Page 3 of Turning Tides
Cyrus let out another sigh. “Have I mentioned that I haven’t gotten laid in weeks?”
“Weeks?” I folded my arms over my chest.
“Okay, so not like weeks, but weeks since we’ve had the really good stuff, you know. The kind that slams the headboard against the wall and leaves me walking funny for the next few days. The good stuff.”
“Jesus, you’re too much,” Kieran laughed.
Cyrus looked at him with a sly grin. “If I’m too much, go find less.”
“Both of you are too much. Is there anything I can do?” My question earned me a look from Kieran, but I ignored him.
“Nah, I just needed to vent. I love Archer and I’m happy to help him. I tell myself that at least a hundred times a day.” Cyrus drank half his beer in one long swallow.
“If I can, let me know.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
I had my doubts, but Kieran looked relieved.
Chapter 2
Archer
If I ever gotmy hands on my piece of shit former business partner, I was going to chop his body up into itty bitty pieces and sell his remains as shark bait. No… that was a lie. At most, I’d punch him in the face. I might yell a bit. He’d better hope I never saw him again.
Moving in with Cyrus and his husband hadn’t been ideal, but the alternative was even less than. Note to future Archer—don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Living where I worked had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I was an artist with no shop and an idiot without a home. All my shit was in storage and I was coming to the end of my savings. Hence, why I was up at the ass crack of dawn, folding the blankets and stacking them neatly out of the way.
I’d always been Cy’s pain-in-the-ass little brother, and even though thirty had come and gone a year ago, I was still a pain in his ass. And his husband’s. I didn’t want to like Marshall at first. Did I have a reason? Not really. Jealousy maybe. Cy always got what he wanted. He was good at literally everything, whereas I was only good at art, and I’d honed that skill in the shadows, hiding from assholes who wanted to pick on the small guy.
Marshall won me over by never commenting on my height. I was over it now, but it had been an insecurity of mine for years. Topping out at five-foot-five had made me the target of a lot of bullshit. And then my attitude hadn’t helped. In the eighth grade, the art teacherstepped in and invited me to eat lunch in her room. And while I was there, I might as well do something productive.
To begin with, I hid there to get away from the assholes. Even bullies had a limit to who they’d fuck with, and apparently the art teacher wasn’t someone they were willing to cross. An artist was born in the safety of that room. While Cy was busy crushing every sport he played and being the popular closeted kid with the beard who was still one of his best friends, I was the weird, small, artsy gay kid.
They didn’t know I was gay any more than I knew I was gay. They were cruel kids and being gay was apparently the worst thing they could think to call me some days.
I shoved the memories away and tip-toed into the kitchen. I had a routine. Every morning I woke up early. I made a coffee and grabbed a quick bite to eat, then I took my art supplies and I left. In the nicer weather I went to the park. In the bad weather, the library. Sometimes I splurged and went to a cafe.
Sometimes there were dishes in the sink from the night before and I’d do them before I went out, but today there was nothing and I was left to stare out the window while I waited for my coffee to brew. The sun had barely started to poke out over the horizon, washing the sky in a vibrant orange.
“You don’t have to sneak out every day, you know.”
At the sound of Marshall’s voice, I jolted. Spinning around, I tried to act natural but I hated that he’d sneaked up on me. Even more than that, I hated being called on my shit. I knew they wouldn’t mind if I hung around their house all day and all night. But I minded. I needed to get my shit together. I’d all but begged for a space at the local tattoo shops, but they were all full. No new artists needed. They’d be in touch if they did.
It felt like a fucking conspiracy. I’d tried to get a business loan, but with no collateral, no income—no nothing—banks didn’t want to take a chance me. I’d saved for years to open that place. Every dime I made went back into it and we were finally taking off. Booking months in advance. And then it was gone. Some days it didn’t feel real.
The coffee burbled and choked a final time and spit out the last drops.
“I don’t sneak out.”
I make myself scarce so it’s almost like you don’t have a house guest. So you don’t get sick of me and make me leave.
“I have things to do.”
“If you let us help you, we could come up with a plan, Archer.”
Sucking a deep breath in, I did my best not to hurl my cup at Marshall. “I’ve got it under control.”
“Cy is worried about you,” Marshall whispered. He probably wasn’t supposed to say anything to me about that. Shit like that is why I gave them as much space as possible. I didn’t want to be a source of strife between them. Cy and Marsh had a good thing going. If ever there were two idiots deeply in love, it was those two idiots.
