21. London
Chapter 21
London
I rush over to the door, my legs somehow easier and harder to walk on now without the cast. It's strange that I only wore it for a short period, but it seems like I lost some permanent piece of me.
Archer walks past me, putting himself between me and the door. He hits the buzzer and gives the takeout guy access to the building. "Go sit down, I've got it," he tells me with that do it or else look on his face.
I roll my eyes and return to the kitchen, topping off our tequila and taking a long swig of the water so Archer doesn't give me shit about it. My entire body is warm with the alcohol, and for the first time in a long while, my head and shoulders feel lighter.
A minute passes before Archer comes over with a large brown sack in his hands. He sets it on the counter and carefully rips open the bag, taking one thing after the other out and setting it on the counter.
"How much stuff did you order?"
"Does that count as a question?" Archer glances up at me through his thick lashes and goes back to work pulling everything out. He strolls over, grabbing two plates, setting one in front of me, and shoving a stack of napkins between us.
"Thanks for the food," I tell him, digging into the box of lo mein.
"No problem." Archer dumps some noodles onto his plate and pops a giant piece of broccoli in his mouth.
"And for the place to stay," I add.
He shoots me a glance. "You're welcome?"
"What?" I shove his shoulder playfully.
"You're being nice," Archer says. "Must be the tequila."
"Oh, whatever."
We eat our food in silence for a little while, the only sound other than our chewing is the faint music that Archer put on playing in the background.
I bite the end of an egg roll and pivot the stool toward Archer. "What's your favorite color?"
Archer finishes swallowing the food in his mouth and pats his mouth with his napkin. "I didn't realize we were going to get so personal with our questions."
"Oh, come on."
His gaze meets mine, something so intense in the way he's looking at me. "Green." Without taking his eyes off me, he reaches for his glass of tequila. "This is because I'm thirsty."
I smirk at him. "You sure do loosen up when you've been drinking."
"The more I drink, the less there is for you." Archer sets the cup down. "I think it's my turn."
"Ask away, big boy."
He leans a little closer, his tattooed arm resting on the counter. "Did you mean it when you said I was a bad kisser?"
My cheeks redden and there's nothing I can do to conceal the heat flushing my entire body. I consider my options, opting to take my glass of tequila and down it.
Archer doesn't even try to hide the grin on his face. "Thought so."
"You're the worst," I tell him, despite us both knowing I'm lying.
"Okay."
I go right into the next question. "What's your favorite tattoo?"
Archer lifts his shirt, exposing his ink-stained skin, and points to a lock that's just over his heart.
"Where's the key?" I ask him, the limit to my questions seemingly endless tonight. I'm not sure where this game begins or ends anymore, and the insatiable hunger to learn more about this mysterious man only continues to grow.
Archer drinks, not wanting to give me the answer to my question. Or maybe because there is no key to his heart, it was lost somewhere along the way when the woman he was in love with died.
"We've covered relationships, parents, siblings…what else is there?"
"Politics and religion?" I suggest sarcastically.
Archer chuckles. "I'd rather drink."
I grab onto my glass and raise it in the air between us. "You and me both." I tip it back, swallowing the liquid for no reason other than wanting to keep this buzz going. This is the first time in a while I haven't felt so heavy and I want nothing more than for it to last, even if it means the uncertainty of whether I'll have a hangover tomorrow or not.
"It's kind of terrifying, really," Archer says.
"What?"
"How you can talk about something so traumatic and then immediately pretend like everything is fine."
"Who said I was pretending?" I eat more of the egg roll and hope Archer doesn't see right through me.
"We might not know each other well, London, but I know you better than you think."
I swallow the bite in my mouth. "What do you want me to do? Break down and cry because something bad happened to me? If I did that every time, I'd never stop crying. You think I'm annoying now, imagine me crying twenty-four seven."
"You're allowed to process your emotions."
"Says the grumpy guy who hides away in here by himself."
"I'm not by myself."
