Chapter Two Archer
Chapter Two
Archer
It shouldn’t be hard to control which version of yourself you show to people.
Be nice. Be friendly. Smile and say something kind. That’s what most people do, right?
Not me. Not the son of Alexander Evans.
He’d yanked those instincts out, root and stem, by the time I hit high school.
But for how much he’d molded me into something aloof and arrogant, someone who knew exactly which armor to wear in any given situation, the place where I was most comfortable controlling my reactions was with him.
To piss him off, I simply had to talk back.
By the age of ten, I’d learned that the quickest way to keep my dad happy was to stay completely silent.
When perfection was the expectation, and that expectation was broken, it didn’t take long for his words to increase both in volume and frequency.
As one of the most successful defense attorneys in the state of New York, he was exceptionally good at both.
The man loved hearing his own voice. A captive audience was his drug.
Keeping quiet might’ve seemed like weakness, but it wasn’t. It was strategy.
We strode out of the courthouse, and I fought the urge to tip my face down, allow the brim of my hat to block my face when I spotted paparazzi across the street. My father didn’t hide. He merely raised his chin—arrogant as ever—and made sure they got his best angle.
So I did the same thing.
As much as I hated it, I was his mirror image. The same jawline, the same nose, the same height and broad shoulders. I simply used my size in a different way than he did. His intimidation happened in a courtroom, mine on a football field.
He tugged at the wrist of his navy Armani suit, adjusting the sleeve before we crossed the street into the parking lot. “At least I’m dressed appropriately if they’re going to put this to print,” he said on an annoyed sniff. “You’re in streetwear.”
It was said with so much disdain that I almost laughed. Any sign of humor would probably send him into apoplexy, so I merely let out a quiet breath and kept stride with him.
I’d come from the weight room, so yes, I was in black joggers and a white Buffalo T-shirt, a black Buffalo hat covering my head.
His Range Roger was parked next to my truck—not just newer, but shinier too. Every morning, the car was washed and buffed to a gleaming finish. Not by him, of course. He’d never take the time.
Dirt from the road leading to my newly built home always seemed to cling to the lower half of my truck, and that was what my father was currently eyeing with distaste as he slowed his steps.
“I’ll tell Mike to wash your car the next time you come over for dinner,” he said.
The presumption that I’d want him to loosened my tongue. “It’ll just get dirty again when I drive home.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the exact same shade of blue as mine. I hated how much we looked alike.
“I’m happy to learn that you are still capable of speech.”
I held his gaze.
Dad sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets and glancing over his shoulder at the two cameras aimed in our direction. “I can talk to the judge again. It’s ridiculous that she won’t just let you pay the fine and be done with it.”
My jaw locked tight, and unspent tension had the muscles along my neck rigid.
That judge hated him, which meant she probably had an impeccable radar for the humanity of each person who walked into her courtroom. I’d kept my mouth shut in there, too, on my father’s instructions, allowing him to do the talking.
It would be easy, he promised.
My blood alcohol level had been .08 percent, the lowest threshold for the legal limit, and as a first-time offender, a hefty fine to cover any damage to the animal shelter should have been more than sufficient. They’d collect a check, he’d told me, and I’d be able to move forward.
Except he’d been wrong. And he was pissed.
My dad stepped closer, lowering his voice to a hard-edged whisper. “Don’t you care that she’s making an example out of you?” he hissed. “It’s humiliating. You’ll have to show up and do menial labor, for God’s sake.”
I tilted my head, eyes locked on his. “Of course I care. She probably thinks it’ll do me some good.”
“What would have been good is if you hadn’t gotten behind the fucking wheel in the first place,” he snapped. “Never thought a son of mine would be pathetic enough to self-sabotage.”
The dry laugh burst out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Oh, this is funny. I’m glad you think this is funny.
” The vein in his forehead was throbbing to the point that I wondered if he’d stroke out right in front of me.
“I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you since you got drafted.
I thought keeping you in school for your master’s would mean you’d walk right into that locker room and establish a dynasty.
Except you dick around your first two years in the pros, that know-it-all coach benches you in some pissing match meant to humble you—” His eyes flashed.
