Shaken twisted fox book.., p.19
Shaken (Twisted Fox Book 2), page 19
“I do. You lost someone you loved, but so did I.”
“He died because of your negligence, your selfishness.”
“Like father, like son then, huh?” I scoff. “You didn’t kill someone, but you put your son in prison.”
He winces. “Lincoln and I are working through our issues, and it doesn’t concern you. You can’t compare prison to death.”
“Do you really …” My voice trails off momentarily. “Do you honestly think I killed him?”
He works his strong jaw before replying, “Did you push him into the pool or hold his head underwater? No. But your actions resulted in his death. I’ll never go back on that, go back on the truth.”
“Wow.” I shake my head, planting my palms on the table. “Coming here was a mistake.”
He nods in agreement. “You didn’t come here to make amends. You came to argue, to vent out your frustrations since his anniversary was a few days ago.”
I stand. “Go fuck yourself. Don’t call me. Don’t speak to me again.”
“Archer—”
I turn around and leave.
34
Georgia
“I don’t care what anyone says, no one serves margaritas and queso like La Mesa,” I say, shoving a chip dripping with queso into my mouth.
“I swear, you’d think I raised you in a barn,” Cohen comments from across the table, eyeing me from over his menu and shaking his head.
Noah stares up at him, blinking. “You raised Aunt Georgia in a barn?” He frowns. “Why can’t we live in a barn? I love barns because that’s where they have horses!” He shakes his chip in the air, shoves it in the queso bowl, and tosses it in his mouth.
Like aunt, like nephew.
Cohen didn’t raise no queso haters.
The older Noah gets, the more he reminds me of Cohen. His chestnut-colored hair has grown out and is spiked up with gel, and he’s sporting his Single & Unemployed shirt—a gift from me. He has the sweetest smile, which cons me out of cupcakes like crazy. Every time I babysit, the kid needs his cupcakes. To which I gladly oblige.
“Oh shit, look who showed up,” Finn calls out.
“Language,” Grace warns in her teacher voice, jerking her head toward Noah.
“Archer!” Noah shouts, throwing up his arms and swinging them in the air.
At his name, I glance up and train my eyes on Archer and Lincoln approaching us. My mouth waters for more than a margarita. The Callahan men are a sight for sore eyes.
Archer’s broad shoulders are covered by a black tee and his hair pulled back into a loose man bun. The man bun isn’t a frequent style for him, and I never thought I’d be attracted to them before Archer came along.
Archer has switched up my type.
Shitty attitude.
Allergic to fun.
Plays mind games.
Scruff and man bun.
I scrunch up my face.
He’s been a total fuckboy, but after our night at Bailey’s, I’ve grown more understanding of him. It’s not an excuse for his behavior, but I know where his pain comes from now.
“How the hell did you convince him to come?” Finn asks, resulting in a playful elbow nudge from Grace. “He’s turned us down for Taco Tuesday for years.”
Lincoln chuckles, rubbing his hand over his strong jaw. “I told him it was either we come here or I was inviting you over to his place.”
“Suckered,” Grace says, laughing.
Today is my first time seeing Archer since the night at Bailey’s. He texted me an hour after I left, thanking me for taking care of him, and I texted him the next morning to check on him. Neither one of us mentioned the whole dry-humping in the car event.
It all finally makes sense.
Why Archer is the way he is and why his family claims he hasn’t always been this way. I can’t imagine the pain he had when it happened, the guilt he lives with day after day. It makes me want him more, makes me want to help heal him.
That night, when I slid into bed, all I thought about was his mouth on mine. The taste of his tongue. His hands on me. His secrets he’d given to me.
Surprising everyone, Archer takes the chair next to mine. He smiles and doesn’t seem fazed that everyone is eyeing him as though he’s lost his mind.
“I think motherfucking hell has frozen over but granted me with tacos for some good deeds I did,” Finn says.
Grace slaps his shoulder. “Really?”
“Nah,” Silas says. “Last I heard, they don’t serve tacos in hell.”
“Can you guys please stop cussing in front of my kid?” Cohen says in his best dad voice.
“It’s okay,” Noah says. “I know cuss words, like shit and fu—”
Jamie cups her hand around his mouth. “Enough of that talk.”
“Jamie,” Lola gasps. “What are you teaching him?”
Cohen drags his finger down the table, motioning to us. “It’s all of you that have no filter.”
They start arguing about what words Noah learned where—most of them probably coming from me—and I stare over at Archer.
“How have you been?” I ask, keeping my voice down.
He bows his head, his tone just as low. “Better. Not good, but better.”
I offer a small smile. “I’m glad.”
“Thank you for being there for me, Georgia.” He shuts his eyes and blows out a breath. “My night would’ve ended a lot worse had you not hunted me down and stayed with me.”
“You’re finally realizing that no matter what, you can’t get rid of me?”
He chuckles. “This is easier, you know. We went about it all wrong.”
“What’s easier?”
“Us not pretending to hate each other.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
He gestures to the table. “So this is Taco Tuesday, huh?”
“See what you’ve been missing?”
