Page 64 of Shades of Silver City

An ache builds in my chest. What happened to turn this soft, happy boy into such a menacing man? What inspired him to join the Nightcrawlers?

Beside him stands a taller, broader boy with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, as if he’s avoiding the camera. But I recognize his rich coloring and scowl—Godric.

My eyes widen as surprise flashes through me. They’re just boys here. No skull tattoos mark the backs of their hands, identifying them as Nightcrawlers. Apparently, they were friends before joining the gang.

And the mystery of Archer deepens.

There are a couple of photos of an even younger Archer with a brunette woman, who I’m assuming is his mother based on how she’s holding his hand in one photo and carrying him in another.

My eyes bounce around the other photos, finally catching on what appears to be the most recent one. In it, Archer is tall, broad, filling out with muscles. He has a light dusting of hair on his chin. He still has that happy twinkle in his eye. Despite being the most recent photo, it’s still clearly more than a few years old, considering Archer doesn’t have any ink in it yet. He looks to be maybe eighteen or nineteen at most.

There’s a pretty, doe-eyed girl at his side—around his age maybe—with a matching grin and shaggy, light-brown hair. His arm rests around her shoulders, and on her other side stands a smirking Godric.

There’s another photo of Archer with the same girl, and in this one, she’s sticking her tongue out at him as he gazes adoringly at her.

My stomach twists. Who is she? Who is she to Archer? Envy gnaws on my insides. Whether it’s a romantic relationship or friendship, whatever is between them seems so beautiful and loving.

I put the photo of them back where I found it, careful not to disturb his other keepsakes. Guilt heats my cheeks. I’m snooping through his things. Asshole or not, Archer deserves his privacy.

I might not like the guy very much, but he did open up his house to me. I can respect that.

The top drawer of the dresser catches my eye, and I pause, realizing I didn’t bring anything with me.

My work jeans are crusty with beer, and my shirt is damp with sweat. It’s been a long day. My throat still aches from not getting proper sleep.

I could use a shower and a change of clothes. Considering I don’t know when Archer will be back, or when I’ll get to pick up my own stuff, I figure I might as well make myself comfortable.

Pulling open the drawer all the way, I chuckle at how damn neat the man is. It’s an underwear drawer, and all of his garments are folded, stacked, and color coded. Not wanting to be any more invasive than I already have been, I snag the first pair of boxer briefs from the stack and shut the drawer.

Striding to his closet, I flick on the light and quickly snatch the first hanging T-shirt I see, without spending too much time being nosey.

I make my way to his attached bathroom, sighing in relief at the sight of soap and a towel on the long bathroom counter, placed between two sinks.

After a long, much too hot shower—Archer can clearly afford the utility bills—I dress in his stolen boxers and black tee. The name “Ataraxy” is written across the front, and the material is well-worn, making it comfortable.

Unsure of what to do with my dirty garments, I pull my tube of lipstick and phone out of my back pants pocket, then fold my clothes in a neat stack—out of respect for Archer’s tidiness—and place them on the floor out of the way.

Shaking out his towel, I hang it up to dry.

Then, I curl up in his bed—exhausted and starving—and fall into the best nap I’ve had in ages.

A door slams somewhere down below, rousing me from my sleep. Sitting up and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I slip out of bed and step into the hallway.

“Archer?” I call out.

It’s eerily dark. Night has settled over the city. A sliver of moonlight peers through the hallway skylight. I glance up at the sky, surprised to see a smattering of stars.

It’s always too bright to see them in the PD.

When Archer doesn’t respond, I slowly creep down the stairs and peek my head into the kitchen. The smell of something delicious wafts toward my nose, and I start salivating.

Mustering up all my bravado, I flick on the kitchen light, expecting to see Archer—hell, maybe even Godric.

But only a lone brown paper takeout bag sits on the island counter. An excited Scathe sits wagging his tail on the floor beside it.

“Hey, good boy!” I bend down to scratch his neck and ears. “Where’s your daddy, huh?”

A piece of paper on the counter beside the bag catches my eye. Standing, I stride over to it, snatch it up, and skim the words:

---