Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  Park, Archer’s Creek: Book Four

  Copyright © 2019 by Gemma Weir

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover design by Hart & Bailey Design Co

  Interior design by Champagne Book Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Gemma Weir

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Echo (Archer Creek #1)

  Daisy (Archer’s Creek #2)

  Blade (Archer’s Creek #3)

  Echo & Liv (Archer’s Creek #3.5)

  Park (Archer’s Creek #4)

  For Sarah, thank you for listening to me talk shit about my book stuff and never complaining.

  Age 4

  Mammy says we live in America with Daddy now.

  Our house is big and white and it has gates on the driveway. It’s nothing like the house we had back in Ireland.

  Mammy says I’m going to like living here, but I liked our old house better. Our old house had my old room with my Superman wallpaper. Our old house was near Granny and Gramps house. Now we live in a different country and Mammy said if I want to see Granny and Gramps, they have to ride on an aeroplane.

  People speak funny here and they look at me funny when I talk.

  Mammy says that Daddy loves me, and that he wants us to live with him, but Daddy doesn’t look at me, he only looks at other mammy’s.

  I don’t like Daddy.

  I don’t like it here.

  Age 5

  Today I started kindergarten. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Miller. She’s old and she smells like smushed up flowers.

  A boy called Andy pointed at me and called me stupid. He said I don’t speak properly. I don’t like Andy.

  A girl named Taylor called Andy a doo-doo head and gave me a cookie. I like Taylor. She has pretty yellow hair and a pink dress. She says we are going to be friends.

  Age 9

  Andy says that girls have cooties, and that if I hang out with Taylor she’ll try to kiss me. I don’t want to kiss a girl, but I don’t want to stop hanging out with Taylor either.

  Taylor told me that her friend Jessica said that boys smell, and that they had made a pact to stop talking to any of the guys at school.

  Me and Taylor agreed that we wouldn’t tell our friends that we still hung out; that we would keep our meetings a secret.

  I told Andy that he was my best friend, but he isn’t, Taylor is. It doesn’t matter that she’s a girl. She’s been my best friend since kindergarten and we’ll always be best friends.

  I wish she could come with me when I go to visit Granny and Gramps in the summer, but Mammy said that she can’t. I don’t really know why. Granny and Gramps finally got a computer, so Taylor says we have to email each other.

  Age 12

  Taylor got a boyfriend over the summer.

  While I was in Ireland all break, her parents sent her to camp and that’s where she met Chad. He’s all she’s talked about since I came home. We agreed to email every day but as soon as she got to camp she stopped.

  I hate Chad.

  Age 13

  Taylor got boobs!

  BOOBS!!

  I only went away for the summer and now I’m back and Taylor has BOOBS.

  When I asked her about them, she started to cry and went home.

  I don’t understand girls. Andy said his mom told him something about girls being from Venus, and that makes total sense. Girls must be aliens, it’s the only explanation.

  Beth agreed to go out with me, but Taylor says that Beth is a bitch and that if I make Beth my girlfriend, she won’t be friends with me anymore.

  Taylor’s my best friend, but Beth said if I make her my girlfriend she’ll show me her boobs.

  I’ll buy Taylor something to make her forgive me, after I see Beth’s boobs.

  Age 14

  I’m pretty sure I’m in love with my best friend. I can’t stop thinking about her.

  I lost my virginity to Madison Sands tonight, but the whole time I was wishing my first time had been with Taylor instead. I don’t even really like Madison, but Tay told me that she let her boyfriend Derek Matherson pop her cherry in the back of his car last weekend. It made me so mad.

  Derek Matherson is seventeen. He’s too old for Tay, but she says she loves him and that’s why she let him fuck her.

  I hate Derek and right now I hate Tay too.

  Age 17

  When I first moved to America, the kids at school used to laugh at my accent and say I didn’t speak properly. Now, girls drop their panties the moment I open my mouth.

  After thirteen years in the U.S. I really should have lost my Dublin accent, but summers spent with my grandparents have kept me from losing my Irish lilt.

  My girlfriend Anna-May is in my lap, grinding her ass against my dick, but as usual I can’t take my eyes off Taylor. She’s fucking stunning; all long legs and big tits.

  We’re still best friends, but I’ve been in love with her for years now.

  A sigh escapes my lips as I watch Tay make out with her douchebag boyfriend Derek. They’ve been together for two years now and I fucking hate him—he has what I want. I know I should be happy for her, but the guy’s a dick. He cheats on her, then apologizes so she forgives him. Then she cheats on him as revenge and they argue, and I have to console my hysterical best friend because her fuckwit of a boyfriend calls her a whore and tells her he’s done with her.

