20. Archer
Chapter 20
Archer
E ven though it’s been a few days, I still can’t believe that London was only gone less than an hour and she managed to land a job.
How?
I fought the urge to prevent it from happening and decided to go along with it. The whole point is for London to get back on her feet so she can move out, and yet I can't help but feel resistance.
The job isn't far, and their security is lax enough that I can easily gain access to various feeds throughout their building. If she was going to get a gig anywhere, this would be the most ideal. She doesn't have to take a bus, taxi, or train, and if something happens, I could be there in two minutes flat.
I finish my daily scan of what Joe Vito is up to, and conclude that he doesn't seem that interested in locating her. Maybe Silver overestimated the threat or did a good enough job of making her disappear that he doesn't even know where to look. Either way, it's made my task of keeping her safe that much easier.
Perhaps I should accept the independence she's gaining because it's putting her one step closer to getting out of my hair.
I thought London having a job was going to be painful, but so far, nothing bad has happened. That doesn't mean I haven't been watching her intensely every moment she's been gone. It's distracting. My work is suffering. And if I don't get my head out of my ass soon, I might make a costly mistake I cannot risk. I'm getting things done, but mainly when she's fast asleep in my bedroom, and I can guarantee she's safe and sound.
My investigation of the man who tried to rob Ruth's place was unsuccessful—one dead end after another. I'm not convinced it didn't have something to do with the Manor brothers but I haven't found anything to give me irrefutable proof yet. And without that, none of my own brothers will take me seriously. They call me paranoid and tell me I'm overreacting, and honestly, I'm kind of starting to believe them.
I didn't used to be like this. I was always pretty thorough and collected, but this Archer second-guesses and triple-checks everything. There are things I miss about the old me despite it being better that he stay buried in the past.
London slams the front door shut, jarring my attention from the computer I'm mindlessly typing code on. I've been trying to hack into security footage at a high-end gentleman's club on the West Coast for the past hour to no avail. I'm getting sloppy and it shows.
She doesn't bother looking in my direction, which is a dead giveaway that something is up. London continues into my bedroom, her purse clutched to her chest. She doesn't visibly seem injured, but her body language tells me this isn't her normal behavior.
This is what I get for not watching her every second she's gone. I thought having her feed in the background and paying attention every so often would be enough. Yet here I am, clueless about what's going on because I was focused on anything other than her for a change.
London slips out of my room and darts straight into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
I make my way over there in a rush, tapping on the door. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she calls back without hesitation.
"Why are you being weird?"
"Why are you?" she responds. "Maybe I have to poop, leave me alone."
"Are you sick?" I ask her.
"I'm fine, Archer. Leave me alone." Her tone is clipped and pointed but it does nothing to settle my unease.
I remain there, one arm on the doorframe and wait for something, anything.
"I know you're still out there," she says through the door. "Go away."
Breathing through my nose, I attempt to calm my nerves and not break this door down right now. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on, London."
She grunts. "You are so annoying, you know that, right?" Muffled sounds come through. "Just give me a few minutes and I'll be out."
I keep my arm on the doorframe and consider how hard I'll have to kick to open the door. Only, if I'm not careful, London could be in the crossfire and that would make things worse than they already are. I don't want to hurt her, I just want to know what the fuck she's hiding from me.
An entire minute passes and my nerves have done nothing but grow wilder. "London, I'm giving you to the count of three and I'm busting the door down." I hate myself for being this way. "One…" I pause and give her a chance. "Two…"
"Jesus, Archer," London huffs. "Hold on." She unlocks the door and turns the handle, opening it slightly.
I peer at her, inside the bathroom, and back at her. "What are you doing?"
"Why does it matter?"
"It matters," I all but growl. "Let me in."
"You're being a psycho." London keeps the door barely ajar, hiding herself behind it.
"And you're being secretive. Did something happen? Did someone hurt you? Tell me and I'll make it right."
London narrows her gaze. "Are you listening to yourself right now?"
"Step away from the door." As forcefully as I can without shoving her out of the way, I push the door and step into the confined space, my sights scanning the room and searching for answers.
"You can't just barge in here and…"
That's when I locate the bag on the counter from a local hardware store and the thing sitting on top of it. I snatch it off the counter, turning it over in my hand and trying to make sense of what I'm looking at.
