Chapter 18
Archer
London and I haven't spoken in forty-eight hours and I don't know what's worse, her silent treatment or her incessant nagging. Part of me wishes she'd go back to yelling at me about nothing and everything instead of closing me out.
But closing me out is what is best for us. Every time we talk, we argue, for no real reason, and it ends in the same heated passion between us that neither one of us can seem to ignore.
This is better. London is here temporarily and once she's gone, I'll return to my life of solitude. My life of numbing the pain and ignoring everything else as much as I possibly can.
"Will you wash my hair?" she asks me, the sound of her voice startling me from my daze.
I blink a few times and turn toward her, unsure of whether I imagined her to begin with.
"Uh, hello?" She snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Archer."
I clear my throat and stand from my desk.
"Yeah." I make my way over to the bathroom but notice she's already got the supplies sitting in the kitchen on the counter.
How unaware was I that she managed to do that without me noticing?
I change my course of action and go to the counter, my mind begging to be anywhere but here.
London stands at the end of the island, her hands to her sides, her eyes trained on me.
"Right." I approach her, grab under her arms, and hoist her onto the counter.
"Are you okay?" she asks me while lying on her back. "You're being weirder than usual."
"I'm my normal weird," I tell her and turn on the water, adjusting the faucet until I get the right temperature.
"Are you going to keep giving me the silent treatment?" London looks up at me from her position on the counter, her eyes squinted when I bring the nozzle over.
"I thought you were giving me the silent treatment," I tell her and rinse her hair, making sure to cover her forehead and not splatter her too much.
I lather some shampoo into my hands before massaging it into her hair, paying special attention to her scalp and not pushing too hard.
The last time we did this she mentioned a skull fracture, and I don't exactly want to make that worse.
"Truce?" London says, and I can't tell if she's being genuine or not. "I mean, I'm still mad at you for ruining my birthday, but you kind of made up for it."
"How about I let you ruin my birthday? Then we can call it even?" I rinse the shampoo from her hair and squeeze as much water out as possible before putting some conditioner through her ends.
"Deal." London closes her eyes and for a minute it's like she's enjoying this. "Hey, we should probably go to the grocery store."
"Yeah, we're getting low on supplies. I was going to go tomorrow morning, but if you want to go…”
"I've never been."
I stop moving and look at her. "What?"
London shrugs. "We had a housekeeper and I'm pretty sure she went."
"Okay, yeah, we're definitely popping your grocery store cherry then."
"Ew, that makes it sound gross."
"We can go when we're done with your hair, if you want." I finish getting the conditioner out, smoothing some of the tangles, and wrap her hair in a towel. "I can blow-dry it for you."
London sits up, holding the mass of her towel-covered hair, and looks at me, a hint of suspicion lining her brow. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"I'm not. I'm just trying to avoid hearing you complain for an hour." I wipe off the counter and grab the supplies, taking them back to the bathroom where they belong. "Come on," I call out to her.
Once I've put everything away, I plug the blow-dryer in and point to the counter for her to sit on.
London scoots on top and turns to face the mirror.
I brush through her hair carefully, not tugging too much on the tangles that appear, and not scraping her with the bristles when I get near her face.
Each motion is slow and steady, my attention too focused on such a mundane task.
It takes me at least ten minutes to fully blow-dry London's hair, our gazes meeting in the mirror from time to time.
I go over it one last time and shut the thing off, twisting the cord around it and setting it under the sink.
"I was thinking about braiding it," she says, her fingers reaching for her red locks.
"I saw you trying to braid it a few days ago," I admit. "Can I try?"
"Sure." London lowers her arms and steadies a breath as she watches me in the mirror.
A strange pressure falls on my shoulders, a sort of performance anxiety I've never experienced in the past. I push the sensation aside and focus on my task, divvying her hair into three sections at the top and desperately trying to remember the instructions from the countless YouTube videos I scoured.
After smoothing out the rest of the hair, I cross the sections, bringing hair into each one on the other side.
I repeat the movement, adding hair and crossing it over, only getting hung up twice and having to backtrack.
Once I'm at the bottom of her head, I finish the braid without adding any more hair and hold it steady while I reach into the drawer for a hair tie.
