the mirror.
I brush through her hair carefully, not tugging too much on the tangles that appear, and not scraping her with the bristles when I get near her face. Each motion is slow and steady, my attention too focused on such a mundane task. It takes me at least ten minutes to fully blow-dry London's hair, our gazes meeting in the mirror from time to time. I go over it one last time and shut the thing off, twisting the cord around it and setting it under the sink.
"I was thinking about braiding it," she says, her fingers reaching for her red locks.
"I saw you trying to braid it a few days ago," I admit. "Can I try?"
"Sure." London lowers her arms and steadies a breath as she watches me in the mirror.
A strange pressure falls on my shoulders, a sort of performance anxiety I've never experienced in the past. I push the sensation aside and focus on my task, divvying her hair into three sections at the top and desperately trying to remember the instructions from the countless YouTube videos I scoured. After smoothing out the rest of the hair, I cross the sections, bringing hair into each one on the other side. I repeat the movement, adding hair and crossing it over, only getting hung up twice and having to backtrack. Once I'm at the bottom of her head, I finish the braid without adding any more hair, and hold it steady while I reach into the drawer for a hair tie.
Examining my creation, I doubt myself and come to terms with the fact that doing hair is not in my level of expertise. It's sort of bumpy, and some of the sections are bigger than the others, not to mention it's crooked.
"Let me start over," I say but London moves from my grasp, her hand gently skimming the hump of the braid.
"Holy shit, big boy. I didn't think you had it in you." She turns her head and checks it out in the mirror, pivoting and moving all about to get all the angles. "You braid better than me without a cast on."
I chuckle and rub at my neck. "You don't have to lie."
"I'm not lying," London tells me and hops off the counter. She approaches, right in front of me, and stands on her tiptoes, pressing her lips on my cheek. "Thank you."
I remain there a long moment after she's gone, unsure of what just happened.
We went from arguing, to hooking up, to the silent treatment, to her thanking me for doing her hair.
Just when I think I've gotten things figured out, she goes and throws me completely off.
London doesn't take much longer to get ready, which only continues to confuse me. In the little over a week I've known her, nothing she does is quick, and some things I'm not mad about…
I dismiss the thought of my lips on her pussy and watch her as she makes her way to the front door, the brown purse I bought her in her grasp. "Are you coming or not, big boy?"
"Right behind you." I follow her over, grabbing my keys off the table near the door. "Want to take the bike?"
She glares at me and it sends a strange satisfaction coursing through me. I'm not one for purposely antagonizing someone, but she dishes it enough to take it from time to time.
I make certain the lock is secure, checking it twice before continuing. My feet stop in their tracks when my sights land on Camille coming up the stairs. "Shit," I whisper, knowing damn well London has already spotted her.
"Arch, hey!" Camille says once she spots me. I wasn't sure how mad she'd be at me for what I did to Drew, but so far she doesn't seem bothered. Maybe he was too much of a coward to mention it.
"Hey, Cami." I awkwardly wave and catch London's questioning stare.
She darts right around me, extending her hand toward Camille. "Hi, Camille, I'm London."
Camille shoots me a glance and shakes London's hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Same to you," London continues. "Listen, I don't mean to be too forward, but I heard you're going to be subleasing your apartment. I'd love to be considered."
"Oh, you're in the market for a place?" Camille studies London from head to toe, probably trying to determine whether she can afford to live in this neighborhood.
"I am. I'm new to town. I'd love to stay around here." London clears her throat. "I'm sure Archer would vouch for me, right?" She turns toward me, her expression looking like a mix of "please help me" and "if you don’t, I'm going to kill you."
"Uh, yeah. Definitely," I lie. Even if London didn't drive me insane, she's a mess. I'd never willingly let her rent from me, especially if I wasn't there to pick up after her. London will destroy Camille's place in a week, two max. But right now, I'd rather keep that a secret because there's no way Camille is going to choose London over any of the other applicants who have no doubt a better renter’s history than her.
"Okay. Sure. I'll think about it. Maybe we could chat sometime. Are you free next Tuesday morning?" Camille says to London, no doubt just being polite since we're neighbors.