London hugs her arm to her chest and it finally clicks what's going on here.
"Let me see it." I hold out my hand and she reluctantly puts her casted arm into my palm, the edge of the cast snipped from the blunt-edged scissors she attempted to smuggle in here. A million thoughts run through my mind, like how could she be so stupid? Why wouldn't she go to a doctor? Why not ask me for help, or at the very least, someone else? She's going to hurt herself if she's not careful.
"I don't want a lecture, Archer," London says. "So if you're going to give me one, you can get the hell out."
"I'm not going to lecture you," I tell her even though I really fucking want to. Chewing at the corner of my lip I realize the only path forward is to play nice. "Let me help you."
"I don't need your help," she snaps at me and pulls her arm away. "I was doing fine without you."
I ignore the strange sensation cutting through me at her jab and continue. "It's not an option. I either help you or you can get out." So much for playing nice.
"You wouldn't." London glares at me and I match her intensity, stepping toward her.
"I would." I put my hands on London's waist and hoist her onto the counter without giving her a chance to protest. "Now sit here and shut up."
Surprisingly, London doesn't disagree, and even puts her arm on her lap instead of hugging it to her chest.
"Good girl," I tell her and line the scissors along the edge of the cast. It doesn't take me long to carefully cut through the cast, pausing once I reach the end. "Are you in any pain?"
London swallows harshly. "No."
"I'm going to pry it apart," I tell her and hope like hell enough time has passed for her arm to be healed. If it were up to me, London would be in a doctor's office having this done, but I'd be a fool if I thought she would wait to let that happen. Once London makes her mind up about something, she stubbornly won't let it go.
"Okay." London keeps her eyes on her arm as I grip her cast gently, but firmly, and pull at the sides.
The cast cracks and gives way, revealing her frail arm underneath.
London loosens a sigh and brings her other hand over to caress the no doubt tender skin.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask her.
She nods rapidly. "I'm great." London extends her fingers and contracts them, turning her wrist over and bringing it toward her. "I feel like I just lost twenty pounds."
"You should probably take it easy with that thing for a while. Maybe get it checked out."
"Can you not ruin this moment for me?" London pushes my chest to move me away before hopping off the counter and unbuttoning her pants.
"What are you doing?" I blurt out.
"Uh, taking my pants off so you can cut the other one off."
"Right. Yeah." My chest constricts as London slides her jeans over her ass, revealing a pair of dainty lace panties, similar to the ones I fucked her with and ended up stealing.
"Put your tongue back into your mouth, big boy." London smirks and steps out of her pants completely, leaving her in just her fitted top and panties.
Maybe it's a good thing she didn't go to some random doctor to have this done.
I do my best not to eye her too much and focus on the cast attached to her leg. I'm not always a gentleman, but for her I'll try.
London inches toward the counter, pressing her hands to the sides to lift herself. I get there first, my palms gripping her waist and putting her back up there before she can hurt herself.
"You shouldn't apply pressure to that arm this soon," I tell her like I'm trying to come up with an excuse for why I'm touching her.
"Whatever," she responds and repositions herself.
Kneeling in front of her, I start at her foot, holding her leg steady with one hand and using the other to run the scissors up her cast. The material is easier to cut through than I expect, and it takes no time to make my way to the other side.
"Are you ready?" I ask her once I've cut the length of the cast.
She nods stiffly.
Repeating the same movement as her arm, I pry the sides of the cast open until it pops and reveals her leg.
"Gross," London says immediately. "It's so hairy."
"I think that's normal," I tell her.
"Normal and gross. I'm so ugly now."
My jaw tenses. "Don't say that about yourself."
London rolls her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, I'm joking." She wiggles her toes and rolls her ankle to get a feel for her newfound freedom.
"Are you in any pain?"
"Not at all."
I hate that I can't tell whether she's lying or not. London could be actively bleeding to death and I'm not sure anyone would notice. She might be annoying as hell at times but she refuses to let on that anything ever bothers her. It's a quality I respect and know all too well.
Rising to my feet, I help guide London off the counter and onto the floor, gently setting her down to get her footing. "You sure you're okay?" I study her so intensely that I accidentally spot a freckle I've never seen on her cheek.
