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“No.”
“Not once? Jesus, Archer. How do you switch it off so easily? It’s like how you left your family too, huh? You decide you’re out and it’s just… done. You turn these things off so easily?”
“I do what I need to do to serve whatever purpose I’m attempting to serve.” He slides his hand along my arm, hooks his palm around my elbow, then he tugs, yanking me from my chair and lying back in his until we’re side-by-side. His arm wrapped around my shoulders and my thigh nestled high on his. “I needed to leave New York, or I worried I’d end up killing my father. If I didn’t kill him, he’d have killed me. So,” he turns his head and sets his lips on my temple. “I left. Easy as that.”
“And work? Fletch has a juicy case sitting right there for us to pick apart, and nothing? You’re not intrigued at all?”
“I’m confident my best friend and partner can solve a case on his own. He has the dead body, the murder method, and the astute Doctor Emeri by his side. They’re gonna be fine, babe.You only get a week off. Seven days. This is it,” he presses, leaning away to give me room to turn and meet his eyes. “You’re not going to give me another week this year, so yeah, I can switch the other shit off.” His lips curl into a devious smile. “I like the idea of focusing on you for a week. I’m determined to discover new things about you.”
“Yeah? Funny you mention that.”Shut up, shut up, shut up! “I discovered today that you might own a share in this boat.”
Instantly, his cheeks pale. “Hmm?”
“A freakin’ boat, Archer! And not just a regular big-ass boat, but a boat that someone wanted to pay one hundred and thirty million dollars for.”Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!“One hundred and thirtymillioncandy bars!”
“Who said that?” Curious, and not at all pleased about it, he pulls back and glances around the deck with narrowed eyes. “Who gave you those figures?”
“Somebody.” I reach out and grab his jaw to bring him back around to face me. “Someone I won’t identify.”
“Well, that somebody not only has a big mouth, but their information is wrong.”
“Wrong?” I demand. “Wrong how?”
“This boat cost, like, four million dollars. Didn’t costmefour million dollars,” he clarifies quickly. “One hundred and thirty mill is a load of shit. And yes, I own a share in the four-million-dollar-boat, I guess. But four million dollars, minus taxes, split five ways, isn’t even enough to buy an apartment in Copeland these days. It’s hardly even a down payment on a half-decent home.”
“Not one hundred and thirty million dollars?” I search his eyes for the truth. For relief. For mercy. “You don’t own a boat that cost a hundred something million dollars?”
“I absolutely do not own a boat that cost a hundred something million dollars. I promise. So calm the hell down and name your source.”
“Nuh uh.” A nervous laugh rolls along my throat. “Not naming my source. Never, ever will I name my sources.”
“Pain in my ass.” He settles in and relaxes, holding me close and exhaling a noisy, contented sigh. “What’s your problem with money, anyway? It’s money. Money pays the bills.”
“I don’t have a problem with it. In fact, I like it.” I glance up and smile when our eyes meet. “I like money very much, because it buys coffee pods and comfortable mattresses. But one hundred and thirty million dollars?” The very thought makes my stomach roll. “Completely and utterly unnecessary. I can’t afford that kind of salary disparity, and I don’t have the energy to work out the percentages between our net worth to make our rent contribution fair.”
“Our rent contribution?”
“Right. Like, the rent for our apartment is sixteen hundred dollars, right? Split that in two and we’re each paying eight hundred dollars a month. Split that by four weeks per month, and we’re each paying about two hundred dollars a week to stay in that dump and listen to the loud bar next door as it pumps music at three in the morning.”
Playing along, he chuckles. “Okay. Two hundred dollars a week. What of it?”
“Well… we’re both essentially on the mayor’s payroll. The city pays us, as public servants. And though I haven’t asked what they pay you, and you haven’t asked what they pay me?—”
“Ninety-eight thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three dollars a year.”
“They—” Stunned, I jerk back and study his eyes, my stomach flipping when his lips curl. “Excuse me?”
“Ninety-eight thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three dollars a year,” he repeats. “I asked.”
“Who the hell did you ask? And why? Why were you so interested in my salary, Archer Malone?”
“Because I need to know they’re paying you right. Which,” he drops a kiss on the tip of my nose. “They’re not.”
“They’re not?”
“I mean… statistically, you fall right there in the average range. But personally…” He firms his lips. “You’re not a statistic, Chief, and you bleed and sweat and work yourself to death for that building. Hence,” he flashes a playful grin, “you deserve more. But please,” he presses before I can argue. “Go back to theyour salary, my salarything.”
My nostrils flare with anger. With indignation. Perhaps with a little embarrassment, because the man knows exactly what I bring to our relationship each year, and yet, none of it makes its way into any kind of joint savings we might wish to work on together. Instead, an easy sixty percent of my salary is spent on my medication. And now that I know he knows what I make, that means he’s aware I contribute nothing to our future.
