19. London
Chapter 19
London
A rcher shot and killed a man three days ago and all I can think about is how fucking itchy the casts on my arm and leg are. I shove a wooden spoon between the fabric and my skin and attempt to dig at the spot on my arm but it's no use. I need them off and I need it now.
I pull out my phone and google how to cut a cast off, quickly realizing I'm going to need something called blunt-tipped shears. They're sort of inexpensive, but I don't want to use Archer's credit card to order them and I'm not sure if there's a store nearby that sells them. I locate a hardware store a few blocks away and wonder if Archer would throw a fit if I left, the answer no doubt being yes.
He gets pissy over everything. You'd think he cared about me by the way he grows so protective, but I'm well aware it's because of his obsessive-compulsive disorder and has nothing to do with me. He'd act this way toward anyone living in his house—I'm no exception.
"I'm going to meet Grace," I lie as I gather my bag and walk past him at the computer.
He stops typing immediately. "You never meet her at this time."
I shrug. "So?"
He swivels in his chair toward me. "You're acting suspicious."
"You are."
Archer crosses his tattooed arms and looks up at me. "What aren't you telling me?"
"What aren't you telling me?" I blurt out, the only thing I can think of in the moment.
"You're not leaving unless you tell me what you're doing." He glares. "The truth."
"I'm…uh, I'm going to look for a job."
Archer stares for a long moment and then laughs abruptly, the sound short and clipped and so fucking patronizing. "Right."
"What? You think I can't get a job?"
"With what skills?"
"I have skills."
"Do tell, the floor is all yours." He motions for me to continue.
"You're an asshole."
"That is my skill, not yours."
"Whatever," I huff. "I don't care if you don't believe in me, I do. I can get a job, watch." It's then that I realize I had no intention of going out and getting a job, but now that I've walked into the lie, I can't exactly deviate from my plan. And as much as it frustrates me to admit, Archer has a point—I don't have any useful skills. I refuse to tell him that, though.
"Okay," he says, his tone even and calculated. "Have fun with that."
"At least I don't sit around all day typing away on my computer. What kind of job is that?"
Archer's jaw tenses like I struck a nerve. He rises to his feet, his hand planted on his desk as he leans toward me. "An important one."
"Hardly," I respond with a bite to my tone. I don't know why he has me so fucking defensive about this, but I couldn't stop if I tried. The only thing I can think to do is prove him wrong. "I'm leaving."
Archer remains firmly in place when I walk away and storm to the door, only shooting him a final glance before I leave his apartment.
I release a breath on the other side and pull myself together. This is not the energy I need if I'm going to get a job. I'm only a few steps away from Archer's front door as someone jogs up the stairs.
"Hey," Camille says, her smile reaching all the way to her eyes. There's something so wholesome and genuine about her that sort of sets me on edge, and the more I take in her features, the more I see her brother, who Archer threatened on the street during our date.
"Hey," I reply. "I was just?—"
"Oh my God, I never texted you." Camille covers her mouth but drops it immediately. "I am so sorry. You have no idea how busy my schedule has been. I don't know each day from the next. I can't believe I forgot, actually, yeah I can, but seriously, I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me?"
"Of course," I tell her, the vague recollection of our agreed-upon coffee date resurfacing—her memory not much better than mine. "Don't sweat it."
"How can I make it up to you?" She peeks around me. "Are you busy now? Do you have a minute? We could go now, but I understand if you already have plans. No Archer today?" She barely takes a breath between each word.
"No, his grumpy ass is in there working."
Camille laughs. "Sounds about right. He never leaves that place."
"I'm free, though, if you want to grab a coffee now." Why not add one more thing to the to-do list that's piling up? Getting a job will make Archer mad, I might as well add securing an apartment, too.
"Yeah, let's go. You good with the place down the street?"
Camille and I make our way downstairs, having the most basic small talk the entire journey to the coffee shop. We cover the weather, a new restaurant in the neighborhood, and we even touch on sports. I mumble and nod along, my mind struggling to stay with her as it focuses on the other things I'm supposed to be doing.
“Tell me about you, London," Camille says while holding the door to the coffee shop open.
I force a smile. "Not much to tell. California transplant, just trying to get my footing here and start over."
"What about hobbies? What do you like to do for fun?"
I think about her question, and I hate how it feels so simple, that an answer should immediately pop into my head, but nothing comes to mind. "I like to read," I confess. "And bake." I'm not that good at the latter and yet there's still something so comforting about it that I enjoy.
"Oh, that's cool. I never was very good at baking, or cooking. I don't follow directions well." Camille shuffles into line behind an older man with silver hair. He orders a small black coffee, pays with cash, and is gone in less than a minute.
We place our orders and settle into a small table, my back to the patrons and unease creeping up my spine.
