29. Daemon

S weat trickles down my back as I push myself to remain still, my arms holding up my entire body weight in a handstand, as I keep myself perfectly balanced. After Archer left my room this morning, he left a void in his wake, one that I wasn’t prepared for. A vacuum of loneliness that only someone like him could achieve, especially after spending only one night in my bed. A void that had me sketching for most of the day, until I eventually gave up and came to the gym to work out.

I was hoping the distraction would relax my mind, and allow me to sort through these strange new feelings, but I still feel just as messed up now as when he arrived last night. I’ve purposely never allowed myself to be in this position before, and now that I am, I don’t know what the fuck to do about it. I want him, I know that, and I’m not afraid to admit it, but wanting him and having him are two completely different things. I can want him and keep him at arm's length, I can want him and not reveal my darkest secrets, and I can want him but keep his light intact. But to have him? To have him would mean giving a part of myself to him, and even if I could, I’m not sure I really know how.

Slowly bringing one of my arms from the floor and holding it out straight, I force myself to keep my balance in a one-handed handstand, pushing myself even further than I normally would, and even when my body begins to shake, there is only one thing on my mind. How the fuck am I going to keep Archer from running for the hills when he discovers my past? And should I even bother trying?

It’s dark outside by the time I finish my workout, and forgoing the showers at the gym, I run home, ready to just shower, eat, and pretend I’m not wondering why Archer hasn’t texted me all day. Yet when I reach my room, I find it already occupied by the bane of my existence himself. Archer is laying on my bed, on what I can only presume he has deemed his side, and when I shut the door behind me, his eyes flick up to meet mine.

“Finally, I’ve been here almost an hour, Forbes,” he complains, as if I’m late, when I wasn’t even expecting him in the first place, and I can’t help but give him a bemused smile.

“Returning my breaking and entering?” I ask, tossing my phone and keys onto the dresser near the door, before moving further into my room, and he only returns my smile, shaking his head.

“No, Hallie let me in, but I can go back out and climb through the window, if that’s what you’re into?” He muses, slipping his hand into mine when I reach him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My skin marvels at the simple touch. One I’ve avoided so well for years, one that has me wanting to snatch my hand away from him and not torture myself with it, but then he tips his head back and looks at me, and there it is. That fucking carefree smile that makes my knees go fucking weak, and has had me on that damn leash of his for three fucking years.

“I think we’ve established that the only thing I’m into, is you,” I mumble, only making his smile wider, and I’m so completely enthralled by him that I don’t notice the liquor bottles atop my nightstand, until he pushes up off my bed and claims my mouth in a rough kiss.

“Well, considering where you had your tongue last night, I’d say it’s definitely established,” he grunts against my mouth, before pulling away all too quickly. “Now take a seat, we’re going to play a little game.” He nods his head towards my desk chair, which he has positioned opposite my bed, as he grabs one of the liquor bottles and hands it to me.

Taking it, as he reaches for the other, I frown slightly, as I move toward the chair and ask, “Don’t tell me it’s another game of truth or dare? I mean, I know it’s your favorite, but don’t you think we’ve played enough?”

Archer chuckles as he sits himself at the end of my bed, taking the first sip of his own bottle, watching me closely. “As much as I’d enjoy another game of truth or dare with you, Forbes, this one is actually truth or drink,” he says, still watching me, waiting for my reaction.

“Truth or drink?” I repeat in question, looking between him and the bottle in my hand, and he nods slowly.

“We ask each other questions and we answer honestly. If you don’t want to answer, then you drink,” he gestures towards the bottle in my hand, as an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. A feeling he must sense instantly, because the next thing I know he is on his knees at my feet, looking up at me. “Whatever this thing is between us, Daemon, it isn’t going away, not for me anyway,” he starts, slipping his hand back into mine, and fuck, nobody has ever looked at me the way he is right now.

“Not for me either,” I interrupt softly, squeezing his hand, and he smiles again.

