Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tatum slammed the apartment door behind her harder than she intended. The sound echoed through the space, sharp and final. She kicked off her boots, the PVC leather pants suddenly feeling too tight, too hot, too much.
Archer entered and moved past her into the living room, his movements controlled. Too controlled. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. He was furious.
Good. So was she.
"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" he said, his voice quiet. Dangerous.
"What what was?" Tatum yanked the wig off and dropped it on the counter, then started working on the prosthetics. "Me doing my job?"
"Your job?" Archer turned to face her, and the look in his eyes made her stomach clench. "You ran after a cold-blooded killer, Tatum.”
"I had a chance to catch them."
"You had a chance to get yourself killed."
She peeled the fake nose off and dropped it next to the wig. "But I didn't."
"By sheer luck."
"No," she snapped, rounding on him. "By skill. By training. By the time I’ve spent time at the gun range. By the black belt I’ve earned in taekwondo. By knowing what I was doing."
"You were reckless."
"I was doing what needed to be done." She crossed her arms over her chest, anger burning hot in her veins. "You would have done the same thing."
"That's different."
"How?" she demanded. "How is it different?"
"Because I can handle myself."
"And I can't?" Her voice rose despite her efforts to keep it level. "Is that what you think? That I'm some delicate flower who needs protecting?" Of all the misogynistic, chauvinistic… She didn’t need this.
He glared at her. "That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant." She moved past him into the living room, needing space, needing to move before she did something stupid.
Like scream. Or throw something. Or kick his ass.
"I've been doing this for weeks, Archer.
Alone. Without backup. Without you hovering over me, telling me what I can and can't do. I have pored over every page. I’ve spoken to countless people who were ripped off.
I want justice for them. They deserve it. "
"And look where all that got you," he said, his voice hard. "Your apartment destroyed. A target on your back. Two men dead."
That stopped her.
She turned slowly. "You think this is my fault?" Her voice rose to a squeak.
"No." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his control. "That's not…I didn't mean it like that."
"Then what did you mean?" she asked softly, rage burning in her chest.
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I mean that whoever is behind this is dangerous. More dangerous than you realize. And you're putting yourself in their crosshairs."
"I'm already in their crosshairs," Tatum said. "They made that clear when they trashed my apartment."
"Exactly." Archer moved closer, and she could see the fear underneath the anger now. Raw. Real. "Which is why running after them alone was—"
"The only option. They were right there, Archer. Right there.” She jabbed her finger toward the ground. “If I'd caught them, this would be over. We would have answers."
"Or you'd be dead."
The words hung between them, heavy with implication.
Tatum took a breath, forced herself to think. It was hard because her body was shaking from the adrenaline crash. "We need to figure out who they are."
"Agreed,” he ground out and then turned to face the windows.
She moved to the couch and sat, suddenly exhausted.
"The way he moved. The way he, or she, I guess, it definitely could have been a woman, women tend to kill more with knives, I think. I’m sure I read that somewhere.
Anyway, they knew exactly where to go, when to strike.
This person knew Lebowitz's routine." She frowned. “They were also familiar somehow.”
“What do you mean, familiar?”
She gave a small shrug. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s like the way they held themselves, I know it from somewhere.”
“Maybe it was someone you subconsciously noticed when you were surveilling Lebowitz while they were following him just like you did," Archer said as he turned back to face her. “It also means you might have seen the killer.”
"Yes." She looked up at him, “but they don’t know that. Just like they don’t know we were there tonight.”
Archer crossed to the bar and poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass. He didn't offer her one. Just drank it in one swallow, then poured another. “They don’t know yet, but they will. This just makes you an even bigger target.”
"You think it's Davis?" Tatum asked, her pulse kicking up at the thought that she might subconsciously know who the killer was.
"I think he's involved." Archer turned to face her, the glass cradled in his hand. "But he wouldn't do this himself."
She rubbed her nose where some adhesive was stuck. "Why not?"
"Because Davis is a coward." His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "He likes power, likes control, but he doesn't get his hands dirty. He'd hire someone."
"But this looked personal," Tatum said, the pieces clicking together in her mind. "The killer knew Lebowitz. The way they leaned in, spoke to him, that wasn't just business."
"No," Archer agreed. "It wasn't."
Silence stretched between them.
“Did it look like Davis to you?” Archer asked, breaking the silence.
Tatum thought about it for a moment, but her gut said no.
"So, if it's not Davis himself," Tatum said slowly, "then who? Someone he hired who had a personal grudge?"
"Maybe." Archer took another sip of whiskey. "Or someone working with him who has their own agenda."
"Like who?"
"I don't know yet." He set the glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. "But we need to find out. Fast."
"Vince Kelly," Tatum said suddenly.
Archer's eyes sharpened. "What about him?"
"He's the only one left. North is dead. Lebowitz is dead. If someone's cleaning house—"
"Kelly's next." Archer pulled out his phone. "I already had Ryker put protection on him."
"Did he accept it?"
"He didn’t have a choice."
Tatum watched him, seeing the calculation in his eyes. The way he was already three steps ahead, planning contingencies. “He’s the only one left who can help us. He’s definitely in danger.”
"Yes." Archer's gaze locked on hers. "Just like you are."
And there it was. Back to this.
"Archer—"
"No." He moved toward her, and there was something dangerous in his eyes now. Something that made her breath catch. "You don't get to brush this off. You don't get to pretend you're invincible."