"Absolutely," London tells her enthusiastically. "Works for me."
"Great, just give me your number…" Camille opens her phone screen and hands it to London, who has to pull her own phone out and locate the digits.
"Sorry, new phone. I haven't memorized it yet."
Camille laughs. "I get that. Anyway, it was good meeting you. I'll text you Monday with a more specific time, my work schedule changes from day to day."
"Sounds good, see you later," London says.
I offer her a wave and she disappears behind the door of her apartment.
"I wouldn't hold your breath," I tell London and make my way toward the stairs. "I'm sure she's had dozens of applicants."
London stops in her tracks. "You act like Mister Big and Bad and have no sway over who she chooses? I would think you'd be thrilled about this. The sooner I find a place, the sooner I'm out of your hair. Not to mention it's the closest I can be without being inside your apartment, allowing you to keep your word to Silver until I get things figured out. Why don't you want this?" Her eyes widen. "You like me living with you, don't you?"
"No. I don't. What did you call it… unbearable ? Yeah, it's that." I leave her and head down the stairs, not wanting to continue this conversation.
"That's the only explanation there is. Either you want me to live with you, or it's something else, and until you tell me what it is, I'm going with the former." London follows me, her pace slower than mine, reminding me she's still injured, even if she pretends like she's fine.
"I don't want you to live with me, London. You're a disaster." I lead her to the front entrance of the complex and open the door for her, my gaze already scanning outside at what's going on.
"Ouch." London steps through, her head held high in her attempt not to feign hurt from my remark. But she and I both know it's true. "You're not fun to live with either, big boy."
"Yeah? How so?" I position myself between London and the street and walk beside her on our way to the corner store.
"The clean freak thing is a bit much. And heaven forbid anyone even blink in the direction of your precious computers." London talks with her hands and I fight the urge to shut her up the same way I have in the past.
"Please," I huff. "You're being dramatic."
"I am? Are you serious? Everything has to be in its specific place. It has to be tiring constantly arranging and rearranging things."
"I wouldn't have to if you put things back where they belong."
"It's not just that. Have you counted how many times you check the windows daily? You'd think there was a sniper out there you were watching out for."
"They're bulletproof," I let slip out.
"What?"
I sigh. "The windows, they're bulletproof."
London throws her hands up. "Of course they are. Is there anything you aren't prepared for?"
We reach the corner store, and I pause with my hand on the door handle. "I wasn't prepared for you." I open it a second later, and the store clerk greets me once we're inside.
"Archie!" the old woman says and rushes around the counter to wrap her arms around me. "My favorite customer. And who is this?" Her big round eyes get even bigger as she gawks at London. "A girl. He’s never brought a girl in here."
"Ruth, this is London. London, this is Ruth," I say to them.
"London." Ruth smiles a borderline toothless smile and shakes London's hand. "Oh, sweet angel, what happened to your arm?"
"I'm accident-prone," London tells her.
Ruth laughs and nods. "Me too, my girl, me too."
"I'm going to grab a basket," I tell them, disappearing for the nine seconds it takes me to walk to where Ruth keeps them. When I return, Ruth and London stop talking, both of their lips pinched together like they were already sharing secrets.
Another customer walks in, the doorbell ringing to signal to us. I eye him suspiciously and split my attention between him and them.
"What happened to your face?" Ruth asks me, her question coming as a surprise.
"What's wrong with my face?"
She motions to hers. "It's all bruised. Have you been fighting again? What have I told you, Archie…?"
"It was Seven," I cut her off without letting her continue her lecture. "No big deal. Brotherly thing, you know how it goes."
Ruth nods her head. "All too well." She turns to London. "I've got this sister I want to strangle at least once a week. When I tell you we?—"
The man who walked in a minute ago approaches the counter and Ruth stops her speech.
"Let me help him and I'll let you get your shopping done." She slips behind the counter and pushes a button on her register. "Is this all for you, honey?" she says to the man.
But there's something strange about his posture, the sweat forming on his brow, the anxious tapping of his foot.