“Then we’re in this. I’m yours, and you’re mine, whatever that means, so we have to be open and honest with one another, but I only want to know what you’re willing to tell me, so if you need to drink, then drink, but either way, I’m still not going anywhere.” Every word from his mouth has the back of my eyes stinging, because behind that cocky attitude, and that damned fucking smile, is a heart of gold, and he’s handing it to me on a fucking platter. All I can do is nod, and he returns it, slipping back onto the edge of my bed, as he adds, “You first.”

Uncapping the bottle, I take a quick sip, as I think about what to ask him, before I settle on something that has been bugging me. “Why did you steal The Great Gatsby from my bookshelf?” I question, and he instantly smirks, and with the way his hands fiddle with his bottle, I almost think he won’t answer.

“You left me alone in your room, and I wanted to snoop,” he starts, my heart beginning to beat faster at his admission. “I knew your sketchbooks would be off limits, as tempting as they were,” he winks, his respect for my privacy meaning more than he could ever know. “But then I saw the multiple copies of Gatsby on your shelf, including the battered one you keep beside your bed, and I was intrigued. I’d never read it before, and I wanted to see why you like it so much,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like stealing my favorite book, just to see why I like it, as if it is a casual thing to do, but it’s not.

Whatever this thing is between us, it isn’t casual, and I’m pretty sure that's why he’s insisted on this game. We’ve spent three years dancing around this connection, this attraction, and now we’ve both revealed our cards. It’s clear that we’re both all in, whether we want to be or not.

“Your turn,” I force out, clearing my throat, and mentally trying to prepare myself for whatever he is about to ask.

“Hallie says you like to cook a lot, why?” He probes, and as deep as questions go, it’s not that personal, but to me, the answer is, still I don’t drink.

“My mom loved to be in the kitchen,” I say slowly, thinking back over the few memories I have of her. “She loved to cook, and she would sing and dance around the room like a crazy person, because she knew Jasper and I loved it, and it’s the only time I can remember her truly being carefree and happy,” I tell him, knowing he is hanging on to my every word, and no doubt hearing the pain in them. “I cook a lot now, because it calms my mind when things are getting to be too much, because I enjoy it, and because it helps me feel closer to her.”

Archer stares at me until I stop talking, before he gently asks, “Is your mom still alive?” I shake my head no, before taking a quick sip of the whiskey, and that must signal something to him, because he quickly adds, “Your turn again.”

My mind is still reeling from the idea of this game, but still I dare to ask, “This thing between us, do you think it’s casual?” It’s clear my question surprises him, because his eyes widen at my words, but I need to know where he stands with all of this, especially when he is forcing me into a game like this one.

Archer clears his throat and sighs, “No, I don’t.” Three words and I feel like my heart might fucking explode out of my chest. “I think that all I’ve ever known is casual, and that I’m a fucking idiot for taking three years to work out why I was so obsessed with wanting to get your attention all the time.” His response has a smile creeping onto my face, but I take another sip from the bottle in my hand, as I nod towards him to take his turn.

“Your father,“ Archer starts, watching me carefully, before he adds, “He’s in prison.” His words come out as a statement, and I grunt, knowing he’s probably heard a whole boatload of rumors when it comes to my father, and he isn’t going to avoid the inevitable for much longer.

“Was there a question in there?” I grit back like a dick, using the only defense mechanism I know, and he pauses, as if thinking about his words carefully.

“Are the rumors true? Did he murder someone?” Archer pushes on, probably not realizing what it does to me to be asked that question.

Did he murder someone?

Someone?

As if my father didn’t take the only ‘someone’ I ever truly loved.

“Yes,” I snap, offering up no more information, but clearly it’s not enough.

“Who did he kill?” he asks, but the bottle is already at my lips, anticipating his question and erasing the answer I don’t want to give, and to my surprise, Archer only nods, pushing on with a new question. “Was he the one who marked your body?” Another nod from me, as I note the tightening of his jaw, as he grits out another question. “And what about your brother? Why don’t you talk to him?” I can tell from the tone of his question that he must think my brother hurt me too, and he did, just not in the way Archer’s presuming.

“Because he left me in the house with our father,” I admit truthfully, probably the easiest answer I have given so far, and like a moth to a flame, I can see Archer trying to piece together my trauma like a damn puzzle.

“Did your father hurt Jasper too?”