She shot to her feet. "I'm not—"
"You ran after a killer tonight, Tatum." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "You ran toward danger without thinking, without back up, without—"
"I was thinking," she interrupted, backing up so she didn't have to look up at him. It didn't help. He was still taller, still broader, no less overwhelming. "I was thinking that we had one chance to catch a killer, and I took it."
"You could have been killed."
"But I wasn't,” she pointed out yet again.
"This time." His hands clenched at his sides. "What about next time? What happens when you're alone, and they come for you?"
"Then I'll handle it."
"Like you handled it tonight?" His voice rose slightly, control slipping. "You lost them, Tatum. They got away. And if they'd turned around, if they'd decided you were a threat—"
"Then I would have fought." Why couldn’t he see that this was important to her? That she would do what it took to help the people who needed it the most?”
"And you would have lost," he said bluntly.
The words hit like a slap.
"You don't know that," she said, her voice low.
"Yes, I do." He stepped closer, and she could feel the heat radiating off him. Anger. Fear. Something else she didn't want to name.
"I know what people like that are capable of. I know how fast they can move, how efficiently they kill. And I know—"
His voice broke slightly.
"I know I can't lose you."
Tatum's breath caught.
They stared at each other, the air between them charged. Electric.
"Archer—"
He moved.
His hands came up to frame her face, and then his mouth was on hers. Hard. Demanding. Desperate.
Tatum gasped against his lips, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming, possessing, and she melted into him despite every reason she shouldn't.
This was a bad idea. This was dangerous. This was—
God, this was good.
She grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, and he growled low in his throat. His hands slid from her face to her waist, yanking her against him, and she could feel every hard line of his body pressed against hers. He was solid. Warm. Real.
He walked her backward until her legs hit the couch. She sat, and he followed, never breaking the kiss. His hands found the hem of her mesh top, slid underneath, and the feel of his palms against her bare skin made her gasp.
"Tatum," he breathed against her mouth.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
His hands tightened on her waist. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands moved up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, and she arched into him.
She wanted this. Wanted him. Had wanted him for longer than she cared to admit.
His mouth moved to her jaw, her neck, finding that spot just below her ear that made her shiver. She tilted her head back, giving him access, and his teeth grazed her skin.
"Oh, god," she moaned.
His hands found the zipper of her pants, and—
Someone knocked on the door.
They both froze.
"Shit," Archer muttered against her neck.
The knock came again. Louder. More insistent.
"It's Ryker. We need to talk. Now."
Archer pulled back, his jaw tight with frustration. He looked at Tatum, and she could see the war in his eyes. The desire. The duty.
Duty won.
"I'll be right back," he said, his voice rough.
He stood, adjusted his shirt, and ran a hand through his hair. Then he crossed to the door and opened it.
Ryker stood there, his expression grim. His eyes flicked to Tatum, then back to Archer.
"We've got a problem," Ryker said.
Archer stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
And just like that, the moment was over. Tatum sat on the couch, her heart still racing, her body still humming with unfulfilled desire. What the hell just happened?
She stood on shaky legs and moved to the window, staring out at the city lights. Her reflection stared back at her, glitter still on her cheekbones, makeup smudged, lips swollen from Archer's kiss. She looked thoroughly debauched. She felt thoroughly confused.
Archer Gray had just kissed her. Told her he couldn’t lose her. Had pulled her against him like he couldn't bear to let her go. Had touched her like he'd been thinking about it for weeks. Maybe he had been. God knew she had. Since the very first time she’d laid eyes on him.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling the pressure of his mouth on hers. The taste of whiskey and something darker. Something dangerous. That was the problem, wasn't it?
Archer was dangerous.
Not in the way the killer was dangerous, though she knew about that side of him too, the cold calculation, the lethal precision. No, he was dangerous in a different way.
He made her want things. Made her feel things. Made her forget all the very good reasons she'd built walls around herself in the first place. She'd spent her entire life being self-sufficient. Independent. Strong. She didn't need anyone.
Except tonight, when she'd run after that killer, and Archer had come after her, she'd felt something shift. Relief. Safety. The knowledge that someone had her back. She’d run after the killer precisely because she knew Archer was with her.
That he would keep her safe. And that terrified her more than any masked killer ever could.
Because wanting Archer meant trusting him. Meant letting him in. Meant giving him the power to hurt her in ways no one else could.
She'd seen what her apartment looked like after someone invaded it. Violated it. Destroyed it. What would she look like if she let Archer in and he did the same to her heart?
Tatum wrapped her arms around herself and stared out at the city. The night replayed in her mind. The club. The killer. The way they'd moved with such purpose, such precision. The way they'd leaned in close to Lebowitz, speaking to him before sliding the knife between his ribs.
It was personal.
Which meant whoever they were, they had a history with Lebowitz. With North. Possibly with Kelly, too.
And if Davis was involved, and she was increasingly certain he was, then the killer was someone connected to him. Someone he trusted enough to bring into the scheme. Someone who had their own reasons for wanting the front men dead.
Her mind spun through possibilities, but exhaustion was starting to creep in. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind bone-deep weariness. And underneath it all, the memory of Archer's hands on her skin. His mouth on hers. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
I can't lose you.
His words echoed in her mind. Had he meant them or had he uttered them in the heat of the moment? Was it emotion or pride? He couldn’t lose her because he cared, or because it would damage his reputation?
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. This was so much more complicated than she'd anticipated. The case. The danger. Archer.
Especially Archer.
Because despite every logical reason to keep her distance, despite the voice in her head screaming that this was a mistake, despite everything, she wanted him.
God help her, she wanted him.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.