"Stop looking at me like that," she says, her green eyes meeting mine.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm about to fall apart. We've been over this before, Archer."
"How do you want me to look at you?"
I stare into her unwavering gaze and hate the desire that overwhelms me. I shouldn't want her the way I do and yet nothing could compare to how badly I want to grab her face and kiss her. She infuriates me—why can't that be all that it is?
A smirk forms on her face like she can hear my fucking thoughts, making me break eye contact first. I release a breath and busy myself with picking up the discarded pieces of her cast, piling them in my arms and doing what I can to put anything between us.
"We should have a drink," London suggests. "To celebrate."
"Okay," I say while leaving the room so she can put her pants on or do whatever it is she needs to do. But once I'm at the trash can, I find myself unable to throw the casts away. They serve no purpose, they have no use, why can't I just toss them?
"You have no idea how much better I feel," London says while coming into the kitchen.
I drop the pile behind the trash and shut the pantry door. "I bet," I tell her and avoid eye contact as I make my way over to the cabinet where I keep my liquor. "What kind of drink did you want?" I open the door and scan the options. Tequila, vodka, whiskey, and rum are at the front, concealing pretty much everything else needed to make just about any mixed drink. Even a few bottles of wine I had picked up here and there and tucked in along the side. I glance over my shoulder. "Or did you want to go out for a drink?"
"Staying in is fine." London settles on a stool at the island. "Let's start with tequila."
I grab the bottle, put a few ice cubes into two small glasses, and make my way over to her.
She takes them from me, pouring some of the liquid into both, more in one than the other. She pushes the fuller one toward me.
"Trying to get me drunk?" I ask her and take it anyway.
"Maybe." London raises her glass. "To starting over."
"I can cheers to that." I clink my glass against hers and we down the tequila, the warmth of it flowing down my chest.
"We should play a drinking game," London says.
I lick the remains of the tequila off my lips. "That sounds dangerous."
"Are you afraid?" London refills our drinks, making sure to fill mine a bit higher.
"No. Are you?"
"I'm the one who suggested it." London crosses her legs and teeters a bit like she isn't quite used to not having that bulky cast off yet.
"What are the rules?"
"Truth or drink," she says. "A question is asked. You can either answer it or drink."
"What happened to dare?"
"That usually follows." She winks at me and it's everything I can do not to react. "So what do you say, will you play with me?"
I down the tequila in my cup and wipe my mouth. "Why not?"
London smiles and I hate the way it warms my chest more than the tequila. How is it possible to both not be able to stand someone and want them at the same time?
"But," I interject. "We need sustenance. What do you want to eat?"
"What do you think I want to eat?"
I stare at her for a long moment. "Do you think I can read your mind?"
"Can you?"
"You want lo mein and veggie egg rolls."
Her smile widens. "See, you can!"
I shake my head, pull out my phone, and place an order for entirely too much food, but when drinking is involved, it's better safe than sorry. Once I'm finished, I get us both large glasses of water and slide onto a chair at the island, one between us.
"You are so boring," London says while taking a sip of her water.
"You'll thank me tomorrow when your head isn't violently pounding."
"Who said my head isn't always violently pounding?" London turns toward me. "Okay, I'll go first. Hmm. Oh, I've got it. Why are you so grumpy?"
I scowl. "I'm not grumpy."
"Do you want me to get a mirror out for you, big boy? I mean, the wrinkles between your brows. You're going to need Botox if you keep that up."
I do what I can to relax my face.
"Were you always this uptight?" London persists.
"That was two questions," I inform her. "Were you always this nosey?"
London shrugs. "Yeah, probably." She pauses and adds, "See how easy that was?"
"What?"
"To answer a question."
"Oh." I twirl the glass of tequila before putting it to my lips and downing it in one swallow. "There. Now it's my turn." But the moment the opportunity presents itself, I realize I have no idea what I want to ask her. Sure, there are a million burning questions, but none of them are appropriate. Like who she really is, and what actually brought her here? How did she get involved with Joe Vito, and what is her connection to Silver?
"I'm waiting, big boy." London leans against the counter and keeps her eyes glued to me.
"I…I pass."
London sighs. "You're so boring."
"Thanks."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I have a question," I admit. "Why are you always trying to pick a fight?"