I nod, my throat aching to down the entire contents of the bottle in my hand, and maybe even go out and find something stronger, but with his blue gaze on mine, I take a deep breath and reply, “Yes, until Jasper turned eighteen he was the focus of my father’s rage, and then he left home and I took his place.”

I thought my answer might placate him, but he only looks angrier, as he demands, “Why didn’t you leave?”

I take a deep swill from the bottle this time, and despite his words from earlier, I know he is pissed off at what I’m saying, but even more pissed off at what I’m not saying.

“Is your father the reason you don’t like to be touched?” His question sounds desperate now, like he hurts for me, and I fucking hate it, but I hate even more that he noticed.

“I mean, I’m no therapist, but I think it’s a safe bet.” I tip more of the liquid into my mouth, needing the courage to continue.

“But you let me touch you,” he replies in wonder, and though there is no question in his tone, it’s still there, I still hear it.

“You’re the exception,” I admit for the first time, and not just to him, but to myself, too.

“To what, touching you?” Archer asks, his face now looking as if he’d wait another three fucking years for my response to his taunts, questions, and requests, and I almost choke on my need for him.

“To everything,” I tell him, silencing any more questions he might have wanted to ask, but he wouldn’t be him if he wasn’t pushing my damn buttons.

“Have you ever fucked a guy before?” he asks, a different look crossing his stare now, and I can feel the tension in the room almost choking us.

“Yes, a couple of times,” I drawl, sipping from the bottle slowly now, as his eyes track my tongue, as I lick some remnants of the liquid from my lips.

“How was it?”

I can understand why he would want the details, yet all I can do is shrug. “I’m sure it was fine, I don’t really remember much of it.” I don’t bother adding that the only sexual encounters I choose to remember, all involve him. It would only inflate his already oversized ego.

“You don’t remember?” He chokes out, looking confused, as if I might be lying, and I take another damned drink, knowing what I am about to admit.

“After my father was arrested, I fell into a dark hole,” I tell him, giving him information that only Josh possesses, yet knowing he needs it. “I was drinking a lot, taking anything I could get my hands on, to try to help me forget what had happened, and oftentimes it led me to sexual encounters with partners I have no desire to remember.”

He goes over my words in his mind, sipping his own drink slowly, before he asks, “Were you high the night we met?” There is no anger and judgement in his tone, only wonder, and I see no reason to lie, not to him.

“Yes.”

He nods, as if he had already realized the answer, yet still he pushes on. “Did you feel something that night?”

Again there is no point in lying, I think we have both done enough of that already. “Yes,” I admit freely, still able to feel the moment we first locked eyes on one another, and I felt something shift inside of me.

“The same thing you feel now?” he asks, but I’m already shaking my head.

“No, it’s more now,” I sigh, knowing those four words aren’t enough to convey my meaning, but not sure I know the ones that would. “When I first saw you, I thought you were just another jock looking to get his dick wet, and I was pissed because you decided to do it on my bed, when all I wanted to do was lock myself in my room and snort another line,” I tell him honestly, and he seems surprised by my level of candor. “The girl, whoever she was, invited me to join and I thought fuck it, another kind of high to chase away my demons,” I shrug, knowing how disrespectful that makes me sound. “Then I was fucking her, watching myself sink inside of her, and waiting for the high to hit, but it wasn’t coming,” I breathe, feeling sick at myself for admitting that. “And then you groaned,” I add quietly, shaking my head, as if I can still hear the sound even now. “You groaned, and it was like the sound vibrated off every bone in my body, like I was asleep and it finally woke me up, and when I looked up at you, you were already watching me. Your eyes, those fucking eyes , so insanely blue, they met mine, and everything else just disappeared, and I’d never had that before. No one had ever made me feel like that before.”

Archer takes another pull from his bottle, before capping it back up and discarding it on the floor, as he sits up and asks, “And do you want to fuck me?”

My already half-hard cock pulses to life at his words, my fingers itching to collar his throat and throw him to his damn knees, as I breathe, “Since the moment I first met your stare.”

That damned smile, looking so fucking smug yet sweet, darts across his mouth, as he grins, “Then what are you waiting for, Forbes? Fuck me.”