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“Please tell me there’s a vacuum somewhere here,” he mutters. As a self-proclaimed neat freak, this is probably a nightmare for Archer. Still, he doesn’t openly complain. He’ll probably clean the entire house within the next hour though.
“Stay out of the first room upstairs on the left,” I tell him, knowing he’ll clean up there too. “Girl is in the second door to the right.”
Archer nods, not questioning my words. He likely won’t. Out of the three of them, he’s the only one who knows my whole story. He knows what this house means to me and that I never wanted to set foot here again, but we need it for now. It really is the perfect place to hide out until we determine what to do.
“There’s a TV,” Booker observes, staring at the out-of-date boxy television sitting on a wooden stand.
“We weren’t heathens,” I retort. “There’s probably a kettle somewhere too.”
“Oh! Tea sounds like a great idea!” Eric exclaims happily, unfolding himself from the sofa and prancing into the kitchen. The asshole is still wearing the plastic jewellery like a badge of honour.
Archer sighs and drops the rag he’s been using to clean before pushing the kettle over for Eric to use. “Well, this hit is fucked.”
“You don’t say?” My response is mocking, but Archer doesn’t take it to heart. None of us planned for Genevieve Dalton to come home early. Why the hell had she come back anyway? She wasn’t due home for another couple of hours. We should have been in and out long before she appeared and realised she’d been robbed blind. Of course, she would have only discovered a missing TV. She literally had nothing worth anything to steal, not the big stuff.
“So what now?” Eric asks, messing with the faucet. When he turns on the water, it sputters and pours out brown. After a few minutes, the pipes are clean enough that he holds the kettle beneath it to fill. Booker, rather than wait for hot tea to drink, opens the cupboards until he finds a bottle of dusty whisky.
“I don’t know,” Archer admits, running a hand through his ginger hair. Of course no one can tell him he’s a ginger, no matter what. For some reason, he hates the term. “This wasn’t the plan.”
Booker takes a sip of the whisky without bothering to pour it in a glass. “I say we lie low for a week and take it day by day.” He sets the bottle down on the counter. “One thing is for certain though.”
“What?” I cross my arms, annoyed with the entire situation. Being in this house again is bringing up memories I’d rather forget. The nightmares practically surround me.
“That rich asshole has fucked us over. Again. This should have been payback for him fucking up the last hit, and now we have his fucking girlfriend.”
“Fiancée,” Archer corrects.
“I don’t give a shit,” Booker snarls. “We’re kidnappers now. That’s a bigger charge than petty theft. Not to mention it’s assault now too, since the meathead decided to hit her hard enough to make her sleep for hours.”
“She stabbed me,” I protest defensively.
“With a fucking shoe! Get it together, asshole. She didn’t hurt you nearly that bad. She kicked me in the balls!”
“I’d let her do whatever she wants to my balls,” Eric interjects.
“Enough!” Archer snarls, and we all fall silent. “Listen.”
I twist my head to the side, listening for whatever he hears. It takes me a second before I pick up the sounds of someone moving before the floor squeaks with a violent movement, followed by the scrape of the bed scooting along the old wood. The yells start up a few seconds later.
“You fucking assholes! I’m going to murder you the second I get free! How dare you? Release me now or I’ll slice off your balls with my earrings.”
“Bloodthirsty thing, isn’t she?” Booker muses, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll go check on her.”
“No, mate. I’ve got her. You worry about yourself.” Eric stops making tea and moves towards the stairs.
I don’t care as long as it’s not me.
“No,” Archer rumbles. “Rock-paper-scissors. You two need to get it together. She’s a hostage, not a date.”
“Why can’t they be one and the same?” Eric asks, and I roll my eyes at him. He’s always worried about pussy rather than his job. Still, he dutifully holds his palm out with his fist on top. “Best out of three.”
I hold my fist out. “Best out of three.”
