Page 57 of Shades of Silver City

His eyes crinkle at the edges as he grins. “You like dogs.”

“Wild guess?”

“I saw your doormat.”

I chuckle. “Always wanted a dog. Never had one.”

He hmphs, kicking a pebble as we turn out of the alley and step onto the sidewalk beside one of the main roads.

Cars and bikes whiz by, and our conversation immediately ceases as we’re surrounded by a cacophony of accelerating engines, aggressive honking, and loud chatter.

Archer jerks his head at a parking garage across the street and starts jogging toward it. I follow him.

A few cars honk at us as we weave through the congested traffic, but we make it to the enclosed garage unscathed.

We cross the pale concrete floor, our footsteps thundering loudly in the mostly empty space. There are a few dozen cars parked here, but no people. We bypass the first ramp and head for an elevator that’s tucked off to the side. Once we’re inside it, Archer punches the button for the fifth floor while I fan myself.

“It’s not even summer and I’m sweating my tits off,” I complain. This earns me a chuckle. “You have a car?”

My parents had one, but it was repossessed by the city when they died, since I was too young to take over the lease. When I got old enough to drive, I never even bothered to learn. But I couldn’t afford a lease even if I wanted one.

“Nope,” Archer says, once again offering me nothing. He grins, staring straight ahead as the elevator carries us upward.

“Okay then,” I mutter. “Keep your secrets.”

Again, he chuckles, running his fingers through his mussed-up hair.

The elevator doors ding open, and he strides out without looking back. I scurry behind him, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. We pass a few weathered vehicles that have seen better days and a couple of newer, shinier cars that likely belong to Sweetcreek folk who work here in the city’s heart.

Archer leads me to a sleek, matte-black motorcycle parked in a secluded corner.

My feet turn to stone, and my mouth drops open. “We’re riding this thing?”

He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Is that all right with you?”

“Uh, hell yes.”

Right as I’m about to ask if he has a helmet, he hits a button near the rear of the seat. The seat pops up, revealing a storage space. He pulls two helmets out, handing one to me. I eagerly accept it.

“This is so cool!” I say, giddy with excitement.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach, and I bounce between my feet, unable to contain myself.

Archer chuckles heartily as I place the helmet over my head. It’s so heavy that I feel like a bobblehead—about to tip over.

My helmet slides a bit to the side, and he frowns. “Take it off for me?”

He sets his own helmet down on the bike, and I do as he says, handing mine to him. He peers inside it, scrutinizing it for a moment before fiddling with something I can’t see.

“Here.” He steps close to me, lifting the helmet up and over my head. He situates it gently, ensuring it doesn’t slide anymore.

The heat from his body radiates toward me, and I catch a whiff of his scent—musky and masculine, like leather, but with a soft undertone of something earthy. All the little hairs on my arms stand up. My eyes lock onto his. He holds my stare, not making a move to step back.

“How does that feel?” he murmurs.

“Good.” The word comes out raspy, so I clear my throat. “Better. Thanks.”

Quickly, I flick the visor down, hoping to cover the flush that’s aggressively taking over my face. Stepping back, I eye his motorcycle. It’s all black—Archer’s preferred aesthetic apparently—with round, curvy lines, and thick, sturdy tires. Modern, new, and definitely fast by the looks of it.

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