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MINKA
Isneak out of Archer’s apartment at a little after six a.m. and flip off the cat who thinks she’s the royal queen of all pussy in Archer’s life.
She looks at me weird. She plots my demise. And I’m the one who woke to her furry back in my face and filling my nostrils, since she so desperately wanted to be closer to her man. That’s when I gave up on sleep and figured I had other places to be anyway.
Though, since Archer and I are trying to be nice to each other now, I leave a note on his fridge to let him know where I am.
Went home.
Chloe’s a bitch.
See you later. You can come say hi if you want.
Letting myself out of his building and into the January cold outside, I snuggle into my hoodie and cross my arms to fend off the chill. With my head down, I move the two blocks to my apartment and feel a mild stab of guilt as I pass Tim’s bar for the twentieth time since Christmas.
I haven’t stopped in to see the man I actually kind of like more than his brother, because I thought Archer was sleeping around, and if he was, then of course his big brother would know. And if Tim knew, then he would look at me with pitying eyes.
And it’s those eyes, the ‘oh honey’ expression, I refuse to deal with.
Which means I stayed away and mourned both a friend, and a brand-new coffee machine I never truly got to enjoy.
Letting myself into my apartment building and passing a watchful Steve, my landlord who Iswearnever leaves the stoop of his own apartment, I head to the fourth floor and stride through the doorway after unlocking my unit. I dump my bag, strip off my clothes, and shower again, since Archer made sure to dirty me up at least twice more while I was trying to sleep. Then, stepping out of the shower again to dry off, I style my hair in a low bun and don an outfit suitable for work.
Kiera Chase’s partner called my office yesterday and asked to meet with me, just as I offered. But because I got busy with Kylie Bastion’s body, I never got the chance to fulfill the commitment I’d made.
Which is lousy of me, and stacks more pain on a grieving man’s shoulders.
As soon as the time is appropriate and I’m not at risk of waking the distraught widower, I’ll put in a call and open my schedule to him.
And since I’m thorough in my work, I already did my research on the man. He’s an easy six feet, four inches tall, he has three sisters, married parents, seven nieces, and enough healthy female influences in his life to rule him out as the killer—not that I’m the police or in charge of who is on that official list.
Crossing my apartment in a fresh outfit and with clean hair, I snag a banana from the basket on the kitchen counter and grab my coat; though, the second comes with a roll of my eyes, because it’s still too thin for the weather, and I’ve yet to go out and buy something better.
I’ve been busy, and I don’t relish shopping the way Aubree seems to.
Sliding into the coat and dropping my banana into the pocket, I take my keys from the hook and my phone from the bowl below it, then I stop at the door for a moment and study the second set of keys that hang untouched.
Unused, but never forgotten.
They were a birthday present, a beautiful gesture from one friend to another. My first week in my new city, I woke the always sleep-deprived Timothy Malone and risked my life more than even I could have guessed.
What, with him being ex-mafia and all that.
But instead of killing me and dropping my body into the ocean to be shark bait, he bought me a coffee machine, pledged to fill it and set the timer every single night, and then he gave me keys to his bar and told me to help myself.
He’s nicer than Archer, despite years more in a rough world, and being raised by a murderer. He’s more social than his brother, he’s arguably kinder, and if it wasn’t for Archer’s speech about worrying about me and counting my infusion schedule, I could almost say Tim is more sensitive.
The Malone brothers are sweet guys with hard-ass exteriors and short tempers.
And I dumped Tim like last week’s bread, all because Archer was getting his jollies elsewhere.
Or so I thought.
That makes me a shitty friend.
Before I lose my nerve, I snatch Tim’s keys up and slide my finger through the ring, then I move through my door and lock up on the way out. Skipping down four flights of stairs and grinning as I approach the bottom, I slip my hands into my pockets and slow when my landlord steps forward to greet me.
Steve is about three minutes shy of a hundred years old. His skin is saggy, his head seems proportionately too large for his body, his eyebrows are so bushy, they cover half his eyes the way fur covers an old English sheepdog, but his smile is so pure and kind, I can’t help but slow and pay him attention when he’s around.
