AllFreeNovel
Share Us
GENEVIEVE
Isit quietly on the sofa, watching as the men move around each other as if they are one unit. It’s strange to see them work together so fluidly, as if they are a family rather than friends. They anticipate each other’s needs and correct their courses for it. Grumpy Pants eventually went outside to do whatever it is he does. Knowing him, he’s probably just brooding at the moon like some sort of psycho. I’ve never seen anyone be so full of disdain for…well, everything. I’m not sure where Eric has gone off to, but Booker has been sitting at the counter flipping through different news channels on a tablet for the better part of an hour. I’m not paying as much attention to him though.
My eyes are on Archer.
The leader of the merry gang sits on an old, worn armchair against the wall, alternating between typing on a laptop and flicking through information on his phone. It’s as if the two technologies are tied together in his research. I wonder what he’s doing and if he’s looking through things about me. How much information has he truly found out? I’m betting he was able to get most of it out of my apartment building without anyone seeing us. The building had decent security—it was one of their selling points—but somehow, the news doesn’t have a single video showing them lugging me out of the apartment like a sack of potatoes. I kind of wanted to see who dared to carry me out. My money was on Grumpy Pants after he knocked me out.
Fucker.
When Booker stands up from the stool he’s been sitting on and stretches his arms over his head, I don’t react, not wanting to reveal my plans. I don’t want them to see me get excited about being alone with Archer and suspect my intentions. I may only have this one chance. I’m wearing a dust-covered dress, but I managed to clean myself up enough in the sink to where I feel clean. I don’t have any makeup, so that’s the best I have right now.
“Well,” Booker begins, drawing Archer’s eyes over his laptop. I keep my gaze on the TV, not reacting. “I think I’m going to rest for a bit. You got this?” he asks Archer, gesturing to me rudely.
My nose crinkles in distaste at them speaking like that right in front of me. “I have a name.”
Both of them ignore me.
“You’re good,” Archer answers, glancing back down at the laptop. Whatever is on there must be titillating, to hold his attention so thoroughly. I’m almost curious. “Anything interesting today?”
Booker shrugs. “Nothing new. Wars, corrupt governments, North Korea threatening to launch missiles, you know the like.”
Archer snorts softly. “Sounds about right.”
That’s it—that’s the extent of their exchange. Men are weird.
I sit silently with my arms crossed over my chest as Booker nods and heads for the stairs. Every other step creaks with his weight until he thumps around upstairs. He moves about for another few minutes before all the sounds stop. I assume he’s in one of the rickety beds now, probably out like a light. I’ve always envied how men seem to fall asleep within minutes rather than the half hour it takes me.
Sitting still for a few long minutes more, I glance over at Archer as he continues to stare at his laptop. He has to feel my gaze, but he doesn’t look up, choosing to ignore me instead. His phone sits on the arm of the chair, teetering there like temptation. This must have been what Eve felt like in the Garden of Eden. The phone is my apple, and Archer is my snake. I’m pretty sure Eve didn’t consider fucking the snake to get what she wanted though. Maybe if she had, things would have been different.
“What are you doing?” I ask when he doesn’t react to my stare. I’m careful to keep my gaze on him rather than the phone. The moment he thinks my goal is to get the phone is the moment I lose every chance to steal it.
His glacier eyes look up to finally meet mine, piercing through my gaze as if he can see through to my very soul, making me shiver. His expression tells me he’s not amused at being interrupted, but either he feels like entertaining me or he’s forgotten I’m a prisoner rather than a guest, because he answers with a curt, “Work.”
“Choosing the next helpless woman to kidnap?” I raise my brow in both a challenge and a tease.
He doesn’t back down from it, but I didn’t expect him to. “Contrary to what you might think, we don’t typically go around stealing women. You’re a…special case.”
“Lucky me,” I scoff. “Stealing things rather than people doesn’t make you any better though.”
His brows shoot up. “Are you under the impression that we’re good people, Birdie?”
I stiffen at the use of my given name—a name I haven’t heard in years, not since my mother died. I preferred for Birdie Dalton to have died along with her, rather than be reminded of all the hard times I suffered as her. Genevieve Dalton is suave, rich, and beautiful. Birdie Dalton’s knuckles kissed more flesh than they should have, and she did what she needed to in order to survive. They are not the same.
“Take that name out of your mouth,” I snarl, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward. “That woman doesn’t exist.”
“There’s a birth certificate that says otherwise,” he points out as if I don’t know that, as if I’m not reminded of that every time one of the elite grows curious about all of my past rather than what I’ve chosen to share.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” he retorts, clearly entertained. “But since you think I don’t know anything, why don’t you tell me why you changed such a lovely name to a very stuffy Genevieve?”
“It’s a quality name,” I defend, narrowing my eyes.
He shrugs. “For an old hag, sure. It doesn’t suit you.” His eyes trail over my skin, leaving heat behind. He traces my body as if I’m a work of art displayed in a museum, and it takes everything in me not to stiffen with desire. A man like Archer wouldn’t be a quick fuck and go. He’d spend hours worshipping a woman’s body. Why do I suddenly want him to pin me against the wall like the masterpieces I see in those museums? Why do I want him to break the rules and touch the art?
“And Birdie suits me better?” I murmur, proud when my voice isn’t as husky as it wants to sound. I’m nearly clenching my thighs together. If he’d done all that with just a look, what would it be like to taste him?
Archer closes his laptop and sets it on the table beside him, but his phone is still perched on the arm—my apple. He steeples his fingers together and props his elbows on his knees, his eyes still trained on me. He studies me closer, taking in the way my hair hangs around my shoulders, my ripped dress, and my bare feet.