Without another thought, I shove London into an aisle at the same time the man pulls out a gun and points it at Ruth. "Give me all your money and no one has to get hurt." He turns, shooting the gun into the air and waving it around.
"What the fuck was that?" London asks me, her face strained as we crouch down low together.
I press my finger to my lips. "Shh," I whisper.
She nods, and I wonder if she truly understands the gravity of the situation.
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I silently exhale and think through every possible scenario I can come up with, my one and only goal is to get London out of here safely. But each path leads me to the same outcome, and if I don't act quickly, there's no telling what additional variables could be added that I haven't considered.
"Stay here," I tell her. "Do not move. Do not come out until I come for you. Do you hear me?"
London blinks up at me through her lashes and stiffly nods again.
With another sobering breath, my heart beating evenly in my chest, a part of me I haven’t acknowledged in far too long comes alive. Like a switch flipping inside of me, I rise to my feet and turn toward the man threatening to ruin everything. I march out from behind the aisle, not even flinching when he catches sight of me and thrusts the gun in my direction.
I walk straight toward him, right into the line of fire, and before he can fully process how fucking insane I am, I grab his wrist, twist it, and disarm him. His mouth drops open, his eyes wide with disbelief as I turn his weapon on him, shoving it into his chest.
"Who the fuck sent you?" I say to him, my voice barely raised. My gaze flickers to Ruth just long enough to confirm she's unharmed, and focus on this ignorant asshole.
"Wh-what?" he blubbers.
I stare into his eyes, noting how his lip quivers and his hands shake at his sides.
"Get on your fucking knees," I tell him, the rage inside of me building with each passing second. I hate the familiarity of the feeling, and how much I welcome it despite hating it more than anything. I loathe how calm I am with a gun pressed in my palm and the barrel trained on another man.
"Puh-please," he begs as he drops down onto the ground. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You didn't mean to, yet you brought a weapon in here? In my fucking neighborhood? Do you not know who the fuck I am?"
He studies me carefully and the moment he realizes, he tears up. "I didn't know, I wouldn't have agreed."
"Agreed to what? To whom?" I push the gun into his chest.
"I—I can't. They'll kill me."
"Who will kill you?"
He pinches his lips together like he's afraid the secret will spill out.
I drag the gun up his neck and across his face and rest it on his forehead. "The only one you should be worried about right now is me."
A siren sounds in the distance but I pay it no attention other than registering it in my awareness. This man might be afraid of the police, but I'm not.
"I'm going to give you to the count of three," I tell him. "One…"
"Please, please, no."
"Two."
"I'm begging you, I don't know anything, I'd talk if I could."
"Three," I mutter as I pull the trigger, the sound deafening and the reverberation rippling up my forearm.
His body thuds against the floor of Ruth's shop, his blood splattered around and pooling on the linoleum.
"Sorry about the floor," I say to Ruth, who stands there on the other side of the counter.
"That's okay, Archie." She offers me an apologetic smile and steps around the side to take in the dead body bleeding out.
With the gun still in my hand, I return to the aisle I left London in, shock settling through me when she's still there. "Holy shit, you listened," I tell her as I round the corner.
She stands, her emerald gaze locked onto mine. "Did you just kill someone?" London marches right past me, stopping in her tracks when she locates the body.
"Uh," is all I respond, the realization that I murdered someone in front of her hitting me like a ton of bricks.
"What are we going to do about that?" London glances back at me, her face scanning mine for answers.
"It was self-defense," Ruth blurts out. "He was robbing the shop, Archie stepped in and took things into his own hands. He's a hero. That's my story and I'm sticking to it."
London's brows bunch and she brings her hand to her chest. "I wasn't blaming Archer." She meets my gaze again. "I wouldn't do that. You know that, right?"
Truth be told, I practically blacked out when the threat appeared, the old version of me stepping into my shoes and doing what needed to be done, but now that I've returned, I don't know what to expect from London. Sure, she's familiar with crime and danger, but maybe I just took things entirely too far. Just because I'm used to this life, doesn't mean she is, too.