He laughs—something I’ve rarely heard from him. It’s deep and husky and manly, and it shoots straight into my soul.
When I glance away from him, I notice everyone’s attention is pinned in our direction, even Noah’s. Our friends know something happened between us, but the only ones who know the full story are Grace and Lola. I doubt Archer is telling people he ditched me that morning. Lola says Silas pressed her for details, but she wouldn’t budge. Then Silas brought his interrogation to me, which I ignored. He didn’t even bother taking it to Archer.
“Carry on,” Archer says, and they return to their different tasks—dipping chips into salsa, studying the menu, grabbing their phones—pretending we’re not their chosen entertainment.
As much as I want to ask him a hundred questions about our night at Bailey’s, I hold back. This isn’t the place for that convo.
“How annoying was Lincoln to get you here?”
“On a scale from one to ten, a good fifteen.”
I smile. “I like your brother. He’s good for you.”
“I’m glad he’s home.” He opens the menu. “What do you suggest?”
“Uh …” I chew on my bottom lip. “The margaritas are to die for.”
“Not much of a margarita man.”
My hand dramatically flies to my chest. “Have you ever had a margarita?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Shut up.” I slap his arm. “You’ve never had one, have you?”
“Again, do I look like a margarita man?” He gestures to himself.
“You are tonight.” I call over our waiter. “Top-shelf margarita for my man over here.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Archer argues.
“He’s good to order one.” I smile at the waiter. “Make that two. One for him. One for me.”
“Look at Georgia, bossing Archer around like she’s his babysitter,” Silas says. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Aunt Georgia is the best babysitter ever!” Noah chimes in. “She buys me extra cupcakes and lets me have sugar in my Cheerios.”
Cohen narrows his eyes at me.
I shrug, ignoring Cohen’s dirty look. “They don’t make it sweet enough.”
The waiter drops off our margaritas, and I wait for Archer to take a drink before touching mine. It’s almost comical, watching him tip his head down and suck the margarita goodness from the straw.
He swallows it, his face puckering. “Sweet as hell, but not too bad.”
I smile. “Don’t lie. You love it.”
He chuckles.
I laugh.
And I wish we’d had this all along.
“You know he’s in love with you, right?” Lincoln says, stealing Archer’s chair after he leaves for a restroom break.
“What?”
Did he say that, or were the margs stronger than what I thought?
He jerks his head in the direction Archer headed. “My brother. He’s in love with you.”
I snort. “Yeah, right.”
He leans back in his chair, tents his hands together, and holds them to his mouth. “Archer Callahan is here for Taco Tuesday. You think that’s the norm for him?”
“Well, no,” I answer softly, chewing on my bottom lip. “You told him it was either come here or there’d be a party at his place. It’s no surprise he chose here.”
Archer has feelings for me; there’s no denying that.
But love?
That’s on a completely different level.
That’s on my level.
He chuckles. “Come on. You know Archer would kick each one of you out if he didn’t want you there. He’s here because he thought I’d flirt and then fall in love with you too. He’s pissed I call you babe.”
I’m silent, processing Lincoln’s claim.
Lincoln squeezes my shoulder. “Give him time, Georgia. He’s opening up to you. Hell, he talked to you about our grandfather’s death—something he hasn’t done with me, my parents, or his ex. You’re someone to him, and the closer you two grow, the clearer it gets.”
I’m in bed, tossing peanut M&M’s in my mouth and catching up on Schitt’s Creek when my phone vibrates. Setting my snack to the side, I stretch across my bed and snatch my phone off my nightstand.
Lincoln: Can you do me a favor?
Weird. Lincoln never randomly texts me.
Me: Depends on what it is. No, I won’t have your baby. Yes, I will let you buy me a new car.
Lincoln: I know it’s late, but can you go to the bar?
No smart-ass response. Not good.
Me: Okay …
Lincoln: Go see Archer there. It’s important. I’ll explain later.
Me: Give me 15.
Lincoln: Thank you.
I jump out of bed, slip on my shoes, and snatch my M&M’s container for the road. Lincoln’s text caught me off guard, and my stomach knots harder with every mile I get closer to the bar.
I swerve into the back parking lot, scurry to the door, and let myself in. The bar is silent—no shocker since we’re closed—and I stroll down the unlit hall. When I reach Archer’s office, the light is on, and the door is cracked open.
I knock.
No answer.
Holding my breath, I peek through the opening. Archer’s shoulders are hunched forward in his chair, and his head is in his hands.
“Archer, are you okay?” I ask, hesitating before tiptoeing into his office.
I gasp when he lifts his head.
His face is red.
Tearstained.
“Archer,” I repeat, “are you okay?”
I’ve seen this man resentful—the night his father went to prison.
I’ve seen him sad—the anniversary of his grandfather’s death.
But this is different.
This is broken.
I creep closer.
“My dad is dead,” he states with a restrained stare.
I halt. “What?”
“He had a heart attack. He’s dead.”
I tense, my hand clutching my chest. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “I visited him for the first time in prison last week. It didn’t go well. The entire time he was locked up, I ignored his calls. We hated each other.” He slams his hand onto his desk. “He died in prison. We’d argued, and I’d told him to go fuck himself.” He bitterly scoffs. “I argue with someone, and then they die. I’m the goddamn angel of death.”
