Chapter 1 #2
“Things are not as bad as they seem, ya know?” She softens her tone, uncharacteristically sensitive when she so often prefers to be the boldest and harshest in any social gathering.
“You had a fight, but like you said, it’s a fight you’ve had before.
Give him a minute to calm down and miss you.
Send him a picture of your cooch and an invitation to come get it.
The next time I call, everything will be back to normal, and life will go on.
If we’re being really honest, Archer is likely to eliminate Poul with you, and that’s assuming he doesn’t do it for you when you’re not looking.
Detective Malone’s only hang-up has always been, and will always be, about ensuring your safety.
This argument isn’t about moral superiority, and we don’t kill people, Minka.
His rage is a byproduct of his fear of losing you. ”
“Feelings he made abundantly clear from the moment we married,” I rasp. “Yet, I still do the thing that hurts him the most. Makes me a shitty person.”
“The little girls we helped this week would beg to differ, Chief. The things you do—the things I do—are in the pursuit of justice. Makes you the very opposite of shitty. But,” she quips, her tone lifting.
Brightening. “You’re not done feeling sorry for yourself yet, so I’ll let you ride your pity train a little while longer.
Later, after Detective Malone has fucked your brains out and you’ve had a chance to pull yourself together again, maybe you can send me a text, like an eggplant emoji or something, to let me know everything’s back to normal again. ”
I scoff and snatch up my phone from the passenger seat, unlocking the screen and navigating to my text inbox.
Leaving the way I did was never intended to be a manipulation. I never meant to turn it into a ‘follow me, Archer. Beg me to come home’ thing. But the fact that he hasn’t followed, he hasn’t begged… stings a little.
“Do you ever wonder if the day will come?”
“The day?” Confused, Soph pauses for a beat. “What day?”
“When Jay confirms all the nasty things you think about yourself. When he finally stands up and says he wants off this crazy ride because the woman he loves is too much work. Too much noise. Too much worry.” Frustrated, I lock my phone again and wedge it beneath my thigh.
“If we’re so alike, then I know you wonder why he sticks around for this mess.
You lie awake at night, worrying that tomorrow may be the day he decides he’s had enough of the bullshit. ”
“I used to.” She hums in the back of her throat, audibly clicking her tongue; the only hint she allows to show her pain.
Her discomfort. “I used to think it a lot, and when I was feeling especially crappy, I’d pick a fight and hope he’d finally take a hint and toss me away.
Having that closure, the definitive ‘it’s over’ somehow seemed better than circling the drain and obsessing over the ‘will he, won’t he?
’ mess.” She shrugs, the rustle of her clothes telegraphing her movements.
“I haven’t thought like that in a while, though.
Guess I decided I was good enough. Now, throwing me away is no longer an option. ”
“Maybe I’ll settle in and accept the same for me and Archer someday. Eventually.” My SUV’s engine rumbles and warms, the putrid heat from the tar making it work harder for every minute I sit here with the air conditioning on.
Has it only been five minutes since I slung my stupid ass into this vehicle? Ten?
Feels like a lifetime already.
“I should go back to the house.”
“Yeah. You should. Where’d you plan to sleep tonight, anyway? The car?”
“My apartment.” Sniffling, I lower my gaze and stare down at my lap. “Where it’s hot as Hades, but an easy walk to my office.”
She barks out a silly laugh. “You win some, you lose some. Text me later if you want. I promise not to check your communications for the next few hours… ya know, in case you decide to send Detective Malone a picture of your vagina.”
“You should stop checking my communications, period. It’s a gross invasion of my privacy and completely against the law. Plus, infusion night means no one’s fucking. Factor makes me sleepy.”
“Speak for yourself,” she snickers. “My marriage is healthy. Plus, you forgot to swipe your medicine before you ran. Call your husband, make up, bang, then medicate. Oh, and Jen finalized a batch of experimental Factor special for you. She keeps nagging me to ask you to try it.”
Experimental?
“Hard pass. But thanks for thinking of me. I’m hanging up now.”
“Fine. But I want it on record that we conducted this extremely normal, not-weird, girlfriends-supporting-girlfriends phone call just now. You’re experiencing a significant personal dilemma, and I mediated a successful, mature discussion when pulling out a flamethrower was totally an option. I’m telling my husband about this.”
“I repeat: hard pass.”
“I won’t tell him your business. Just that I rocked this phone call and didn’t kill anyone. That’s growth for me. And when you find your lady balls, swallow your pride, and call your husband, you’ll be able to celebrate growth, too. It’s a fantastic Tuesday.”
“Mmhm.” I slip my hand under my thigh and grab my phone. “I’m hanging up now. Good talk, Solomon.”