“I still think he should’ve been fired for that stunt. ”
Heat built in my chest, a defense for Coach King making my tongue tingle as I slicked it over the front of my teeth to keep myself quiet. When I regained control of my emotions, I said, “Obviously he thought I needed humbling.”
He scoffed, tugging on the wrist of his sleeve again. “Evanses don’t humble themselves, Archer. You know that.”
Evanses don’t humble themselves. I’d heard that my entire life. Who fed that to a child as words to live by?
I hadn’t been taught to be kind or selfless.
I hadn’t been taught to treat everyone with respect, because in his mind, unless they’d earned his respect, they were beneath his notice.
I hadn’t been taught how to be a good human.
Alexander Evans had taught me the same thing his father had taught him—to be the best and do it in a way that was so indisputable you became untouchable.
The only way I’d learned to fill in the gaps was by watching other people in my life.
Friends in school. Teammates. Coaches.
The pursuit of perfection was a dangerous thing because it was a moving target. Something that could never be satisfied.
I’d tried. I’d tried to satisfy what he wanted from me.
His notice had been heady when I was younger.
A clap on the shoulder and a proud nod were sickening in their effectiveness.
I’d done everything for that tiny glimpse of affection from him, turning myself in knots all through high school and college to keep his focus on how good I was, until I realized he’d never actually be happy with anything I’d done, because I could always be better.
As I stood there in the bright sun, I wished I could tell him exactly when and why I’d stopped trying. Stopped caring. And how that decision had brought us to the point we were at now. If I thought he might care, I would do exactly that.
“Are we done here?” I asked flatly.
His eyebrows bent over a cold expression. “That’s it? You don’t have anything to say?”
I tucked my hands in my pockets and rocked back on my heels, pursing my lips briefly like I was contemplating his question. Then I shook my head slowly. “Nope.”
“You make me sick, do you know that?”
He spoke so quietly, so evenly, that the impact of his words didn’t land right away. Four years ago, they would’ve rocked me to my core. And now it was nothing. Less than nothing.
The only reaction I gave him was a ghost of a smile that faded after a few seconds.
He hated it. He might have even hated me, but I really didn’t care about that either.
“Don’t you want to know why?” he asked.
I let out a slow breath and then shook my head again. “Nope.”
“Fucking waste,” he muttered. “I thought you could turn all this around. I thought I’d raised you to be stronger than this, you know?
Your first chance at retaking your team last season and you were reckless on that field.
You shouldn’t have even been playing in preseason—if you hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have torn your ACL.
” He stepped closer, and I fought to keep my face even, like the impulse to shove him backward might be stamped all over my face.
“Another year on the bench. Wasted. Sitting back and watching that hack of a backup start for your team.”
This time I didn’t bite my tongue. “He’s a good man, and he played well when I couldn’t.”
“That’s exactly right. You couldn’t play, and your team—the one paying all that money—has done just fine without you.” His eyes were cold. “And the second chance you get to turn your pathetic career around, you pull this shit.” He shook his head. “That’s why you make me sick.”
I pushed my tongue into the side of my cheek. “You know . . . I think I can sleep at night knowing that.”
The flash in his eyes was so gratifying that I almost grinned, but I managed to tamp it down.
“Figure out a way to make this community service benefit you. The worst thing you can do is have a bunch of holier-than-thou do-gooders take advantage of this. They’re all martyrs who think they’re better than everyone.
Better than you.” He poked me in the chest. Hard.
“But you’re an Evans. Don’t fucking forget that. ”
“As if I could.”
His eyes glinted, and for a moment, I thought I’d gone too far.
But in the end, he let out an annoyed puff of air and yanked open the door of his vehicle, disappearing without another word. As the engine roared to life and he took off, I could finally breathe again. Space from him always had that effect. Like someone had unlocked an iron band around my lungs.
The guys with the cameras had left at some point during the exchange, and I pulled myself into my truck and leaned my head back with a sigh, closing my eyes for a few moments while I untangled how fucked up this had gotten so quickly. I unfolded the piece of paper that explained my sentencing.
Fifty hours of community service at Second Leash Animal Sanctuary.