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“You’re a cop,” I bite out. Because one of us has to face reality and put our new life into words. “You and Fletch have to walk toward danger, together, every single day.”
“We’re doing the job.”
“But will he watch your back? Will he protect you if things get hairy?”
“He’ll—”
“Will you protect him?” I press my hands to his chest and stop our movements. “He knows, Archer. And he’s pissed. So if things get messy while you’re on a case and there’s a chance he could get hurt, are you going to do what needs to be done to make sure he survives?”
Finally,finally, I break through the mask he works desperately to hold onto. His jaw clenches with frustration. His face hardens, and his eyes glitter with rage. “Are you implying I would let my partner die, just so I no longer have to worry about the things he knows?”
I flatten my lips and hate how my stomach dips with nerves. With remorse. “I’m saying there’s nothing you won’t do to protect me. It’s almost to the point of obsession, so—”
“So I’m wrong for wanting to keep you safe?” he growls. Thankfully, the jukebox across the room keeps our conversation private. Considering Tim’s Bar is the local haunt for most cops in the area, these are discussions we’d rather not be overheard. “You’re gonna call me out for protecting my own wife?”
“I’m calling you out for wanting to fuck instead of deal with the second most important person in your life. He’s walking through doors with you every single day, Archer. You hunt killers for a living, and right now, you and your partner aren’t talking to each other.”
“We’re doing the job.” He buries his lips against the side of my neck and swings the door open so I’m moving backwards, and the evening air hits my skin. “We’re working, Minka. We’re putting assholes away and coming home safe every night. We put a high-profile case away just yesterday. What more do you want?”
For you to be friends again.
For me not to be the reason you look at each other as enemies.
A soft throat-clearing startles us both so Archer’s head snaps up with a jerk. My back is to the street, and the throat-clearer is in my blind spot, but Archer’s eyes narrow and burn. They darken, while his hands tighten on my hips.
I twist in his arms and almost whimper when I find the very man who would have me rot in a cell if only he could make the call.
Charlie Fletcher is an inch or so over six feet tall, but where Archer is broad, Fletch is a little leaner. He has a runner’s body. And honeycomb eyes, to Archer’s emerald stare. They both have brown hair, but the shade varies, and Fletch wears his longer—shaggier, to Arch’s militaristic buzz.
Fletch normally has his beautiful three-year-old on his hip, but I guess now that his ex-wife is back from rehab, he has more freedom to leave the house at night without carting the toddler around.
I doubt he’ll be gone for more than half an hour, but thinking about Mia being alone with her mother for even that small amount of time makes my palms sweat.
“F-Fletch…” My heart thrums with nerves. He doesn’t scare me; not in the traditional sense. But his pain, his anger over what he learned just weeks ago, are like slashes across my chest. “Um…”
Archer yanks me around behind him, as he stands tall and meets his partner’s glare. “Are you looking for me?” Then he takes a long step right, dragging me with him, and clears the doorway. “Or just heading in?”
“Looking for you.” Charlie’s words are clipped. Irate. And as I lean to the left, his eyes come to mine to burn. I’m a killer. And he’s a cop. “I was looking for both of you.”
“Why?” Archer shuffles me back again, earning a huff of impatience from me.
It’s not like Fletch will pull his weapon. He won’t shoot me or harm me physically. But Archer acts like he might.
“You can talk tome,” my husband tells his estranged partner through gritted teeth. “Deal withme.”
“Fine. It’s Mia’s birthday in a couple of days.” Digging a hand into his pocket so Archer’s body tenses, Fletch brings it out again holding a folded slip of paper. “Despite my wishes,” he seethes, “my daughter wants you both at her party.”
Surprised, I step out from behind Archer and take the paper with shaking hands. When I unfold it, a lump stops in my throat.
The invitation is bursting with rainbows and winged unicorns. Our names are scrawled in the handwriting of an almost four-year-old, and because the girl who can’t even spell yet put in the work to invite us to her birthday, tears sting the backs of my eyes.
When we lost Fletch, we lost Mia too. Her sweet laughter, and her sticky fingers. Even Chloe, the horrible, bitchy cat Archer and I share, has surely noticed the girl doesn’t come around anymore.
Swallowing, I look up and meet Fletch’s gaze. I swear, beneath the fury and machine-like anger, he’s hurting too. He misses us as much as we miss him. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“I didn’t.” He sets his hands on his hips and looks to Archer. “Mia did. And she’s asking for Care Bears. I got her the one with a rainbow on its belly, so you can—”
“Get a different one.” He nods his understanding. “Got it.”