Examining my creation, I doubt myself and come to terms with the fact that doing hair is not in my level of expertise. It's sort of bumpy, and some of the sections are bigger than the others, not to mention it's crooked.
"Let me start over," I say but London moves from my grasp, her hand gently skimming the hump of the braid.
"Holy shit, big boy. I didn't think you had it in you." She turns her head and checks it out in the mirror, pivoting and moving all about to get all the angles. "You braid better than me without a cast on."
I chuckle and rub at my neck. "You don't have to lie."
"I'm not lying," London tells me and hops off the counter. She approaches, right in front of me, and stands on her tiptoes, pressing her lips on my cheek. "Thank you."
I remain there a long moment after she's gone, unsure of what just happened.
We went from arguing, to hooking up, to the silent treatment, to her thanking me for doing her hair.
Just when I think I've gotten things figured out, she goes and throws me completely off.
London doesn't take much longer to get ready, which only continues to confuse me. In the little over a week I've known her, nothing she does is quick, and some things I'm not mad about…
I dismiss the thought of my lips on her pussy and watch her as she makes her way to the front door, the brown purse I bought her in her grasp. "Are you coming or not, big boy?"
"Right behind you." I follow her over, grabbing my keys off the table near the door. "Want to take the bike?"
She glares at me and it sends a strange satisfaction coursing through me. I'm not one for purposely antagonizing someone, but she dishes it enough to take it from time to time.
I make certain the lock is secure, checking it twice before continuing. My feet stop in their tracks when my sights land on Camille coming up the stairs. "Shit," I whisper, knowing damn well London has already spotted her.
"Arch, hey!" Camille says once she spots me. I wasn't sure how mad she'd be at me for what I did to Drew, but so far she doesn't seem bothered. Maybe he was too much of a coward to mention it.
"Hey, Cami." I awkwardly wave and catch London's questioning stare.
She darts right around me, extending her hand toward Camille. "Hi, Camille, I'm London."
Camille shoots me a glance and shakes London's hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Same to you," London continues. "Listen, I don't mean to be too forward, but I heard you're going to be subleasing your apartment. I'd love to be considered."
"Oh, you're in the market for a place?" Camille studies London from head to toe, probably trying to determine whether she can afford to live in this neighborhood.
"I am. I'm new to town. I'd love to stay around here." London clears her throat. "I'm sure Archer would vouch for me, right?" She turns toward me, her expression looking like a mix of "please help me" and "if you don’t, I'm going to kill you."
"Uh, yeah. Definitely," I lie. Even if London didn't drive me insane, she's a mess.
I'd never willingly let her rent from me, especially if I wasn't there to pick up after her.
London will destroy Camille's place in a week, two max.
But right now, I'd rather keep that a secret because there's no way Camille is going to choose London over any of the other applicants who have no doubt a better renter’s history than her.
"Okay. Sure. I'll think about it. Maybe we could chat over coffee sometime. Are you free next Tuesday morning?" Camille says to London, no doubt just being polite since we're neighbors.
"Absolutely," London tells her enthusiastically. "Works for me."
"Great, just give me your number…" Camille opens her phone screen and hands it to London, who has to pull her own phone out and locate the digits.
"Sorry, new phone. I haven't memorized it yet."
Camille laughs. "I get that. Anyway, it was good meeting you. I'll text you Monday with a more specific time and place, my work schedule changes from day to day."
"Sounds good, see you later," London says.
I offer her a wave and she disappears behind the door of her apartment.
"I wouldn't hold your breath," I tell London and make my way toward the stairs. "I'm sure she's had dozens of applicants."
London stops in her tracks. "You act like Mister Big and Bad and have no sway over who she chooses?
I would think you'd be thrilled about this.
The sooner I find a place, the sooner I'm out of your hair.
Not to mention it's the closest I can be without being inside your apartment, allowing you to keep your word to Silver until I get things figured out.
Why don't you want this?" Her eyes widen.
"You like me living with you, don't you? "
"No. I don't. What did you call it…unbearable? Yeah, it's that." I leave her and head down the stairs, not wanting to continue this conversation.