London blinks a few times like she's taken aback. "I do not."
"You're lying and you know it."
"Fine," London huffs. "I mean, it's not necessarily on purpose, but you're fun to mess with. You get flustered easily." She fidgets with her glass. "You're going to have to ask me harder questions, otherwise I'm never going to drink."
"Maybe I'm not trying to getyoudrunk."
She shifts right into her next train of thought. "What was your longest relationship?"
I have half a mind to drink the tequila she pours into my glass, almost as if she's expecting me not to answer, but realize I have nothing to lose by giving her this information. "Six years."
"Damn. I don't know what's more surprising, the fact that you answered or that you were in a relationship for six years."
I force a laugh. "Yeah."
"What happened? Did she break up with you?"
My gaze lowers and the memory of what happened comes rushing in. I open my mouth, unsure why I'm admitting the truth right now when I've done everything I can to bury it for the past few years. "She died."
London's lips part, her expression softening and her hand reaching forward to rest on mine. "I'm so sorry, I never would have asked if I knew."
I pull my hand away, the reaction so quick and aggressive. "It's fine. You didn't know. It was in the past, anyway."
"Still, Archer, I'm sorry." My name on her tongue and the tequila coursing through me almost numbs the loss.
"What about you?" I ask her, both to deflect the pitiful look on her face and to derail this from being all about me. "What was your longest relationship?"
"Six months."
"What happened?" I ask, unsure if follow-up questions are part of the rules.
London stays quiet for a long moment before drinking the tequila in her glass. Her face pinches slightly and she licks her lips. "Good job, you made me drink."
"That bad, huh?"
"Yep," she says while pouring herself more tequila. "Let's talk families. Tell me about your parents."
"Never knew them," I admit easier than I expected.
"Wait, what's the age gap between the twins and August? How did you not know them?"
"That's a lot of questions, little tornado."
"Help me make it make sense," London pleads.
"We're not blood-related," I confess. "Well, Ivy and Seven are. They are twins. But the rest of us, there's no blood relation."
"But you call each other brother and sister."
I run my hand through my hair, unsure of how much of this I want to share with her. Any other time, I'd clam up and not say a word, but the back-to-back shots have my inhibitions and my lips feeling a bit loose. "We grew up in foster care together. We bounced from house to house but would always end up back together in the group home. We were the only constants in each other's lives, and after a while, we started looking out for one another. I guess a sort of unspoken bond formed, and it turned into something stronger than a blood connection. We made a pact to be there for each other and the rest is history."
"Interesting," is all London responds and I hate that I can't read her mind to fully grasp what she's thinking about my admission.
I grow uncomfortable in my skin at having told her all that information and shift in my seat. "What about you? Tell me about your parents."
"They're both dead."
It's not that I expected that to be her answer, but I don't find myself at all surprised. I guess neither one of us is a stranger to losing someone.
"What happened?" I ask even though I know damn well it isn't my place to. It must be the alcohol talking at this point.
"My father killed my mother when I was three years old."
My mouth goes dry and I'm not sure what to do with my hands other than reach out and place them around London's, cupping them in a way that begs for her to understand that I'm here.
She stares blankly, her eyes shifting back and forth, lost in a memory. "Most people, when something traumatic happens to them, their mind blocks it out, files it away as it tries to protect itself. Me? I remember everything bad that's ever happened. Starting with that day."
"You don't have to?—"
"There was blood everywhere," she whispers. "I walked right in it. It was warm and sticky and I remember being so confused, and so worried, because my dad hated messes. I was three and knew that. Knew that he would be so furious when he found it. I grabbed a rag, followed the trail of red, and thought if I could find the source, maybe I could stop it from getting worse.
"It wasn't until I stumbled over her lifeless leg that I realized she was where it came from." London blinks stiffly. "Her eyes were open, her mouth parted. She wasn't moving and I couldn't understand why. I put my arms around her, hugged her, and laid there for I don't know how long, thinking maybe if I stayed with her, it would fix things. Shortly after, that's when the maid found me, covered in my mother's blood from head to toe. She had to pry me from my dead mother."
The buzzer to the apartment dings, loud and intrusive.
London seems to snap out of her trance and hops from the stool. "Food’s here."