2. Archer
Chapter 2
Archer
If I ever got my hands on my piece of shit former business partner, I was going to chop his body up into itty bitty pieces and sell his remains as shark bait. No… that was a lie. At most, I’d punch him in the face. I might yell a bit. He’d better hope I never saw him again.
Moving in with Cyrus and his husband hadn’t been ideal, but the alternative was even less than. Note to future Archer—don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Living where I worked had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I was an artist with no shop and an idiot without a home. All my shit was in storage and I was coming to the end of my savings. Hence, why I was up at the ass crack of dawn, folding the blankets and stacking them neatly out of the way.
I’d always been Cy’s pain-in-the-ass little brother, and even though thirty had come and gone a year ago, I was still a pain in his ass. And his husband’s. I didn’t want to like Marshall at first. Did I have a reason? Not really. Jealousy maybe. Cy always got what he wanted. He was good at literally everything, whereas I was only good at art, and I’d honed that skill in the shadows, hiding from assholes who wanted to pick on the small guy.
Marshall won me over by never commenting on my height. I was over it now, but it had been an insecurity of mine for years. Topping out at five-foot-five had made me the target of a lot of bullshit. And then my attitude hadn’t helped. In the eighth grade, the art teacher stepped in and invited me to eat lunch in her room. And while I was there, I might as well do something productive.
To begin with, I hid there to get away from the assholes. Even bullies had a limit to who they’d fuck with, and apparently the art teacher wasn’t someone they were willing to cross. An artist was born in the safety of that room. While Cy was busy crushing every sport he played and being the popular closeted kid with the beard who was still one of his best friends, I was the weird, small, artsy gay kid.
They didn’t know I was gay any more than I knew I was gay. They were cruel kids and being gay was apparently the worst thing they could think to call me some days.
I shoved the memories away and tip-toed into the kitchen. I had a routine. Every morning I woke up early. I made a coffee and grabbed a quick bite to eat, then I took my art supplies and I left. In the nicer weather I went to the park. In the bad weather, the library. Sometimes I splurged and went to a cafe.
Sometimes there were dishes in the sink from the night before and I’d do them before I went out, but today there was nothing and I was left to stare out the window while I waited for my coffee to brew. The sun had barely started to poke out over the horizon, washing the sky in a vibrant orange.
“You don’t have to sneak out every day, you know.”
At the sound of Marshall’s voice, I jolted. Spinning around, I tried to act natural but I hated that he’d sneaked up on me. Even more than that, I hated being called on my shit. I knew they wouldn’t mind if I hung around their house all day and all night. But I minded. I needed to get my shit together. I’d all but begged for a space at the local tattoo shops, but they were all full. No new artists needed. They’d be in touch if they did .
It felt like a fucking conspiracy. I’d tried to get a business loan, but with no collateral, no income—no nothing—banks didn’t want to take a chance me. I’d saved for years to open that place. Every dime I made went back into it and we were finally taking off. Booking months in advance. And then it was gone. Some days it didn’t feel real.
The coffee burbled and choked a final time and spit out the last drops.
“I don’t sneak out.”
I make myself scarce so it’s almost like you don’t have a house guest. So you don’t get sick of me and make me leave.
“I have things to do.”
“If you let us help you, we could come up with a plan, Archer.”
Sucking a deep breath in, I did my best not to hurl my cup at Marshall. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Cy is worried about you,” Marshall whispered. He probably wasn’t supposed to say anything to me about that. Shit like that is why I gave them as much space as possible. I didn’t want to be a source of strife between them. Cy and Marsh had a good thing going. If ever there were two idiots deeply in love, it was those two idiots.
“When is Cy not worried about me?”
Marshall had the decency to look like he agreed with me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills. “At least stop by The Anchor tonight. I know he’ll try to feed you for free, and I know you’ll insist on paying, even though Shane wouldn’t care. Have a drink on me. Eat with your brother. He loves you.”
Marshall couldn’t have dumped more guilt on me if he tried. I’d yet to be by Cy’s job because I knew him. Food was his love language and he’d try to shovel as much into me as he could. If he couldn’t heal the cracks in me, he’d fill them with hamburgers .
