Page 60 of Shades of Silver City

Something akin to hurt flashes across Archer’s face. A muscle in his jaw tics, and he glances past me distantly.

I think of how he gave Remy money. How he helps the addicts. How he himself lost someone he cared about, and I sigh, reconsidering my attitude. If he were here, Dad would tell me to treat everyone with kindness, especially those who don’t seem to deserve it, because deep down, they’re the ones who need it most.

“My dad…” I take a deep breath, finding it difficult to form the words. Though I think about my parents daily, I never speak about them with anyone. “He was a great guy. My mom was sick all my life—mentally. She wasn’t really there most days. Dad did everything for us. He was my superhero.” I chuckle. “I told him that once when I was little, and he started calling me Fantastic Fantasia. Said I was his superhero.”

Archer’s face softens. When he doesn’t say anything, I continue. “He was a good guy, and he’d do anything for the people he loved.” When I blink, an image of him on his last day—frantically telling me to hide—pops up in my mind. My throat gets thick, and I swallow the grief down. “He was murdered. Unfairly and unjustly.”

“Tasia…” Archer says softly. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, his face stern. “About your father—”

“There you are, Mister Acciai!” says a high-pitched voice, making me jump.

Archer’s gaze locks onto something behind me, and he strides past me, saying, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

Turning, I catch sight of an older lady hobbling across the street, her wild mane of grey curls bobbing around her head. She smiles warmly at Archer.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Vannickle,” he says.

“Sure it is.” She grips his arm tightly. “A minute to spare for your elders?”

“For you?” He pats her hand gently. “Always.”

Folding my arms in front of my chest, I remain next to the bike. They cross the street and walk two houses over, into the driveway of a cherry-wood townhouse, where another elderly lady stands at the trunk of a car.

He says something to Mrs. Vannickle, but I’m too far away to make out what words are exchanged. Whatever he says causes her entire body to soften, and she claps him gently on the bicep and nods her head. The three of them laugh and carry on a conversation for a while before Archer reaches into the trunk, pulls out a couple of paper bags, and treks toward the house.

I frown at the unexpected tenderness he’s displaying. Guilt builds in my chest. I shouldn’t have snapped at him. Maybe I should trust him—take his gold soul-shade more seriously.

Soon, Archer and the old lady return to the car for another round of groceries. As if he can sense my gaze on him, he looks my way. I freeze, offering him an awkward wave. He holds up an index finger, indicating he’ll be just a minute. I give him a thumbs-up, which seems to satisfy him, and he heads back into the lady’s house with her groceries.

Boredom and curiosity get the best of me, and I casually stroll toward his bike. I locate the button to pop open the compartment and press it. The lid opens, and I peer into the storage area. What else does he store in here?

“The hell you doin?” a gruff voice says from behind me, and I squeal, jumping back from the bike and spinning around.

A tank of a man crosses the yard, coming straight toward me. He’s almost as tall and wide as a doorframe, with thick muscles straining against his T-shirt. The leash he’s holding goes taut as a blur of black fur barrels toward me.

I put my arms up, screaming when a pair of hefty paws hits my chest and knocks me backward onto the grass. Then I’m being assaulted by a slobbery tongue.

“Scathe!” Archer yells.

I can’t help the giggles that escape as I battle to get out from under the massive dog, who whines excitedly.

“Stop, stop,” I gasp out between laughs, trying to shield myself from the onslaught of sloppy, wet kisses.

“Scathe, heel!” Archer commands from beside me.

The dog jumps off me.

Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I use the hem of my shirt to wipe slobber off my face. With the dog at his side, Archer stands glaring at the bodybuilder-man. They exchange words, but I ignore them, my eyes widening as I get a good look at the oversized creature with onyx-colored fur and piercing ice-blue irises.

“You okay, Tasia?” Archer asks, worry wrinkles marring his forehead. He extends a hand, which I accept. “I’m so sorry. Scathe is—”

“I’m fine.” I wave him off, squatting down to pet Scathe’s neck. His tail thumps happily in the grass. In a baby voice, I say, “He just wants some loves, doesn’t he?” I glance up at Archer. “Is he a Belgian Shepherd?”

“Eh.” Archer cups the back of his neck, glancing at his dog. Scathe whines, and Archer shakes his head, scowling at him. “Something like that.”

The muscly man grunts. He steps beside Archer and Scathe, glowering down at me. “She was busting into your bike.”

My cheeks heat as I stand. “It wasn’t what it—” I pause. Gods, I sound just like Reed. It wasn’t what it looked like, I swear. “I’ve never seen a motorcycle up close. I was just curious.”

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