Page 39 of Loving at 40

“Why’d you do that?” I whisper. She is my perfection. The words come back to me.

“I was jealous, babe.”

The fact he outright admits it again surprises me. “Why?”

“I wanted to dance with you.”

“And you did. Eventually.” I tilt my head, ready to ask another question, but he interrupts me.

“I didn’t want him dancing with you, though.”

“So you should have asked me to dance.”

Archer falls to his back and glares up at the ceiling. “I can’t dance.”

My mouth falls open and then snaps shut. He did dance, though. “You were fine with me.” We danced to the slow song together. Actually, two of them played before we left.

“I—” He stops himself.

“Do not tell me this is a hard topic.” I bitterly chuckle, staring at this man who’s a mystery to me and to most everyone else at this reunion. My eyes fall to the medallion lying against his firm chest. Protection. There has to be something he can tell me.

When he doesn’t answer, I press in a whisper thin voice. “Tell me about the tattoos.”

“Jenna.” When he says my name, it’s a warning. It also feels like I’m getting the real Archer. Not some tough guy act with the babe and the ’Locks nickname. Not the one with short sentences and sharp commands. Saying my name is when he’s honest. The truth is he doesn’t want to tell me. He’s afraid to tell me.

“Fine,” I mutter, leaving the lamp on the nightstand still glowing and round the bed. Roughly, I pull down the sheet and flop onto my side, giving him my back. The bed is big enough we can keep our distance.

It was only a couple of kisses. We were caught up in the heated moment. They don’t have to mean anything, but my chest aches with the thought, and my eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed.

“Fuck it,” Archer says behind me, and the bedsheet shifts behind me. My name is a whisper.

“What are you doing?” I question over my shoulder, peering at him from the awkward angle. The sheet has been lowered to just above his knees, and I stare at his thick legs.

Then I see it.

An ugly-looking scar, deep red and puckered. Angry and severe.

I can’t be certain, but the skin looks like a healed wound . . . from a gunshot.

15

[Archer]

I stare up at the ceiling, holding my breath and clutching at the bedsheet lowered enough to expose the ugly divot on my upper thigh.

Jenna shifts, moving from giving me her back to facing me on her side. Her hand reaches for my leg and then retracts.

“What happened?” Everything in her voice expresses her concern, maybe even her fear. It’s a hideous scar and a constant reminder of who I am and what I’ve done. The mark is a permanent stain of Viviana in my life.

“It’s a scar.” I state the obvious.

“It looks fresh.” The redness around the dip in my skin looks much better than it did months ago. “Eight months old.” Bittnerness fills my tone. The puncture is forever, and counting months won’t make it better.

When Jenna doesn’t speak, I roll my head on the pillow and stare over at her. Her eyes flick up to my face with a silent command. Speak.

I can deflect every hard topic, but something inside me wants to tell her this story. Maybe this will frighten her away from me, and I need to frighten her. I need her to be the one to walk away because the pull to her is too difficult for me. I need her to step back because I’m struggling to find the strength to do it myself.

That kiss sealed my fate.