"Archer," London murmurs.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and flick the screen to life, dialing a number I haven't dialed in a while. It rings twice before it connects, a thick voice on the other side.
"Officer Robinson."
"I need you to send a small team to Ruth's place on the corner. The usual guys, no one else."
A slight pause is followed by, "How many?"
"One," I tell him.
"I'll personally see to it."
"Thanks," I say before hanging up and looking over the gun in my hand, noting the serial number that was filed down on the side. I let out a breath and focus on Ruth. "Someone should be here soon to clean this up. Are you okay?"
"Of course, Archie, I'm fine. Are you okay?" Ruth reaches out toward London. "You okay, honey?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," London says, her voice strangely calm.
Maybe she's in shock. Maybe she's waiting for the opportunity to bolt out of here and never come back.
But instead, she opens her mouth again. "What about the groceries?"
"What?" I ask her, not quite following.
"We came here for stuff for the apartment."
"Right." I tuck the gun into my waistband.
"Take whatever you need," Ruth insists while grabbing another basket and shoving it toward me. "Did you make that tofu like I told you to?"
"Was that your recipe?" London asks her as her gaze shifts from me to Ruth.
Ruth smiles politely. "I take it you're the reason he's buying tofu?"
"Guilty," London admits, her cheeks reddening but only slightly. "It was great, by the way." London takes the basket, ignores the dead man on the floor, and chats to Ruth about tofu.
"Keep an eye on the door," Ruth tells me and turns her attention to London. "I have these new black bean burgers you might like. Here, let me show you." She guides London down an aisle, the distance between us tugging at me, itching me to move closer, to be there, just in case something happens again. I shouldn't feel this way, but having London around gives me a sense of purpose and I don't want to fuck up the one task I've been given.
Taking my phone from my pocket, I dial August's number and walk toward the door, eyeing everyone on the sidewalk as they pass.
"Arch, what's going on?" August says through the receiver.
"They sent someone to Ruth's shop."
"What are you talking about?"
"The bodega on the corner, the one in my fucking neighborhood. They sent someone to make it look like a robbery."
"Did you ever consider it was a robbery?"
"All things considered, I'm appalled you're being so dismissive."
August sighs. "Has the situation been handled?"
"Yes."
"Did you question the person?"
"He wasn't giving anything up." I recall the shock on the man's face as I pressed the gun into his temple. I ignore the part of me that missed having that control.
"I see." August clears his throat. "And you think it was the Manor brothers?"
"When I asked him who sent him, he said they'd kill him. Who else would it be if it wasn't us? I can't imagine Leo or Seven would send someone to shoot up my grocery store."
"I mean, I wouldn't put it past Seven…"
"We're brothers, we fight, we make up, that's what we do. This time was no different."
"What's the deal with the girl?"
"I didn't call you to talk about her."
"What do you want from me, Archer?"
"Nothing, August," I bite back. "I'm trying to make you aware, is all. Take it or leave it, but if we don't get a grip on this situation, who's to say they don't take over our territory? I should have known when I took a step back everything would fall to shit."
"Excuse me?" August cuts me off. "Nothing is falling to shit. Don't you dare disrespect what I'm doing here. You are the one who resigned from your position. You're the one who wants nothing to do with things. I won't tolerate this from you."
A familiar man in uniform struts down the sidewalk, a few men close behind him. "I've got to go," I tell him. "The cops are here."
"Good, handle the situation," August says before I hang up the phone and return it to my pocket. I open the door, the bell chiming, and hold it for the men to enter.
"Archer." Officer Robinson shakes my hand. "This is Officer Peterson, McKenna, and Charles. You want to walk us through things?"
I glance at each guy and tip my head toward the dead man. "Came in, tried to rob the place." I pull the gun out, holding it with my shirt and wiping my prints off it before handing it to Officer Robinson. "This is what he used. Serial number is wiped," I tell him when he turns it over and looks for one.
"You heard 'em." Robinson tucks the gun up under his biceps. "Let's get this cleaned up."
Officer Peterson locks the front door and stands guard while the rest of them go to work. I leave them to find London and Ruth, who are near the produce section.
