Chapter Eight Archer
Chapter Eight
Archer
“This steak is overcooked.” My father set down his fork and knife with slow, purposeful movements.
Without trying it, he’d sliced into the middle, the vivid red of the expensive meat clearly visible even across the table.
Medium rare, the way his was always prepared.
“Hundreds of dollars a pound and our chef doesn’t even know how to properly prepare Kobe beef. It’s embarrassing.”
My knife hovered in the air, just above my own cut of meat, which was cooked to a textbook medium—seared on the outside and pink on the inside—exactly how I liked it.
Analise glanced in my direction, but we didn’t hold eye contact for long. She managed a tiny eye roll and shoved a spear of broccolini in her mouth. There was no steak on her plate. She’d been a vegetarian for about two years.
She’d never admitted it out loud, but I was increasingly certain she’d forgone eating meat in equal measure about not wanting to eat animals, and because it pissed him off.
Both Evans children, all in all, were a great disappointment to my father.
The entire life he’d built was a disappointment to our mother, too, which was why she’d packed her shit and left when Analise was two. Turned out, he didn’t earn quite enough to keep her happy, and raising children—even by proxy, with the help of two nannies—was just a bit too messy for her.
No doubt if she’d been here, she’d have been bitching about the $200-a-pound steak too.
Instead of reacting immediately, I adjusted my grip on the fork and watched with satisfaction as the knife cut through with hardly any effort.
When the steak was in my mouth, practically melting as I chewed, I sat back in my seat and let out a contented groan.
The sound was obscenely loud in the uncomfortably quiet formal dining room.
Father sighed quietly but didn’t comment.
I hated this room. The ostentatious crystal chandelier. The giant table for twelve, even though it was hardly ever more than just us three. The walls of this place only ever saw polite veneer and better faking than a porn star’s bedroom.
Father gave me a narrow-eyed look as I patted my stomach.
“Mine’s fucking delicious.”
His eyebrow arched. “Do we curse at the dinner table now?”
I set my fork down, crossed my arms over my chest, and pinned him with a look. “I guess I do, yeah. Gonna kick me out, Dad?”
He hated when I called him that. Uncouth, he’d said.
His lip curled in disgust, but when Rebecca pushed through the serving kitchen door with another batch of crusty yeast rolls fresh out of the oven, his features smoothed out.
She’d been with our family for over a decade, so I wasn’t as close to her as my sister was, given that I was a junior in high school when Rebecca started.
But even those couple years at home, I gravitated to the kitchen as much as Analise, simply because we both sought out her warm, soothing presence.
Her hair was more silver than blond now and her steps a little bit slower, but the woman was an absolute dream in the kitchen. On death row, I’d ask for her lasagna and garlic bread as my last meal.
“More bread,” she said, setting the plate right by Analise with a tiny wink that my father couldn’t see.
My sister beamed. “Thank you, Rebecca. It smells delicious.”
“You’re welcome, honey.”
Father cleared his throat—a sharp, piercing sound. “She has a name, Rebecca,” he drawled. “Do try using it.”
I caught Rebecca’s eye and gave her an encouraging nod, just before her face slipped into a mask of deference when she turned to my father. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”
“Yes.” My father tugged at the sleeves of his starched white oxford.
Even at dinner with his family, he couldn’t fucking relax.
He set his hand on the silver-rimmed bone china plate in front of him and pushed it away.
“When I ask for medium rare, I expect medium rare. Try again. I pay you an ungodly amount to get this right, Rebecca.”
Her eyes were downcast immediately as she picked up the discarded plate, the flush of her cheeks giving away her embarrassment. “Yes, sir.”
There might have been a time, even recently, when I kept my mouth shut and let him treat the staff like shit because it was easier to just let the tempest pass.
Maybe those rocks in my gut were finally thawing, because it wasn’t very difficult to push away from the table with an angry screech of the chair legs against the hardwood floor.
“For God’s sake, Archer,” my father muttered.
Analise gave me a confused look. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” I picked up my plate and handed it to Rebecca. “Can I please get this to go? It’s far too delicious to waste.”
She smiled gratefully. “Of course.”
Analise’s face drooped in disappointment. “You’re leaving already? We hardly had time to talk.”
Sometimes I thought the only reason I could carry on a decent conversation at all was because of my little sister.
Born when I was ten, Analise had been my shadow until I moved out.
She wanted to know everything—insatiable curiosity paired with a healthy dose of loneliness from being the only one left at the house with Dad.
I called her every day on my way home from the facilities.
What she didn’t know about yet, and I suspected she’d grill me about at the first chance, was my community service. I thought about trying to explain Remi to her without giving myself away, and winced internally.
Gently, I nudged her shoulder. “Want to come with?” I asked. “You don’t have school tomorrow. You can stay over if you want—”
She was halfway out of her seat before I’d even finished speaking. “Yes.”
“No,” my father snapped. “She has tutoring tomorrow morning at eight. Which you wouldn’t need if you’d figure out how to focus on your schoolwork and get the grades I expect from the Evans name.”
“Shit,” Analise muttered under her breath.
“I see the language in this family is an epidemic.” He pulled the linen napkin away from his lap, plucking at an invisible piece of lint after it was folded in front of him. “I think maybe less time with your brother is in order, until he can remember his manners.”
I had fantasies—deep fantasies—about what it would feel like to knock his veneers out with my fist.
Dipping so I could see her face, I waited until Analise finally looked up. “Text me when you’re done tomorrow. I’ll pick you up and we can go do something.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
She stood and wrapped her arms tight around my middle, Father watching us with an inscrutable look on his face.
