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I rest my head on his shoulder. “Good.”
I’m such an idiot.
There were more than enough red flags waving over Archer’s head. With everything I don’t know about him, why the hell did I fall for this… whatever the hell this is?
Elijah gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “Think you can do it?”
I take a deep breath. When all is said and done, there’s still a principle in play here.
He knows too much. He knows about the lake house and that Dante’s alive and all of my own foolish weaknesses.
Archer Allen has to die.
“Yes,” I answer.
Chapter 18
Archer
Three more days until Friday. I can find some way to kill time until then without going mad.
I hope.
I can’t go a minute without sensing her around me, tasting her on my lips, or catching a whiff of her scent.
Lilah, Lilah, Lilah.
My favorite bounty, indeed.
Even the stench of blood and sweat and the promise of man-on-man beatings isn’t enough to curb the very thought of her.
The two fighters circle each other in the ring, trading blow after blow while the eager St. Louis crowd blazes around me. They chant the names of their fighters and coo over the pretty blonde with the microphone who lassos them in. I must admit, these Midwest boys aren’t bad, but I prefer a little more style in my mixed martial arts.
The fight ends with one of them tapping out and the blonde arrives on cue to soothe the losing side’s wallets with her robust cleavage.
I glance at my watch. Three more days…
I leave the tournament a few dollars richer than when I went in and head across the parking lot toward my trailer to try and get some sleep.
A cold scent stings my nose, stopping me in my tracks as I step inside. That deadly and familiar mix of nicotine and Chanel No. 5.
“Close the door, Archer.”
I deflate with the sound of her voice, willing the chill to cease as it fires down my back. Her shape hovers in my peripheral vision, casting a ghostly shadow over my damn bed. Dark blue dress. Jet black hair. Pale white skin.
I pull the door closed behind me before daring to look up. When I do, she purses her painted lips around the butt of her cigarette and the cherry burns orange.
“I’ve asked you before not to smoke in here,” I say.
Myra blows the smoke out, creating an arch over her head to fill the space around her with floating, white wisps. She flicks the cigarette to the floor and crushes it with her open-toed heel as she stands.
“Well…” she says, “I am impressed.”
I wince with annoyance at the fresh, black stain on my carpet. “With what?”
“You’re still alive, for one.”
“No thanks to you,” I say. “If you wanted me dead so badly, why didn’t you just do it yourself?”
