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Archer
Brown.Her fucking hair is brown. She looks great; Willow couldn’t look bad if she tried, but she didn’t look like my Willow. She dyed her hair from vibrant blue to a plain brown, and I hate it. I want to punch the door to this goddamn limousine until my knuckles bleed. Fuck, I hate it so much. I know why she did it, and even as affection floods me, I’m seething at her.
I’m a smart enough man to know better than to ask her to change her hair color. But is it any better for me to ask her to do any of this shit? I love Willow's free spirit. Her beauty is unlike every other woman I know. She’s strong but still fragile, and the fact I know that about her speaks volumes about how much my feelings have grown. I want her. I want her as mine, forever, and for real. The fact that we started this the way we did can stay between us, and we can make it real. I just have to convince her that my social responsibilities are worth it.
I feel a migraine coming on, and it’s not helping my asshole mood. This charity event is the last place I want to be, and as my mind wanders to the list of handshakes I have to give tonight, the car door opens, and the driver helps Willow into the back of the limo. I’m engulfed in her delicious vanilla scent, and my eyes drink her in. That skintight dress clings to her gorgeous, sexy body like a second skin. The blue dress is a stark reminder of how her hair should be, but it’s her new brunette curls that float around me until the door closes behind her. She keeps herself facing forward, not giving me even a small glance. I sigh in frustration as I try to think of the best way to apologize. It’s not something I’ve ever been good at, and then I remember the gift I left her.
“Where is the necklace?” I ask when I don’t see it around her neck.
“I couldn’t wear it,” she says and motions at her chest. Her perfect, more-than-a-handful tits are on full display, and under her collarbone, sit four small twinkling studs.
“What the fuck is that?” My mouth salivates with want as I wonder what they taste like mixed with her skin. It comes out as a growl as I clench my fists, my control slipping. My cock is already half-mast when she cradles her tits and fondles them with an innocent look on her face. Like she has no idea how she affects me, which can’t possibly be true at this point.
“I got surface piercings today, and I’m so glad they don’t move when my boobs do.”
As she stares down at her chest, I turn toward the door and bite my knuckle. This woman is determined to have me humping her leg by the end of the night. Part of me suspects its payback for the shit show my mother brought over tonight, but my brain can’t think of anything other than her beautiful fucking body and being inside it.
The ride to the stadium is short. Tonight’s event is for a charity some hot shot football star decided he wanted to start. The cause is probably great, and I’ll make a substantial donation without hesitation, but the event itself is just an excuse for the stuck-up society of California to throw money around. New York and international events are worse, but I would give my left nut to get out of these parties.
When Willow’s door opens, I know I’ve missed my chance at what was sure to be a less than stellar apology, and when I make my way out and around the car, loops her hand through mine as we walk down the red carpet. Paparazzi flash their cameras, and she poses with a fake smile; I want to kiss off her stubborn face. I wave but don’t bother to fake a smile. Everything feels wrong. My gut is sour at the thought that she’s upset with me, and that only pisses me off even more.
“Hey, Bro-cha-cho.”
Christian approaches me with a redhead on his arm. I don’t bother answering, walking past him and ignoring the insults he shoots to my back. This is nothing new to us. The man is an asshole, whether or not he’s my best friend, and I’m in no mood to put up with his antics. Several people come up for customary handshakes, and I get into a long, drawn-out stock market debate with the star of the show, Andre Taylor. Willow steps away with some of the ladies and I soon lose her in the crowd.
The charity is for wounded soldiers, and the big football star is donating all proceeds, plus a few millions of his own, instead of taking the usual ten percent cut. He and his wife just moved to the area after he was drafted and are expecting their first baby. It’s a strange sight watching the nearly seven-foot-tall beast of a man doting over his tiny pregnant wife. Listening to them both go on about all their future plans pulls the knot in my stomach even tighter.
I’m anxious to find Willow. I would never have left her side if she would have only stayed by mine. My worry heightens when I see her in a corner talking with two of the most influential people in society. Ken and Darla Waterson are the who's who of New York City, and wherever they go, money follows. If Darla told her hairstylist something as simple as brown was her favorite color for the season, brown would suddenly be everywhere. Vogue would do a spread dedicated to the color in her honor. That much power came at a price. Her soul. Darla was known to rule society with an iron fist, and if she didn’t like you, she buried you.
Overcome with the urge to protect Willow, I maul my way through the crowd until I reach her and slide my arm around her waist.
“There you are, my love,” I say as I kiss her forehead softly. “Hello Darla, Ken, how are you both this evening?”
“Archer Alexander?” Ken's eyes seem to bulge, and Darla also seems taken aback by my presence.
“Have you two met my fiancée? This is Willow. Honey, I’d like you to meet the Watersons.”
Willow smiles up at me gratefully, and I relax my hold on her waist. I think I made the right call to sweep in and rescue her. Her nervous tells me I need to get her out of here. Take her home, get her away from these fake assholes and curl up in bed to episodes of bad television.
“Archer Alexander, this is quite unexpected, and yes, we have had the pleasure of meeting, Willow,” Darla says, her eyes moving briefly to Willow. There is something I don’t quite understand that passes between the ladies.
My fiancée’s shoulders stiffen.
“I am afraid we have somewhere to be,” I say, before the stuck-up old bags say anything else to upset Willow.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I say in parting, my hand on Willow’s waist leading her toward the door.
“Archer, wait, what the hell?” She says, low enough so only I can hear her.
“Let’s just go home.”
“Don’t we have to meet the board members?”
“Fuck!” I hiss.
She’s right. I’ve lost hours already and I still haven’t run into anyone to confirm my relationship with Willow.
Like black magic, my mother appears in front of us. Stopping in our tracks, I growl my displeasure.