I did a lot of things to piss him off, but showing my little sister affection was not one of them.
Because if I didn’t, she’d have nothing.
Just like I’d have had nothing without her.
I hugged her back with a deep sigh, then pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Love you, little A.”
“Love you, big A.”
Father’s eyes gave nothing away at our shared nicknames, something that had started when she was a toddler, running around the house after me. Archer had been too hard for her, so she called me A.
I didn’t let go right away. Neither did she.
Analise didn’t want to stay in that house any more than I wanted to leave her, but until she turned eighteen, there wasn’t much either of us could do.
My father didn’t say a word as I strode out of the dining room. Rebecca was waiting with a glass container holding my steak, potatoes, and broccoli.
“Eat all your vegetables,” she instructed.
“Yes, ma’am.” I tilted my head toward the front door. “You sure you don’t want to come work for me? I’ll double whatever he’s paying you.”
Her eyes glittered. “If I leave, who’s watching out for her all the time?”
I don’t know what possessed me—maybe this entire experience was softening me more than I’d expected—but I leaned in and kissed her on the top of the head too. “You’re a good one, Rebecca. I don’t think either of us would’ve survived him without you.”
Her cheeks were a brilliant red when I pulled back. “Oh, go on with you. Your flirting’s wasted on an old lady. You should save that for a pretty girl in your life.”
“Don’t have one of those right now.” Green eyes flashed through my mind. “None that want me to give any kisses, at least.”
She studied me speculatively. “But you have someone you like?”
“Good night, Rebecca.”
Rebecca laughed. “Drive safe. No beers tonight?”
The gleam in her eye told me she knew more than she was letting on.
Instead of asking, I said, “Just water.”
“Good boy.”
Fifteen minutes later, I let myself into the garage door of my house in the woods.
Construction had been completed a few months earlier, but furnishing the home was still a work in progress.
I didn’t want to hire someone to pick stuff, because it was always too small or too fussy.
Trends didn’t interest me, because I was the only person who saw it, and the only person who mattered.
But I didn’t care enough to get it done quickly.
I had a place to sleep, a place to watch TV or read, and a place to eat my meals, and for now that was enough.
As I walked through the kitchen, I kept it dark, only turning on the light above the stove.
I stood in front of the sink and ate my dinner straight from the container, ignoring the empty, quiet house around me until it was time to shower before bed.
My bathroom suite was the size of my college apartment, one of the only places where I truly went overboard.
The vanity was imported marble, eight feet long with a sink on either side.
In the corner of the bathroom was a custom soaking tub I’d had made just for me.
Not being able to stretch my legs out in a bath was the curse of being tall.
Being rich meant I could sidestep that pretty easily.
It was square, six and a half feet long from end to end, with just enough slope on two of the sides that I could lie in it with only my shoulders and chest above the water.
For a moment, I eyed the tub, trying to decide if I was patient enough to wait for it to fill up, but in the end I decided the shower would suffice.
The tiled shower was even bigger than the tub, with multiple showerheads and a bench stretched along the side. Every night, I cleaned off the day before climbing between the sheets. It was the only way I could sleep.
The water heated quickly, and I stripped off my clothes, tossing them in the laundry basket off to the side. When I stepped under the spray, I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, letting the scalding-hot water course over my body.
It was the first time all day that my mind quieted. And as had been the case for the last few weeks, it was in those quiet moments that she crept in.
Red hair.
Blue-green eyes.
A big laugh.
A vicious streak that was hotter than it should be.
I braced my hands on the tile and hung my head under the ruthless water. My chest heaved, because all it took was a few scattered thoughts of Remi and all the blood rushed straight between my legs.
Prying my eyes open, I stared down at my hard-on.
The last time I’d thought with that stupid prick was in the bar.
How was I supposed to resist her? She was nothing like I’d been expecting, and it was in the genuine rambling nerves, the big eyes, and the delicious curves of her body that desire had knocked me breathless before I knew what was happening.
I clenched my teeth and took myself in hand, rolling my forehead on the cool tile while I let my thoughts drift.
Her breast in my hand—skin warm and soft and big enough that I wouldn’t be able to take the whole thing in my mouth.
A groan tore from my chest, my hand working in slow, steady strokes. I imagined her writhing under me while my brain conjured the taste of her, the feel of her flesh against my tongue and teeth and lips.
Remi naked, lush curves and greedy hands.
Remi’s red hair wound between my fingers as I gripped it in a fist and took her from behind.
Remi on top of me, rolling her hips like she had on the dance floor.
Remi underneath me, crying out into my ear while I worked my hips between hers.
“Fuck,” I bit out, hand working faster.
Remi’s face, her big eyes staring up at me, brow pinched as she chased her release.
Tight. She’d be tight. She’d fucking suffocate me, wouldn’t she?
I wanted it. I wanted to see the play of it across her face. She showed everything on her face.
Her happiness. Her stress. Her anger.
Her shame.
My hand slowed.
Remi’s big eyes as she stared up at me on the dance floor. Horrified. Embarrassed. Cheeks flushed with shame.
“Fuck,” I said again, tearing my hand away and slamming my fist down on the tile.
With my heart racing, my balls screaming because I was on the edge of release, I cranked the shower handle to cold and stood there until my skin pebbled with goose bumps.
The ghost of my unfulfilled orgasm left an ache behind, and I strode out of the shower, letting the pain remind me how thoroughly I’d fucked up my chance to see any of those sides of her.
I didn’t deserve it.
Didn’t deserve her.