He’s a ball of energy. I discovered that watching footage from more than one concert. There were images of him looking haggard and tired, but I never found the snapshots that would indicate addiction. It’s the only reason I came straight here this morning instead of going to Deacon. Hope bloomed in my chest that maybe I was wrong about what I saw.
In the research I conducted last night, his smile always stayed the same, wide and a little cocky, fake…
As I watch his face, I can’t help but wonder what his true smile looks like, the one he doesn’t show others.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, the words not seeming like enough for the assumptions I made.
Archer shrugs. “It’s a common mistake people make about rock stars. The reputation sort of comes with the lifestyle.”
“You never struggled with it?” I ask, because I’ve been around a lot of successful people, and the rate they use drugs is alarming.
He shakes his head. “Chris dabbled a little in the beginning.”
I presume he’s talking about Chris Lane, one of Lucid Unrest’s guitarists.
“I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I’m truly sorry,” I apologize again.
He inches closer to me, that same gleam in his eyes he had earlier when he pressed himself against me in the living room. I can read the man like an open book, but even knowing he’s seconds away from doing something to get a rise out of me, I don’t back down from the challenge.
“Prove it,” he says, his mouth close enough to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath.
“Prove that I’m sorry? I just said the words—”
His lips press to mine, warm and softer than I could’ve ever imagined—not that I’ve spent a lot of time picturing it after he did the very same thing yesterday in front of his house.
I know my eyes are comically wide as his flutter closed, but I’m frozen on the spot, wondering how I should handle this situation, as his head tilts for a better angle.
His tongue sweeps across my lips, begging for entrance, but I’m locked in place.
Archer, realizing I’m not moving, backs away a few inches, his eyes fluttering back open.
“No?” he asks, his voice husky.
I shake my head, wondering how I find the wherewithal to manage the action.
I watch, looking down at him as he chews the inside of his cheek, his eyes still locked on my mouth.
My lips tingle, but I manage not to rub them together or run my tongue over them. I know if I do, I’d taste him there, and I have no idea what kind of reaction that would pull from me.
“I was so sure you were putting off those vibes,” he whispers.
“No,” I manage, my heart pounding against my rib cage.
“Positive?” he prods.
“A hundred percent,” I answer, my mind racing to figure out what exactly I did to make him think I wanted his mouth on mine.
“Not even a little bi?”
I blink down at him, unsure how to answer that question.
“Never once considered hooking up with a guy?” Archer asks, still refusing to put any distance between us.
Warmth is spreading across my chest, forcing me to look away from him.
Archer breaks first, stepping back. “Okay. I’ll try to stop picturing you naked then.”
I’m finally able to take a deep breath when he turns his back to me, and I quickly run my sweaty hands down the front of my slacks to dry them as best I can.
“You have yoga at eleven,” I inform him, but he doesn’t say a word as he leaves the room. “Can you at least acknowledge you heard me?”
At this he turns around to face me, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time.
There’s half an hour between now and the scheduled class.
“I may be a little late,” he says, pointing to the erection protruding from his hips. “I have to take care of this first.”
Chapter 8
Archer
“When I said I wanted to get out of the house, this is not what I had in mind,” I mutter.
“You mean when you were bitching about being bored?”
I grunt in response.
“This takes care of both of your complaints. You’re bored and tired of fast food.”
“You forget I also don’t know how to cook, so a trip around the grocery store is pointless.”
“I explained that interviews are taking place for a new house manager.”
I squeeze the shopping cart’s handle as we walk. I never thought I’d feel so out of place in a grocery store, but here I am, riddled with anxiety, my annoyance growing by the second.
“So, you’re going to cook this food?” I point to the basket of groceries.
Brooks scoffs, his eyes scanning the store. I’ve learned from our short time here that he’s very aware of his surroundings, whereas I feel the need to dip my head and not make eye contact with a single soul.