Archer's Voice (12 page)

Archer stood up and let his hair down out of whatever had been holding it away from his face. He walked to a small table behind the couch and picked up a
small tube of something. When he walked back over to the couch and sat down next to me again, putting the tube on his lap, he said,
I'm going to put some of this antibiotic ointment on your scratches so they don't get infected.

I guessed that he was done talking about himself. I wanted to press, but I didn't. I knew better than anyone that if you weren't ready to talk about something, no one should
try to force you to.

I looked down at my arms and legs. There were several small scratches and a few larger ones. They stung
very slightly, but nothing serious. I nodded okay to Archer.

He opened the
ointment and began using one finger to rub a little bit on each abrasion.

As he leaned clo
ser to me, I inhaled his clean, soap scent, something masculine and all Archer right beneath it. His hand stilled and his eyes darted to mine and held my gaze. Time seemed to stop and my heart sped up right before Archer broke our gaze and looked away, putting the top back on the small tube and setting it down in his lap.

That'll help,
he said, standing up again. That's when I noticed his feet and gasped. There were cuts all over them, large and small, and they looked red and slightly swollen.
Oh my God! What happened to your feet?
I asked.

He looked down at them as if he was just noticing that he was injured.
I couldn't find my shoes when I heard you screaming,
he said.
They'll be fine.

Oh, Archer
, I said, looking down
. I'm so sorry. You should bandage them. If you have some, I'll wrap them for–

No need.
I put some ointment on them. They'll be fine in the morning.

I sighed.
Surely ointment would help, but it wouldn't heal him overnight. Not with injuries that looked that bad. His feet looked shredded. God, he had run over rocks and sharp branches and thorny ground cover to rescue me.

I stood up.
Can I use your bathroom?

He nodded, pointing at a door right off the main room.

I walked past him and into the small bathroom. Everything was clean and tidy in here too–the sink and mirror shiny and a light lemony fragrance in the air. I couldn't fault his housekeeping skills, that was for sure.

Sitting on the vanity was a bar of soap on one side and on the other side, every form of dental cleaning product available–an electric toothbrush, floss, several different bottles
of mouthwash, dental piks, and–I picked up a bottle–fluoride tablets. Okay, so the guy was a little overly serious about dental health. Nothing to fault him for there either, I guessed.

I used the restroom and then went back out to join Archer. I smiled at him.
So, I see you're pretty serious about your teeth,
I said teasingly
.

He smiled back and shook his head slightly, bringing one hand to the back of his neck
. His hair hung in his face and I wanted to pull it back the way he'd had it so that I could see his beautiful face better again.

My uncle didn't trust doctors or dentists.
He said they'd implant tracking devices if given access to your body. I watched him pull a rotten molar with a pair of pliers once.
He grimaced.
The health of my teeth became a big priority after that.

I grimaced.
Oh God! That's awful,
I said,
about your uncle pulling his own tooth, I mean. Being diligent about dental health, though–it's a good habit.
I couldn't help laughing slightly, and he smiled back at me, seeming more relaxed. 

After a second, he asked,
Are you hungry?

Starving
.

He nodded.
I don't have a big selection. I could make some soup?

That sounds great,
I said.
Let me do it. I promised you a big meal and instead had a nervous breakdown. Really bad manners.
I bit my lip, but then laughed softly, shrugging my shoulders apologetically.

He looked at me and chuckled, his diaphragm moving under his t-shirt, but no sound coming from his mouth. It was the very first time he'd done something close to laug
h in my presence. I drank it in, loving those creases in his cheeks.

We made dinner in his small, not surprisingly clean, kitchen.
Chicken noodle soup and rolls. When I looked in his refrigerator, I turned back to him.
Peanut butter, jelly, applesauce? Are you six?
I grinned at him.

He didn't smile back
, though, just looked at me for a few beats as if considering my question.
In some ways, yes, Bree. In other ways, no.

The smile disappeared from my face.
Oh God, Archer, I'm sorry. That was really inconsiderate–
but he grabbed my hands to stop me and we stood that way for a few seconds, both of us just staring at our entwined fingers.

Finally, he let go and said,
Bonus for friends of mine, though–I have twirly straws in that cabinet right there. We can blow bubbles in our chocolate milk.
He tilted his head, indicating a cabinet over my shoulder.

I turned around slowly and then turned back to him to see him grinning. I tilted my head to the side.
You being funny?

He just kept grinning. I laughed.
Good work,
I said, winking.

Archer showed me where his pots and pans were and I got busy heating up the soup.
The appliances were older, but Archer had installed the most beautiful cement countertops. I'd seen something like it on an HGTV show one time, but they were nowhere near as beautiful as the ones he had done. As the soup heated, I ran my hand along them, marveling at his skill.

We ate at his small kitchen table and then
cleaned up, mostly in companionable silence. I couldn't help being aware of him as he moved around the kitchen, his tall, lean body skirting around mine. I could see every muscle under his t-shirt, and I watched his arms flex as he washed and dried the dishes we had used, while I pretended to wipe down the already-clean counters.

When he was done, he turned to me,
still holding a dishrag. He dried his hands as we looked at each other, something sizzling in the air between us. I swallowed hard, and I saw him swallow too, my eyes lingering on his scar for a portion of a second.