I take the basket from London, the weight of it no doubt too much for her to carry in her condition. "Did you find what you needed?" I ask her.
"And some," she confirms. "Is everything okay?"
"Yep."
"Thank you, Archie." Ruth pats my arm. "You take good care of me."
"Speaking of which, can I talk to you?" I pull her aside and disregard the strange look from London. Lowering my voice, I say, "I'll give you ten grand to close up for an hour every Sunday so we can come in without any other customers."
Ruth shakes her head. "That's absurd, Archie, I won't let you do that."
"I'm insisting." I stare at her, wanting her to understand just how serious I am. If I have to bring London in here one more time, it sure as hell better be when no one else is in here. Why take the risk if it's not necessary?
"What time were you thinking?"
"Whatever time works for you," I tell her in my attempt to make this easier on her.
Ruth rubs her chin. "We do have a slow period between nine and ten in the morning."
"Works for us. I'll bring cash." My thoughts wander to the man I made a mess of. "I'll send some extra for cleanup."
"That's absurd and not needed. You really do take great care of me, Archie. It's the least I could do to repay you. This store wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be here, if it weren't for you."
"Don't mention it," I say, actually wishing she wouldn't.
"Take whatever you need. And if I can offer a little advice…" Ruth leans in close. "You should marry that one."
"What? No. We'd kill each other." London and I are nothing alike, and the only thing we manage to be consistent at is fighting with each other. Taking things further than we already have would result in nothing good for either of us.
Our relationship is fleeting, simply a means to an end, a favor where I'm trying to hold up my end of the bargain.
"Whatever you say." Ruth grins and winks at me, leaving me a moment later to attend to the cops who are bagging up the body in the front of her shop.
"You need anything else?" I ask London who is aimlessly scanning the tray of tomatoes like she's trying to busy herself.
She points her finger in the air like an idea has hit her and marches away."Bagels, we definitely need bagels." London latches onto a pack and tosses them into the basket. "Can we get supplies to bake cookies?"
"You know how to bake cookies?" I follow her into the wrong aisle, putting my hand on her lower back and guiding her in the right direction. A few minutes ago I thought she was going to bolt out of here, and now she's considering baking. I guess it just goes to show how little we know about each other.
"No. But I can follow directions." She holds out her hand. "Give me your phone."
"What? Why?" I stop in front of the baking section.
"To find a recipe, duh."
I narrow my gaze. "Where's your phone?"
"I left it at home."
Something about the way she says home cuts right through me. I swallow it down and snatch a bag of chocolate chips off the shelf, turning it over and giving it to her. "There's a recipe right there."
"Oh." London plucks the bag out of my hand and gathers the ingredients, one after another, filling the basket more and more.
We finish finding all the items and head to the front of the store where I insist Ruth checks us out and I pay for everything. With two stuffed brown bags, London and I leave the store, and the crime scene, and head back to our apartment.
I gravitate toward her, ready to throw myself over her in case anything happens, but remind myself I'm being irrational. The attempted robbery had nothing to do with London, and more so to do with me. If anything, London is in danger because of my presence in her life. If I were smart I'd put distance between us to keep her safe, but at the end of the day, making her someone else's problem doesn't seem like the best option.
"What made you want to bake?" I ask her, the words slipping out of my mouth surprising me.
London draws in a breath and releases it, her head facing forward on our walk back. "I had this maid once. She was my favorite. She baked a lot. And anytime anything bad happened, she'd make me something. We never talked about it, she never pried, but she'd leave a plate of cookies or muffins or a pie, you know, whatever she came up with, and would leave it in my room. I always knew that if something happened, I'd at least have that to look forward to…until I didn't."
"What happened to her?" I ask, knowing damn well I'm going to regret the question.
"My dad killed her," London says so nonchalantly like it's nothing out of the ordinary, like it's as plain as telling someone the time. She doesn't flinch, she doesn't show emotion, she simply keeps moving forward, one foot after the other, her head held high.
I find her confession both startling and comforting—the London I'm peeling the layers off of is nothing like the London I thought showed up on my doorstep two weeks ago.