  Honestly, between the two of them they’ve slept with the majority of the kids at our high school. I dream about fucking her. I dream about her big tits bouncing in my face as she rides my cock and how she’ll look at me the way she looks at him.

  I’m in love with her and she doesn’t have a clue.

  Age 18

  I finally have my chance to tell her how I feel.

  It’s been three years since I realized that I loved her, and now it’s our time. Tonight’s the night. I told her I needed to talk to her and I’m going to tell her that she’s the one for me, that no-one else even compares to h
er.

  I think she feels the same way about me and after tonight we’ll be together, and she’ll finally be mine. After years of watching her with other guys, this is my chance. I won’t fuck it up; she’s my soulmate and we’re going to be together forever.

  Heaving a wistful sigh, I scan the crowded room full of people. A streak of blonde hair catches my attention and without thought I look for Taylor’s face, desperate to see her tiny, slightly upturned nose; her full lips; and her warm, chocolate eyes.

  After all this time I should have stopped this shit. Taylor isn’t coming here. Fuck, I don’t want her here. I can’t have her here!

  Tay’s the reason I haven’t been home in ten years. She’s the reason I rarely speak to my parents. We were best friends for fourteen years, and I was in love with her for four of those. I thought we’d end up together. I’d thought she was my soulmate. But one night, one conversation I was never supposed to have heard ruined everything.

  A small body sinks down onto the sofa next to me and I know it’s Nikki without having to look. “Hey, Mama,” I say, lifting my arm and draping it across the top of her shoulders. Pulling her toward me, I drop a kiss to her forehead and wait for the inevitable growl from her possessive old man.

  As if on cue, Blade appears above me, a scowl etched on his face. “Why do you always have your hands on my woman?” He growls.

  I open my mouth to speak, but Nikki gets there before me. “Shut up, Cam. Just because you knocked me up, doesn’t mean you get to dictate who I can and can’t speak to.”

  Chuckling lightly, I lean back into the sofa, leaving my arm where it is and settling in to watch the show. I’ve known Nikki for years now, but it’s only been a few months since I realized that she was in fact Dove’s ‘dead’ sister. Obviously, she’s not dead. She’s very much alive and kicking, and when she burst into the club one day, intent on reclaiming her sister, sparks flew between her and Blade and the rest is history.

  Nikki and Blade continue to bicker, but my friend stands her ground and eventually Blade simply rolls his eyes, lifts her into the air and kisses the ever-loving crap out of her.

  “Better?” He asks her when he releases her.

  Nikki nods, then lifts onto her tiptoes until her lips are level with Blade’s ear. “I love you,” she says.

  “I love you too, Duchess,” Blade replies, then he turns and points his finger at me. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

  Smirking, I lift my hand and salute him. “Yes, boss.”

  He growls, then walks away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

  Nikki sinks back down into the sofa and I watch as her eyes trail him as he walks out of the room. “You guys good?” I ask.

  Her hand unconsciously drops to her stomach, and she lays her palm protectively over the baby that’s growing inside of her. “Perfect,” she whispers, almost reverently.

  I’m not jealous of Nik’s happiness; she deserves it. I don’t know the full story of what happened to her before she ran away from Archer’s Creek, but I know enough to know it was bad. The kind of bad that can fuck you up for the rest of your life.

  Blade’s a good guy—a scary motherfucker, but a good guy—and I’m happy for them both. But when I see them together, I can’t help wondering if Taylor and I could have been as happy as Nik and Blade. In the last year, three of my brothers have found their women, but I’ll never get the kind of happy they have because I can never have the woman that should have been mine, and no-one else will do.

  “Are you okay?” Nikki asks, turning her body toward me, her brow wrinkled with concern.

  “I’m fine; you know me.”

  Her eyes narrow and she looks intently at me, as if she’s trying to read my mind. I almost laugh. She’s no idea what I’m thinking, because no-one here knows about Taylor. All my Sinner family see is the happy-go lucky Irish boy, jumping from bed to bed, never staying long enough to get tied down.

  “Do I?” She asks, her eyes searching mine.

  “What?”

  “Do I know you?” Nikki says, her eyebrow lifting in question.

  “Probably about as well as I know you,” I reply tersely. I’m being a dick. Nikki’s secrets are a hell of a lot darker and more disturbing than mine, but it still irks me that for years she never mentioned her sister or her family, or her psycho abusive father. I thought we were friends, but she never told me any of the real things about herself.

  “Touché,” she says, a sad smile forming as she stands up and walks away.

  “Fuck,” I hiss under my breath. Pushing up from my seat, I jog across the room, reaching Nikki just before she gets to the exit. “I’m sorry. I’m a dick.”

  She nods, but she doesn’t look at me. “I mean it. I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out and tipping her chin up with my finger until she’s forced to look up.

