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We try to be as quiet as we can as we get up off the floor, and Archer helps me fix my dress, his large warm hand unusually gentle and protective on the smalls of my back as we creep out of Marlow’s villa, the only sign that we were there—the broken coffee table.
25
ARCHER
My favorite thingabout my new routine is waking up to an octopus wrapped over my body—Kat. I still don’t admit to her how much I fucking love it. I don’t want to get up, not when she’s in my bed. I haven’t slept so good in my entire life and grunt half-asleep in disappointment when she gives me a kiss and slips out.
I’ve set the rules of meeting every other day. We need structure, but it’s complicated because I seem to crave her every minute of every day. Addiction, see?
Our plans don’t work as intended, though we’ve been doing this for a couple of weeks now.
Most dinners are at my villa, and before we even have food, we claw at each other as we tear our clothes off, then continue in the same manner after the dinner. We are like animals in rut. A movie night turned into an edging game of heavy petting and stroking each other through our clothes during half of it, both of us completely missing the plot until Kat was soaked down to her knees and asked for mercy.
This is different from what we had before, beforethatnight. That’s what I call it in my mind, the night when things got too dark.
Kat brought it up once, but I avoided the conversation. There are a whole lot of other topics we avoid. Like the words that came out the evening we made up. The feelings that gushed out of her that night. Our conversations miss the right words, and every day is a struggle to hold them back. So we fuck like two maniacs—that’s our love language.
This morning, Kat is off to her daily swim in the ocean. The girl is religious about exercise. Doesn’t even drive to work—walks.
As soon as I walk into the Center, I kiss her good morning. No matter how early I come to work, she’s already there, working those files like her life depends on it. And I’m working the bump in my jeans as I sit at my desk, watch her through the office window, and can’t shake off the filthy thoughts.
If there’s something to distract me, it’s the fucking Tsariuk business that’s on everyone’s mind. And Mr. Ortiz is on my screen as soon as I dial him.
“Archer.” He nods in greeting.
I asked him to call me by my name when we met up on the mainland. He reminds me of my father—no-nonsense, all business, the emotionless mask on his face. Except, unlike my dad, Mr. Ortiz cares about his child.
We chat for a minute about weather and politics and the latest news from the EU and Australia, then discuss Tsariuk business and make an arrangement to get Bishop, Raven, and Marlow on a conference call with him later that day. Something needs to be done about O’Shea and Cunningham. We can’t just hold them forever, but we can’t let them stay on Zion either. Can we let them go? That’s the question.
And then our conversation switches to Kat. I try to lure little pieces of information about her out of him, wanting to learn more. But every time I drift off topic and get personal, Mr. Ortiz shuts down like I’m touching a sensitive subject.
The news that she and I are an item didn’t seem to surprise him. Shit, the man has the best poker face I’ve ever seen. What bothered me when I told him that was that there was no visible sign of approval, like it’s an experiment that might not work out successfully.
“Kat is good at researching and figuring things out. I gave her access to the spring-breakers’ files,” I say. “She handles the files like the CIA. I’m guessing it’s your training. I admire her.”
Mr. Ortiz is quiet for some time, staring at me unblinkingly, and for a moment, I think the connection is lost, because the screen seems to be stuck.
“Mr. Ortiz?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at the screen.
“I’m here, Archer.”
He’s not stuck. Then why is he so alert?
“Do you know why she got drug charges in Thailand but never went to jail though it’s a severe offense there?”
The off-topic question catches me by surprise.
“That charge was mere bureaucracy,” he explains. “It was pardoned. The truth is, she was undercover.”
I want to laugh but hold back. “She was fifteen. Or sixteen?”
Mr. Ortiz nods, his expression unchanged. “She ran deliveries for local drug dealers. You probably know that.I, of all people, should’ve known that but was too absorbed in my work. I blame myself for letting her get into the street life that she shouldn’t have been part of.”
He goes silent for a moment, then continues.
“She was used as bait in one of the counter-trafficking operations.”
I swallow hard, then frown. “And you agreed?”