"You were until I got here. And I guarantee you still would be if I hadn't. Admit it, as much as you hate this, it isn't all bad."
"I didn't say I hated it," Archer deflects.
"You didn't need to. Pretty sure you telling your sister how terrible I am was enough."
"She thought we were hooking up. I had to make her understand it wasn't like that."
"Uh-huh."
"What do you want from me, London? An apology?" Archer pauses. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I said that shit to Ivy."
"I think you're just sorry I heard it."
Archer rubs his temple and glides his hand through his hair, some of it spilling onto his forehead. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"I know," I say with a smile and continue eating my egg roll. "Can you add me as a beneficiary before you die? I missed out on any inheritance."
Archer laughs and for once it's genuine.
"You think I'm funny."
"Yeah, sure. That's it."
"How much will I get?" I ask him. "Couple hundred grand?" I scratch my chin. "What's Archer worth?"
"A few bil, probably."
I almost choke on my saliva. "I'm sorry, what? Did you say million?"
"Billion, with a B, baby." Archer winks at me and shoves a forkful of noodles into his mouth, the alcohol no doubt lowering his filter enough to admit he's filthy rich.
My phone buzzes and I flip it over to see a text from Grace.
Grace:Hey. Next Friday. You busy?
I thumb back a quick response.
Not sure, what's up?
Grace: Clear your schedule. Double date.
Wait, what? With who??
I ignore the way Archer watches me on my phone, his stare unsettling me more than telling him about my father murdering my mother.
Grace:Me and Leo. You and one of his friends.
"What's wrong?" Archer asks me.
"Oh, nothing. Grace wants to get together next week." I leave out the part that it's a date, because if I have learned anything about Archer, it's that he is too much of a control freak to let it go. He's made it clear he isn't interested in me in that way, so what's the harm of going out with someone who might be?
"She seems nice, I like her," Archer admits.
"Well, if you want to date her, you better get in line behind two of your other brothers," I tease him.
"I don't want to date Grace. I'm allowed to like someone without liking them."
"Are you mansplaining male and female friendships?"
Archer takes in a deep breath and I almost smile at how easy it is to frustrate him. "London."
"Archer," I mock. "Wait, let's go back to you being a billionaire. That was a joke, right?" I sip some of my tequila, noting how it goes down smoother than before, the telltale sign that I'm drunker than I realize.
"Do you want to see my bank accounts?" Archer drinks his tequila and for the first time all night, refills his glass. He keeps the bottle near him like he's hoarding it all for himself. He and Seven might not be blood-related but they sure are selfish with their liquor.
"I believe you," I say, despite being dangerously curious about Archer's financials. "How is that possible, though? What do you do?"
Archer shrugs. "This and that."
"Drink." I point to his glass. "If you're not going to tell me, you have to drink. That's the rules, remember." I laugh for no real reason, my face all hot and warm and smiley.
"God damn, you're pretty when you smile," Archer says, his glassy eyes meeting mine.
"So I'm ugly when I'm not?"
Archer frowns. "You know what I mean." He hops up from his chair and holds his hand out to me. "Let's dance."
"Wow, you really are drunk, aren't you?"
He sucks down more tequila and almost drops his glass getting it back on the counter. "I'm buzzed. Let me live."
I take in the mess he left behind on the counter, knowing damn well he's going to hate himself for that tomorrow. But that Archer can deal with it because right now, this Archer wants to dance with me.
Sliding my hand into his, he surprises me by twirling me to his chest, my body hitting his with a thud.
"Sorry, was that too aggressive?" Archer's words blend together slightly, the alcohol numbing his otherwise sharp, calculated tone.
"Not at all," I reassure him.
He moves me to the soft beat of the music playing in the background, a piano with a delicate melody. Our bodies fall into rhythm with ease, him leading me around his living room.
Archer twirls me around, dips me backward, and holds me close, our heartbeats in sync, our breaths mingling. I sort of wish there was a way to freeze this moment in time because as beautiful as it is, it won't last.
