Page 50 of Shades of Silver City

Reed: I’m at the apt. Waiting for you.

Reed: It wasn’t what it looked like, I swear.

Rolling my eyes at the cliché of a line, I keep reading.

Reed: Nothing happened. Promise.

Reed: I hope you know that I love you so much, Fantasia.

I frown at his usage of my full name. My father was the only one who ever called me that—Fantastic Fantasia.

Without hesitation, I shoot Reed a message, letting him know that we’re over. Maybe I’m a coward for ending things over text, but I’m more of a coward for letting things drag out as long as they did.

Mellie was right. Settling for comfort is a terrible option, especially when it’s really not comfort at all…only a distraction from discomfort.

I also text Mellie, letting her know I’m fine, that I will explain everything to her soon.

Before anyone can reply, I power my phone down, stand, and stuff it into my pocket. Brushing the dirt off my jeans, I stride toward Archer, who finishes his call and swiftly pockets his own phone.

“Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the thin layer of scruff on his chin. His mouth is in a tight line, his forehead wrinkled. “Godric…took care of the bar.”

I squint at him. What the hell does that mean? “Took care of the men?”

Archer gives a sharp nod.

“Like, he killed them?”

“They were dead when he arrived.”

My eyes widen. “The Scouts?”

“Weren’t called. No one else knows what happened.”

No wonder Jeremiah and Mellie didn’t say anything about the men being drunk and knocked out—or dead. Archer’s friend got there before they did, apparently.

Fuck it. Let them think I simply abandoned my bar shift. I definitely don’t trust Mellie enough to tell her the whole truth, because that truth includes Archer. She’ll only see the price tag on his head.

I rub my eyes, processing.

“Why are your fingers stained?” Archer asks suddenly. Before I can reply, he grips my hand in his, inspecting my fingers. “Is this…paint?”

Snatching my hand back, I groan under my breath. “Oil pastels.” Without giving him a chance to reply, I ask, “How’d they die?”

“To be determined.” He pulls out his phone, punching out a message before pocketing it again. “We have someone on it.”

The baggie in my pocket grows heavy. I’m certain the drug I found has something to do with their deaths.

“I found a—” I say at the same time Archer says, “We have a problem.”

We both pause, staring at one another.

After a beat, I say, “You first.” My inquiry can wait. The men are already dead, and the drugs aren’t going anywhere.

“You sure?” He quirks a brow.

“A problem sounds pretty fucking ominous, so yeah, I’m sure.”

He shuts his eyes and sighs—likely because of my offensive language, oops—but he chuckles. When he returns his attention to me, his face is serious.

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