I shake it off and move to the spot closer to Camille. "Better spot to people watch," I partially lie.
"No doubt." Camille taps her chin. "This is what I like to do for fun. Make up stories about other people and try to imagine what their lives are like." She points to a man in line with a briefcase. "This guy. Public defender, twice divorced, only sees his kids every other weekend, struggles to get it up in bed."
I suppress a laugh and nod along. "Spot on." I scan the crowd, settling on a young duo at a table in the corner. "Those two, first date. She's trying to come up with an excuse to leave."
"One hundred percent."
A barista brings our drinks to our table and I fidget with the handle of the mug, not quite wanting to burn my mouth just yet but wanting to have a sip. "What do you do for work?"
"What don't I do?" Camille sighs. "I'm a personal assistant, which means I do grunt work twenty-four seven. It's not all bad, but it's unpredictable and a bit overwhelming at times. I love it, I do, but sometimes I forget what it's like to have a life."
"That sounds terrible, why do you do it?"
"It pays well."
I nod like I understand even though I've never worked a day in my life. I won't tell her that, though, because then she probably wouldn't lease me her apartment.
"I'm confused. You're a personal assistant but you're leaving town, that's why you're subleasing your place?"
"Right, yeah, that. The guy I work for has this acting gig, it's sort of a big deal. The project is contracted for a year, but it could be longer. Anyway, instead of hiring someone there, he offered to relocate me."
"Damn, he must like you." I test the temperature of my latte.
Camille shrugs. "Or doesn't want to have to train anyone else. Or doesn't think anyone will put up with his shit."
"That bad?"
"He is the most high-maintenance man I have ever met." Camille tucks her hair behind her ears. "I leave the first week of June and if I'm being honest, I haven't liked a single person I've interviewed."
"Oh?" I try not to come across as desperate, but I'd be lying if I said hearing that didn't make my entire body perk up. "How come?"
"I'm a vibe person, if that makes sense. And they were off."
"No, I get that," I tell her and motion to myself. "How are my vibes?"
"Not bad, actually." She laughs. "Doesn't hurt that I trust Archer's judgment, too. He's a good guy."
I want to pry, to ask more questions about him, but that would insinuate that I don't know him very well, and her understanding is that we're closer than strangers who got forced together a couple of weeks ago.
"He is, isn't he?" Archer isn't a terrible guy, that's for sure. Not considering the kind of men I'm typically accustomed to being around. And compared to my father, Archer is a fucking saint. A saint who happened to shoot a man in the head earlier this week, a man who is clearly hiding some big terrible secret that weighs him down to the point he's hiding out in his apartment and pushing away anyone who attempts to get close to him.
Who am I to judge him for what I have no idea about? Archer might be grumpy and get on my fucking nerves, but we both have a past that haunts us, and I find it strangely comforting that I feel like we have that in common despite everything else about us being so opposite.
"I met Archer a few years ago when he moved into the building. I was trying to drag a couch up the stairs. I can't tell you how many people walked around me without offering to help. It was like I was inconveniencing them, you know? Anyway, Archer, all big, bad, and scary he is, turned this couch sideways and carried it up himself. I was in fucking awe, I had no idea how he did it, but he did, and sure, maybe he did it so I would get out of his way and he could get to his place, but he didn't make me feel like a burden the way everyone else did. I could tell there was something sad about him, and I was no stranger to that either. Throughout the years, he's just always been there when I needed him. Even if it was something stupid, like borrowing a screwdriver, or opening up a jar. He's reliable, and he offers help without ever expecting anything in return."
Camille pauses and I study her getting lost in her train of thought. I have half a mind to ask if she has a thing for Archer, but I don't imagine that will help my chances of securing her apartment. Instead, I let her simmer in her daydream and wait for her to return.
She blinks and her eyes meet mine. "You two would make a cute couple."
Her statement catches me so off guard I nearly choke on my coffee. I wipe my mouth and nervously chuckle.
"He seems to like you," Camille says.
"I'd say like is a massive overstatement. Archer tolerates me."
"How long have you two been hooking up?"
I almost lose it again but maintain my composure. Camille is nothing if not direct and I sort of love it about her. There's no beating around the bush, no leaving any thought unsaid. "We aren't hooking up," I confess, although it's not entirely the truth.
Archer and I have fooled around, but it was in a heated moment of frustration. It didn't mean anything. Not to him. Not to me. If anything, it was a careless mistake that shouldn't happen again. It would only complicate an already complicated situation.
Camille's eyebrows raise ever so slightly. "Could have fooled me. The tension between you two is palpable."
I nervously sip my coffee and beg my mind to settle on anything other than the feeling of Archer's hands on my body, his mouth on mine, his fingers buried inside of me, hitting me in all the right spots like he has a secret blueprint of my body.