He keeps his vacant stare forward when I stand next to him.
“Archer,” I whisper, “that’s not true.”
“Appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but it is.”
“Look at me.”
He spins in his chair, and his gaze cuts to me before he rises. I gasp when his lips crash into mine—hard and needy and desperate. He slips an arm around my waist, yanking my body to his, and his tongue slips into my mouth. I taste him while he devours my mouth—the flavor of his booze drawing me in. Picking me up, he steadies me on the edge of the desk, my ass slightly slipping off. He parts my legs and settles his large body between them.
“I need you,” he groans into my mouth. “I need to be inside you.”
Reaching down, he roughly tugs at the drawstring of my sweats, and just as he’s shoving his hand down them, I push him back.
“No. I refuse to be your distraction or how you cope with your loss.” I shake my head. “You’re not releasing your pain by screwing me.”
“Let me eat your pussy then,” he pleads. “Let me suck on your clit. Please.”
It’s tempting.
There’s nothing I’d love more than his hands, his tongue, getting me off.
He retreats a step when I slide off the desk and tie my sweats.
“I’ll be here for you, but I’m not sleeping with you.” I hold out my hand. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Nah, I’m sleeping here.”
“You’re not sleeping here.” I snap my fingers. “Let’s go, or I’ll call Lincoln to come get you.”
Speaking of Lincoln …
How’s he doing?
He captures my hand, his grip tight as though I’m his lifeline. Not a word is spoken while I lead him out of the building, lock up, and we walk to my car. I assist him into it, but he moves my hand when I try to buckle the seat belt and clicks it himself.
“Have you talked to Lincoln?” I ask, turning out of the parking lot.
“He’s with my mother.”
“Do you want me to take you there?”
He shakes his head. “She asked to be alone. I asked to be alone. Lincoln understood my request but was worried about Mom, so he’s there with her.”
He scrubs at his eyes with his knuckles and tips his head back, not muttering a word during the drive.
When I reach his building, he shifts and settles his gaze on me, torment in his eyes. “Will you stay?”
My eyes widen, and I shake my head.
“Not for sex. To keep me company, so I don’t lose my goddamn mind.”
“I thought you wanted to be alone?”
“It’s different with you. I like to be alone or with you. You put me at ease, giving me a peace I’ve never experienced.” He reaches out and strokes my face with the pad of his thumb. “Stay.”
“I told you—”
“I’ll sleep on the couch; you can have my bed. Just stay with me.” Silent tears fall down his cheeks.
“Okay, I’ll stay.”
His shoulders relax, and after parking, we walk into his building. Swinging his arm back, he snatches my hand and leads me to the penthouse.
I drop his hand when we walk in. “I need to text Lincoln and let him know you’re okay.”
He nods, kisses my forehead, and heads into the kitchen.
Me: He’s home, safe and sound. I’m so sorry about your dad.
Lincoln: Mom popped an Ambien and is sleeping. I can come home.
I join Archer in the kitchen and read him the text message.
“Tell Lincoln to stay his ass there.”
I follow him into the living room, and he collapses on the couch as I’m replying to Lincoln.
Me: He said to stay your ass there.
Lincoln: Not surprising.
Me: I told him I’d stay.
Lincoln: You’re amazing. Thank you, Georgia … for everything.
My next text goes to Cohen. I tell him the news and ask him to cover Archer’s shift tomorrow night. Archer might not like it, but he needs time to heal.
Sex, working too much, locking up your pain—it will only last so long. Archer has reached his breaking point.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.
“Shit, sit down, Georgia.” He shakes his head and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Here we are again, you coming to my rescue when it should be the other way around.” His voice cracks. “Do you see it now? Why you’re too good for me?”
I settle in the space next to him. “Archer, everyone has their issues. Right now, yours are more intense than mine, but I’m sure, somewhere along the road, I’ll need you too.”
His stares at me vacantly. “Lincoln is crashing in the guest room, so you can have my bed.”
“Okay,” I whisper, not pushing.
Now isn’t the time for relationship talk. He needs time to grieve. Despite his relationship with his father, he’s hurting. His wet eyes, broken voice, and desperation are clear.
He stands and jerks his head toward a hall. “I’ll show you where it is.”
Not that I need the tour.
I’ve been here before—in this home, in his bedroom, in his bed. The massive bed has a new duvet cover, going from white to black, but everything else is the same.
“Do you need something to sleep in?”
I shake my head. “No, this is fine.”
He awkwardly stands in the doorway, his face slack. “Watch a movie with me? Hang out for a minute? Stay with me longer.”
I nod and walk out of the bedroom. He rests his hand along my back as we return to the living room. As soon as I sit on the couch, he’s dragging me into his arms.
“My last words to him were fuck off and don’t speak to me again,” he whispers into my ear, settling my back to his chest.
I reach up, gripping the back of his neck before massaging it. “You didn’t know this would happen. You were angry and thought you would have time to make it right, to cool off.”
