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Subtext. He’s good at reading that.
“Please?”
“Mine, too.” Archer drags me closer again. He makes it look like he merely wants to hug me, but what he’s actually doing is supporting my weight and making damn sure I don’t pitch to the side and fall on my ass. “How long?”
“I’ll go box it up now.” Tim is good at reading a room, too. He sees me. The shadows under my eyes, and the pallor of my skin. Most of all, he sees his brother’s hand wrapped around my hip and the bulge of his arm that says he’s carrying my hundred and thirty-five pounds. “I’ll be two minutes.” But before he leaves, he glances right over the top of my head, his eyes darkening. “Want a drink, Emeri?”
“Um…”
I turn and find my friend wringing her hands together. Nerves that even have Mia looking at her.
“Yeah. Soda, please.”
“There you go.” Grinning, I snicker when her gaze turns fiery and burns me where I stand. “What? You stated a preference. Your preference makes you happy. It’s a boundary you’re upholding.”
“You’re annoying,” she grumbles. “Girl code says you have to shut the hell up.”
“What have we missed?” Fletch shuffles Mia to his other hip and studies Aubree. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened! My boss is attempting to be funny. The problem is, she has a social disability and no clue how to deliver a punchline appropriately.”
“That’s twice.” I scowl as Tim sets Aubree’s soda down and stalks away to get our dinner. “What’s up with the social disability thing, huh? New York Times word of the day?”
“No, it’s?—”
“Stop there.” Archer reaches across and taps Aubree’s arm. He smiles the smile of a kind, older, wiser, monk-like man and shakes his head. “Tonight’s not the night you broach that subject.”
“What subject?” I swing around and look at Fletch, who only shrugs. Then to Mia, whose attention is focused completely on the pool tables across the room. Or, well, the couple who make out by the pool table. Tongues lap and groans travel, even above the din of people talking and a jukebox playing. Finally, I bring my focus back to Archer, “What subject?”
“Dinner.” Tim drops a plate wrapped in foil on the bar, then a second, right after it. “Bring them back tomorrow. Eat soon, or the bread will get soggy.” Then he lifts his chin in that way men have been doing for eons. “Talked to Felix today?”
“No.” Ready to leave, Archer pushes up to stand, drops cash on the bar, and picks his drink up to swallow a little more. “You?”
“Yeah. He uh…” he glances at Aubree, then to Fletcher, before lowering his voice and leaning closer. “He said Pastore’s out.”
“He’s out… what?” Then Archer’s eyes shoot wide. “What?”
Tim sets a rag on the wooden top and wipes up spilled liquid. “That’s what he said.”
“Permanently?”
He continues to wipe. Circular. Thorough. But his lips curl up subtly to the side. “Mmhm. Word is he went after Christabelle, and Felix decided he’s had enough.”
“Who is Christabelle?” Aubree shoves between our group, long forgotten are her Malone romance woes and all that drama, and in their place is curiosity. “Who is she? What did she do?”
“She tamed an animal,” Archer laughs. Jovial, he stacks the plates on top of each other with no care for the meal on the bottom, then bends and collects my briefcase. “Pastore deserves whatever he got. However painful it was. Christabelle was never the right target for a man who wanted to live.” Finally, he looks at me and tilts his head toward the door. “Ready to go home, Minnnka? I’m tired as fuck and need to chill.”
A.k.a. he knows I need to leave, and he’s kind enough to make our exit his fault.
“Yeah.” I take my bag to empty his hand, but instead of using his newfound freedom to un-squish the burger on the bottom, he wraps his arm across my lower back and anchors his hand to my hip. “Thanks.” I don’t say my goodbyes to everyone else, but I do smile for sweet Moo whose eyes are on me and Archer now, and not on the hot and heavy couple playing eight-ball. “Bye, Sweetpea. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Byeeee, Aunty Minnnnnka.” She waves, her long brown locks bouncing even after a full day of running around and playing with her nanny. “Goodnight, Uncle Arch.”
“Goodnight, baby.” He keeps a tight hold on my hip, steering us toward the door, but he winks for Mia and smiles as we exit the hot bar, only to emerge onto the stifling city street once more. “I heard it’s gonna be the hottest summer on record.” Already tired of it, he leads me to the right just a few feet, before we step through the next doorway and re-enter air-conditioned cool and start up the concrete stairs. “We’re gonna melt to the tar roads,” he groans.
“Not me.” I glance around in search of my older landlord, Steve, but maybe the heat has him sticking to his apartment too, because the man who usually haunts the halls and keeps watch of all his little lambs is nowhere to be seen. “I’ll be inside my building,” I tease. “Running the city’s electric bill up to stay cool.”
“Liar. You’ll be on the streets as much as I will because you’re a sucker for the vics who end up on a slab every damn day. You could stay inside the George Stanley,” he amends, “as chief, you never have to leave. But as Minka Mayet…”