"Where did you learn how to dance?" I ask him, regretting it the second it's out of my mouth.
I feel the shift in his energy a millisecond before I see it slip across his face.
Archer slows down, his hands loosening their grip.
I try to hold him to me but I feel him slipping away. I want him to stay. I want to keep him close. I don't want to lose this momentary bliss where everything and nothing is right all at once.
"I shouldn't have asked," I say, hoping it will fix my mistake. My head swims with booze and desire and the things I want to tell him. That I understand. That I'm sorry. That he's not alone in his sadness.
"It's my fault," he declares. "It's my fault she died."
"What? No. I'm sure it wasn't. Don't blame yourself."
Archer releases me completely, his hands in the space between us. "I can't keep you safe. I can't keep anyone safe."
"That's not true." I reach out and place my hand on his shoulder. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"She didn't want anything to do with the life. I should have listened to her. If I would have listened to her, she'd still be alive." Archer's breath hitches.
"Here, sit down." I guide him to the couch, grateful that he complies and sits down. As much as I give him shit and tease him, there's no way I could force him to do anything he didn't want to. Archer is tall, and strong—he could crush me without breaking a sweat.
Archer leans back and runs both of his hands through his hair. "I hate this. I hate feeling this way. I hate saying any of this out loud. Fuck. I shouldn't have drank. I'm sorry."
I face him and pull my legs up onto the couch. "Hey, don't apologize. Sounds like you needed this. Maybe you need to get it out. Vent a little."
Archer shakes his head. "I'm good now. I've reeled it back in."
"You don't have to, Archer. Talk to me. Tell me about her."
"Can't I just drink instead?" He turns his head toward me.
"We're not playing a game anymore," I tell him while placing my hand on his shoulder. "This is real."
"I hate thinking about it," he says. "It hurts."
"Sometimes the things we love most in life hurt us. That doesn't make it any less special, any less worth it. As painful as it is, not everything lasts. It's a fucked-up reality, but it's true."
"I can't do it again."
I pinch my brows. "What do you mean?"
"This. Us. I can't risk losing you. That's why I panic every time I don't know what's going on. It's like it's happening all over again." Archer shakes his head. "Why Silver would do this to me, I don't understand."
"Hey, you're not going to lose me. The situation is handled. It's fine. Joe has no idea where I am. He thinks I'm dead. You have nothing to worry about. Unless someone found out I was alive and explicitly told him, he's never going to find out. And the only other person who would want me dead is already dead. The threat is nonexistent. You have nothing to worry about." I'm not even lying. Silver did a good job cutting the loose ties and making sure my escape was clean. Other than my father, there wasn't anyone else who was aware of the business deal, and if I were Joe, I wouldn't be publicizing that he made such a deal with a dead man. All my father's assets were seized by the Feds, so there isn't even anything Joe can do to get his money back.
If Joe was going to find me, he would already be causing chaos.
Unless he's licking his wounds until the opportune time. The thought sends a chill up my spine, but I ignore it because calming Archer down is more important than anything else at the moment.
Archer sits up and riffles through some of the books on the coffee table in front of us, flicking the pages until he finds what he's looking for. He slides out a photograph, holding it in his hand while cupping his chin with his other one.
I lean closer, taking in the picture, my eyes settling on Archer, a different version of him, a happier one. He seems lighter, and freer. And then next to him, a face that haunts me to this day.
I blink a few times, trying to make sense of what I'm staring at, but the image doesn't clear.
Same eyes. Same hair. Same nose. Same everything.
My chest tightens, and I go from being buzzed to completely sober in a split second.
Flashes of a fight come into my mind. Screaming. Begging. Pleading. Gunshots. My father. His wrath. His bloody loafers and his vile breath.
I wanted to save her, to save myself, but I couldn’t.
I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for the girl in the photo.
The same girl I almost died trying to save, the reason I have a jagged scar across my stomach. The same girl that died at the hands of my father.
Archer isn't the reason why Madison is dead, I am.