Sighing, I took the money from Marshall and tucked it into my pocket. “Fine. When’s his dinner break?”
Marshall laughed and popped a fresh coffee pod into the machine. “His break is whenever he wants it. Shane might sign the paychecks, but the kitchen is Cy’s territory. Shane could try to tell him what to do, but at his own risk.”
Cyrus was a demon in the kitchen. Which was why I tried to avoid any kitchen Cyrus was working in.
“I don’t see what good having dinner with him will do.”
Complaining about shit was part of my DNA. If I didn’t bitch about things, I’d probably blow up. But Marshall didn’t appreciate that about me sometimes. For as easygoing as he could be, he turned into a bulldog when it came to looking out for my brother. Which was the only reason he wasn’t on my list of people to turn into shark bait.
“You’re barely here. He never sees you. By the time he gets home, you’re out cold, and when he’s awake, you’re skulking around town filling sketchbooks.”
“I do not skulk.”
Marshall folded his arms over his chest and stared at me. He didn’t say anything because the fucker didn’t have to. I was skulking. Pouting. Getting wrapped up in my own bullshit head and avoiding everything and everyone as much as possible. Shit.
“Fine, so I’m skulking.” I deflated and Marshall reached out and ruffled his fingers through my hair. “Tell Cy that I’ve magically turned a corner and will at least put my skulking on hold to have dinner with him tonight.”
I dumped my coffee into a travel mug and thumped the lid on. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with the squirrels.”
“Squirrels? ”
“Yeah, in the park. Big fuckers. I swear they’re like the body builders of squirrels. I named them Arnold and The Rock. Arnie and Rocky for short.” With my coffee in hand, I retreated to the living room to grab the messenger bag I carried with me all the time with my sketchbooks and art supplies in it. An emergency twenty, a lighter—because you never knew when you were going to need one—and a small first aid kit for similar reasons. It was less of a first aid kit and more of a plastic baggie with some gauze and a handful of bandaids stuffed in it.
Marshall met me at the door as I tried to slip away. Without asking first, he shoved a handful of granola bars into my hands. “The best time to catch Cy at work is before the dinner rush, or after it’s over.”
Nodding, I slipped out of the house, grateful that Marshall let me go without further harassment. I mean, the audacity of him, looking out for my brother like that. How dare he call me on my skulking?
Making Cy worry wasn’t my intention. I’d wanted their lives to be disrupted as little as possible. It wasn’t their fault that my life had gone sideways and I didn’t see why they should have to suffer for it. Besides, I liked wandering around drawing things. It started to grow on me and I liked the effect it was having on my art.
My work was a true extension of myself. Unless I was designing something for a customer, I poured myself into my art. My whole heart, my soul. My fears and excitement all went into it. When I lost everything, my art had gone dark. Broody. Angry. Thick lines and morbid imagery. Anger and sadness were best friends and much of my time spent skulking was also spent pouring my heart out into work that I’d never show anyone.
I drew a lot of hands. Clenched fists. Broken fingernails. Fingers gripping onto rocky ledges, searching for purchase, hanging on by a thread above the abyss below .
It was the squirrels that made me turn a corner. My art went from a sad, desperate sort of realism, to cartoonish ridiculousness. I dabbled in comic style from time to time, but most people didn’t want that kind of tattoo. But now, with my shop closed and my life in storage, I had freedom to explore my art again.
In my cartoon, Arnie and Rocky were mortal enemies, fighting over the last of the season’s nuts. It wasn’t going to win awards for originality, but it lifted my spirits. I didn’t want to be a small, angry man. Rage was exhausting and I’d spent enough energy on my former friend. Now I wanted to move on. As soon as I figured out how.
Talking to Cyrus would have to be step number one. He’d been great about the whole thing. I knew I was putting a cramp in their lifestyle. The sooner I had a plan, the better for everyone.
After spending my morning in the park, I spent my afternoon in the library. Now that I’d exhausted my avenues when it came to renting a chair from another shop or opening my own, I had to be realistic. Money didn’t grow on trees. I tried not to think of looking for other jobs as a failure. It was a simple setback. Okay, a catastrophic setback. But I’d made my dreams come true once—I could do it again.