I looked back up at him and
said,
I should go.

He put the towel down and shook his head saying,
I can't let you ride your bike home in the dark, and I can't walk that distance yet.
He looked down at his feet, indicating his injuries.
I'll be fine in the morning and walk you then.

I nodded, "Um…" I said, then signed,
Okay. I can sleep on your couch.

Archer shook his head.
No, you can sleep in my bed.
When my eyes got wide, his face paled, and he closed his eyes for a couple beats.
I mean, I'll sleep on the couch and you can take my bed,
he clarified. Spots of color stained his cheekbones and I swear I felt my heart flip over once in my chest.

"I couldn't do that," I whispered.

Yes you can,
he said, walking past me, out of the kitchen.

I followed him into the room across from the bathroom and looked around at the sparsely furnishe
d room–just a bed and a dresser and a small chair in the corner. There weren't any knick knacks or photographs or anything.

I just washed the sheets a couple days ago. They're… clean,
he said, looking away from me, those same red spots appearing on his upper cheekbones.

I nodded.
Okay,
I said.
Thank you, Archer. For everything. Thank you.

He nodded at m
e, our eyes lingering, and when our shoulders touched as he was walking out of the room, I felt him jerk slightly. He closed the door behind him.

I looked around the room one more time and noticed that there actually was a small photogra
ph lying down on the top of his dresser. I walked over and picked it up delicately. It was a beautiful girl, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulder, laughing at the person behind the camera. She looked carefree and happy. She looked like she was in love. I realized why her smile looked so familiar–it was Archer's smile. This must be his mother, Alyssa McRae, I thought. I turned the photo over and on the back was written, 'My beautiful Lys, Love forever, C.'
C? Connor. Archer's uncle. The man who had shot him.
He was such a town hero, though–they must not know that he had shot his nephew. "But how is that possible?" I asked the girl in the photo softly. Her large brown eyes remained smiling, not giving me a clue. I placed the photo back down where it had been.

I undressed quickly, down to my under
wear and bra and pulled back the covers and got in Archer's bed. It smelled like him–soap and clean male.

As I lay there in his bed, I thought of him in the other room, his long body probably hanging over the end of the couch. I
inhaled the scent of him on his sheets and pictured him shirtless, the moonlight shining in on his smooth, bare chest and I shivered slightly. He was just mere feet from me on the other side of the wall.

Thinking about Archer that way felt just a little dangerous–I didn't know if it was a good idea. Thinking about it now, I r
ealized that there had been a chemistry between us from the very start. It had just been difficult to classify because of all the ways he was so different. And I
still
felt a little confused. But apparently my body did not feel confused at all as my hormones flash fired through me, my veins filling with heat, my mind unable to let go of the images of he and I tangled together in these very sheets, those beautiful, whiskey colored eyes filled with passion.

I turned over and adjusted the pillow,
groaning softly into it and closing my eyes tightly, willing myself to sleep. After a little while, even though I had slept for several hours earlier that evening, I fell into a peaceful sleep and didn't wake up until the sunrise, muted by the trees around the house, was lighting the room.

**********

I sat up and stretched, looking around at Archer's room in the morning sunlight. I pulled on my shorts and tank and peeked my head out his door. He was nowhere in sight and so I headed straight across the hall to his bathroom. I did my business and used my finger to brush my teeth and gargle with his mouthwash. I washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked okay. My eyes were still very slightly swollen, but other than that, I didn't think my freak-out had left me looking too worse for wear this morning. I smoothed my hair back and leaned against the sink.

Thinking of my freak-out had
me thinking of the flashback that was sure to come on any second now. It would be better if I had it alone, out of Archer's sight. He probably already thought I was half nuts. Letting him see my PTSD episode would definitely convince him that I was fully there.

I stood against the sink for a few minutes, closing my eyes and willing the flashback
to do its worst while I was locked away behind closed doors. Nothing happened.

I turned on the water and imagined it was the rain falling down around me, just like that night. Nothing happened.

I tried to stamp down the hope that blossomed in my chest–I had been hopeful in the recent past that the flashbacks had stopped, right before being cast into an attack.

I closed my eyes and thought about the night before, what Archer had said to me when I told him my deepest shame, that I had done nothing as my father was gunned down
, as I was almost raped. He hadn't looked at me with disgust… but rather with
understanding
. Relief washed through my body again at the memory alone.

And I had cried more than I knew I could. I had cried a river of tears… for my dad, for the loss I felt everyday at losing my best friend,
my person
… for losing
myself
somewhere along the way, for running away…

I opened my eyes, biting my fingernail and worrying my brow. Is that what I had needed? Was that the purpose of the flashbacks all along? To force me to face what I was run
ning from? That felt right. But it was only part of it. Maybe I needed to feel safe and accepted in my pain before I was set free from this daily misery. I had needed someone who would understand and hold me as I cried.

I had needed Archer.

I swung the bathroom door open and walked quickly through the house, calling to him. He wasn't inside. I ran outside and called for him. After a few minutes, he walked from the direction of the lake through the trees and stood there looking questioningly at me.