"Sorry, I'm being nosy." Camille puts her hands up. "That's your business. We're here to talk about the apartment. So, it's a two-bedroom, eighteen-hundred-square-foot space. You'd get access to the on-site gym and an assigned parking space downstairs. I'm fairly certain I'll be gone for two years but guaranteed for a year. It's four thousand a month, which is a steal because the other units rent for closer to ten grand. My dad pulled some strings, that's why I want to sublease it to keep the contract in place. Otherwise, it would bump up to the full price. Hmm, what else?"
I take in all the information, skipping over the parking garage where Archer explored my body, and get caught on the four thousand dollars a month. The old me wouldn't have even blinked an eye, but considering I'm down to a little over a thousand and I don't have any money coming in, the realization that I might be too broke to live on my own hits me. When have I ever given up that easily, though?
"It all sounds so amazing," I tell her.
She reaches across the table and places her hand on mine, giving it a gentle but firm squeeze. "I think we should do this, what do you say?"
My eyes light up, unable to conceal my excitement. "Are you serious?"
"One hundred percent." Her phone buzzes on the table and she glances down at it, her arm gliding across the table to swipe the screen open. "Go figure, I have to run. Duty calls." She stands without taking her eyes off her phone, rapidly typing something and practically slamming the send button. "We'll be in touch, okay?" She focuses on me, reaching out to give me a brisk hug.
"Of course. Thank you, Camille. I appreciate this more than you know. I promise you made the right decision."
"I feel good about it." Camille touches my shoulder before turning on her heel and bolting out of the coffee shop, leaving me and our coffees behind.
I settle back into the seat, the gravity of things pulling me down. On the one hand, this is great news—in a few short weeks I'll have a place of my own—but on the other, I have no idea how I'm going to pay for it.
Four thousand dollars a month is forty-eight thousand a year. I'll have to find something that brings that in at the very least, otherwise, I'll have no money to pay for anything else.
Resentment builds at having left everything behind because of my father. If I had access to any of my accounts, or hell, any of his, none of this would be a problem. I'd have the funds to cover rent for years and years to come.
The fact that I had to endure a lifetime of his wrath and ended up with nothing other than the scars is enough to make me want to bring him back from the dead just to inflict a little pain on him for a change.
But I wouldn't risk it, even if it were possible, because that man would claw his way into the living and make damn sure I was punished for his demise.
I study the customers that come and go, sipping the coffee Camille bought me. Workers move gracefully behind the counter, taking orders, fulfilling them, and communicating well despite the unpredictable rush that comes and goes. A bit farther away, a giant window gives us access to the kitchen area where a woman with tightly curled hair darts from one end to the other, a bowl in one hand and a measuring cup in the other. She stops in front of the counter, dumps the cup into the bowl, and frantically looks around, latching onto a wooden spoon near her, her expression softening but only subtly.
Leaving both mugs of coffee on the table, I move closer to the register, waiting in line patiently but keeping my sights on the glass. Once I'm at the front, the cashier smiles politely at me.
"Another vanilla latte?" she asks.
I point in the direction of the kitchen. "Does she need help?"
The cashier stares at me blankly. "What?"
"The woman in the kitchen. Does she need help?"
"Oh." She glances over her shoulder at the lady darting around the kitchen. "Actually, yeah, probably. Do you have baking experience?"
"Yes," I blurt out without giving it any thought. I've baked before, that counts as experience, right?
"Sasha, take over for a second," the cashier tells another worker. "Come here," she says to me.
I follow her over and she taps on the door before opening it. "Andrea, do you have a minute?"
The woman stops in her tracks, flour on her face and her hair bouncing on her brow. She blows it out of the way. "Not really. What's up?"
"London was inquiring about a job."
Andrea gives me that same blank look that the cashier had just moments prior. "Seriously?"
"I'm sorry," I speak up. "I saw you through the window. You looked like you needed help."
"Can you follow directions?" Andrea asks me from her spot still standing there.
"As long as a man isn't the one giving them."
Andrea cracks a smile. "Men don't do directions."
"Then I don't see the problem."
She slides her gaze to the casts on my body.
"Don't worry, I can keep up," I reassure.
"How much longer until they're off?"
"Hopefully only a few more days." The whole point of today was to leave and find something sharp enough to cut them off, and here I am, committed to an apartment and trying to get a job.
"When can you start?"
"Immediately," I tell her.
"The pay is twenty-two an hour. The hours are shit.Wash your hands and come on."
The cashier gently taps my back and says, "Good luck," before returning to her post near the register.
I stifle the smile that creeps across my face and comply, going over to the sink to wash my hands.
Getting a job and an apartment in one fell swoop is pretty awesome, but it will be nothing compared to the satisfaction of proving Archer wrong.