“Yup.” She pops up at her desk, her chair groaning with the movement. “I feel like I need to go shoot someone now. Rebalance the violence versus estrogen scales in my head. I’ll be around later. Maybe.” She teases. “Unless I’m fucking. In which case, I’ll get you back tomorrow.”
I end our call and navigate to my texts, just in case Archer snuck something in over the last minute or so.
Coming up empty, I release a noisy harrumph, annoyed by my own neediness.
Uncomfortable with my yearning when, for the entire time I’ve known him, I’ve never been left waiting… wanting… needing.
Cowardice makes resorting to a text dizzyingly tempting…
something quick and lacking in accountability, like sorry I was a bitch.
I’m coming home. But Archer’s selflessness from the moment we met means he deserves more than that.
He deserves a conversation, so I hit dial instead, jumping when the call rings through the car’s speakers.
“Shit.” Setting the device on my thigh and tipping my head back, I close my eyes—like a coward—and wait. Wait. Wait a little longer.
Maybe he’s driving. Searching for me. Maybe he’s speeding, just like I was, and needs a moment to slow down before he answers. Maybe he’s fighting with his brothers, arguing over the mess I left behind. And dammit, maybe he’s furious and simply doesn’t want to talk to me.
I gulp, swallowing the ache building in my throat for every second I hear a ringtone and not my husband’s voice. But a mere beat before I expect it to go to voicemail, our call connects and tears, traitorous, ruinous tears, burn behind my eyelids.
“Archer?” My voice crackles and breaks. My heart… thunders. “Hey.”
He’s not driving. Not speeding. Not fighting.
“Minka.” His voice is hard. Unflinching. “Where are you?”
“Um…” I clear my throat, flick my eyes open, and study a residential street packed with two-story homes, white picket fences, and at least three separate families taking a stroll before dinnertime. “I’m in town. At the bottom of the hill.”
He grunts, the sound emanating from somewhere deep in his chest. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I…” I inhale cold, air-conditioned air all the way to the base of my lungs, and brushing hair off my face, I exhale again so the noise carries through our call. “I’m sorry for leaving like I did. And I’m sorry for hurting you with the Agosti thing.”
The sound of his breath, heavy and even, fills my car. His anger, palpable.
Ashamed, I glance down at my lap. “I was safe the whole time. I know you worry, so I just wanted you to know I was safe.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I…” Stunned, I sit taller in my seat and frown, my brows pinching together to create lines I feel in my forehead. Behind me, a shiny black SUV rolls to a stop, my pulse jumping as the door cracks open and a Malone guard steps out.
Not Archer. Not even Harrison.
“W-what do you mean, what do I want?”
“I mean, why are you calling?” His voice is so harsh. His pain, my pain.
“To say I’m sorry,” I rasp. “To tell you I was wrong for running out when I owed you a proper conversation. To tell you I’m coming home.”
“You’ve changed your mind about hunting those men down?”
“No, I—”
“Then it’s cool,” he cuts in. Brutally. Cruelly. Painfully.
“C-cool? What’s cool?”
“You and me.”
“Archer—”
“You should stay at the apartment tonight.”
And just like that, my heart shatters. “What?”
“Don’t come back to the house. We’re taking time, remember?”
A knock on my window makes me jump, gasping and wrenching left until I come eye-to-eye with a violently serious man dressed in a sharp, black suit. His dark stare. His rigid lines.
“Don’t forget to infuse tonight,” Archer bites out. “Eat first.”
And then he hangs up.
For the first time since I’ve known him, he cuts me off and slices deeper than anyone else ever has. Deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life.
The guard, one whose name I don’t even know, opens my door just two inches, his voice as hard as his boss'. “I’m gonna follow you home, Doctor Mayet.”
My stomach swirls. My head thumps. Pain throbs in the back of my skull, like a thousand beating drums intent on sending me over the edge of insanity. My hands shake. My arms. My legs.
My entire fucking existence trembles and aches.
Bringing tear-filled eyes up again, I choke out a pathetic, “You’re following me home?”
“To the apartment.” He tilts his chin downtown.
“Let’s go. Idling in the heat is bad for the car.
” Closing the door again, he strides back to his SUV and slides in.
Gripping the wheel at ten and two, he stares.
And waits. Glowers, and when I don’t move, flashes his high beams in lieu of honking the horn.
Don’t come back to the house.
Archer’s voice plays on repeat in my mind, carved deep into my psyche.
Don’t come back to the house.
The day I feared has arrived. The break I was so intent on not feeling… a million times worse than I expected.
Don’t come back to the house.