  “There’s stuff I just can’t talk about,” she says, her voice cracking.

  Guilt fills me and I feel like the biggest fucking asshole. I pull her into a hug, and she wraps her arms around my waist. “I’m sorry, Nik. You don’t have to tell me anything. Like I said before, I’m a dick.”

  Blade’s furious growl emanates from behind me and I reluctantly release my friend.

  “What the fuck did you do?” Blade snarls, reaching out and pulling Nikki into his chest.

  “He didn’t do anything, Cam. It’s just me being sensitive. These pregnancy hormones are fucking with my head,” she says, lifting her hand to touch Blade’s cheek.

  Blade glares at me, then turns all of his attention back to his woman. A dull thud pounds at my chest. I’ll never have this. I’ve been robbed by circumstances and a twist of fate that’s so fucking cruel it’s almost poetic.

  “I’ll see you guys later,” I say, pushing through the doors and out into the cool night air. The dark sky is full of stars and the night crackles with the sound of cicadas and the thudding base of the music playing from inside the club.

  Every night is a party night at the Sinners’ clubhouse; debauchery and excess available at every turn. But tonight I don’t want a mindless fuck. I want my girl, my best friend, and it can never happen.

  A dissatisfied sigh escapes my lips. Why am I thinking about her tonight? Most of the time I push my memories of Taylor to the back of my mind and pretend we never met, but tonight she won’t be repressed.

  Slowly, I plod across the compound and climb onto my bike. My 1968 Triumph Chopper gleams in the moonlight, but even the sight of my baby, my pride and joy, can’t lift the fog of melancholy that’s settled over me.

  Starting the engine, I push the bike forward, through the compound gates and toward my home. The quiet road slips past me as I ride, and I wait for the usual feeling of contentment to come, but it doesn’t. Tonight, the freedom, the peace, eludes me and all I can think about is her face: the way she smiles, the way her eyes used to light up when she saw me.

  The ride home passes in a daze and moments later I’m pulling up outside my tattoo studio and pressing the button to open the sliding metal door which leads to the yard at the back of the shop. To the outside world, Sinners Tattoos is the same as every other tattoo shop and on the surface it is. But that’s what’s so perfect about this place. The shop is a busy, well known studio, and I have a cult following of clients; ones who are prepared to book six months in advance to have me ink their skin. But beneath the shop and the five buildings that flank it on either side, is a hydroponics wet dream. Row upon row of top-quality Cannabis plants fill the cavernous space, and from here I grow the best weed in ten states.

  Cannabis is still illegal in Texas, but it’s only a matter of time before it’s legalized, like it has been in several other states. I love the feel of a tattoo gun beneath my hand. I love the passion and pride I can put into every piece of art I brand into someone’s skin. But my plants… my plants are my solace. Growing weed isn’t as simple as shoving a seed into a pot and watering it. It’s a fine art. A balancing act between light a
nd dark, moisture, fertilizer, and the right mix of cross-pollinated varieties.

  Riding my bike into the yard, I close the heavy metal doors behind me, plunging me into complete darkness for a moment until the automatic lights flare to life and the enclosed space is illuminated. I park my bike and climb off, crossing the yard to the door to my apartment. I’ve lived above the shop since the moment I started working here and I fucking love my tiny home.

  I key in my code and my door unlocks with a click. Pushing it open, I climb the stairs, turning the handle on the second door a moment later. The familiar scent of spiced apple hits me and a smile slips across my lips. My cleaner thinks it’s hilarious to leave girly smelling air fresheners in my place and the shop, but she won’t ever tell me where she’s stashed them, and by the time I track them down she’s planted another somewhere else.

  My apartment is largely open plan: just a single room with a bedroom behind the one and only door inside. It’s the one place in the world where I can always breathe easy. I had a light tunnel installed in the far corner, and paints and an easel are strewn across the floor. The rest of the space is clean and ordered; just how I like it. The walls are all clean white, but canvases I’ve painted hang haphazardly, splashes of greys and blacks in my otherwise colorless life.

  Our home in Ireland had been small but filled with warmth and a cacophony of my mother’s erratic, eclectic taste. Tiki lamps had sat next to classic oil paintings; a bright-red patchwork quilt, across a bland cream sofa. Mom had been a free-spirited hippy, forever in tie-dyed dresses she’d made in our bathroom; or at least that’s who she was until we moved to America to live with my father.

  It hadn’t happened all at once but moving dampened my mom’s spirit. The garish colors had gradually faded to more muted tones, which had eventually changed to bland creams and whites. I never understood what happened to change her, but it was like she was happy to stand out in lush green Ireland, but over here in perfect LA her eccentricities hadn’t made her unique, they’d just made her weird.