Page 114 of A Million To Fall

“Archer,” he says, puffed up.

Her mouth quirks. “Of course it is,” she deadpans, before turning back to Jack just as he slides a tall glass of water her way.

I can’t help noticing how she brushes Archer off so effortlessly, how she stands her ground without even breaking a sweat. I wonder what that feels like.

Randi takes the water. “Keep an eye on me, Jackie.” She gives the bartender a wink.

“You know I will, Trouble.” Jack chuckles as the girl walks off, then studies Archer’s ID. A good ten seconds later, he slides the ID back across the counter. “Sorry, man, I won’t be able to serve you alcohol today.”

Archer snatches it up. “Why the hell not?” His prior, confident tone has sharpened into something gruff.

Jack smiles calmly. “I think you know why.”

Archer shrugs. “Wanna enlighten me?”

Jack remains calm while that vein on Archer’s forehead begins to protrude, and I try my hardest to become invisible.

“That ID’s fake.”

Archer sits up, shoulders squaring like he’s trying to fill more space than his body allows. “Are you accusing me of something?” he says, loud enough that a couple heads turn from nearby tables.

Jack doesn’t so much as blink. “Just stating a fact.”

Archer bristles, his jaw flexing. “Get me your manager,” he snaps, his voice the perfect mix of entitled and pissed-off.

Jack shrugs, utterly unfazed, then puts two fingers between his lips and lets out a sharp whistle that cuts through the hum of conversation like a blade.

Seconds later, a guy steps forward. Tall, lean, a dark ball cap shadowing his eyes, but I don’t miss the defined lines of his jaw and the way the black shirt pulls across his chest and arms.

He comes to a stop in the same spot where Randi stood a minute ago. “Did you need me?” he asks Jack, who just nods his chin at Archer.

Archer’s surprise flickers. “That’s your manager?” He turns to the guy. “What are you, nineteen?”

The new guy doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression says Archer isn’t the first asshole to puff up and start something in here, and he won’t be the last. “Can I help you?”

Archer chuffs. “Yeah. Your bartender’s refusing me service, accusing me of showing him a fake ID.”

Why Archer is so intent on doubling down is beyond me. The ID he showed Jack is a fake. Archer’s only turning twenty-one in September.

The guy doesn’t bother asking to check Archer’s ID. He just glances at Jack, then back at Archer. “If Jack says it’s fake, it’s fake. He knows what he’s doing. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to take your business elsewhere.”

Archer sputters, his face going red, but for once he doesn’t have a comeback. He glances around, maybe realizing people are watching, then mutters, “I’m meeting my family here.”

“Then maybe order a Coke,” the guy replies, already turning away.

“Fucking New Yorkers,” Archer mumbles under his breath.

I can feel the eyes that had turned toward us slowly drifting back to their own corners, but the heat in my cheeks stays. Archer’s knee bounces under the counter, and all I can think about is going back to our hotel.

We spend the next minutes mostly in silence. Archer’s eyes don’t move from the counter, his jaw tight. Every so often he mutters something under his breath I can’t hear. I send an unspoken thank you to the universe when Archer’s parents arrive and we leave our spots at the bar to join them at a large booth near the back.

“Skye!” Mrs. Longfellow croons, pulling me into an almost-hug to pat my back awkwardly. “You look lovely, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Longfellow.” Two-and-a-half years later, Archer’s parents still haven’t offered me their first names. And I won’t ask. That would be impolite.

Archer motions for me to slide into the booth ahead of him, then takes his seat by my side, his leg touching mine.

Archer’s older brother, Wilder, arrives last, looking half-exhausted, half-wired. He greets his parents, then pulls Archer into a brotherly hug only to shift into a headlock and give him a noogie.