by Kelley York
Yeah, he was. Shivering. Cold. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore thanks to the water’s assault. “I should get home.” Archer pitched himself to his feet, grabbing his shoes and bag. Evan tipped his head back.
“Are you—tomorrow…?”
The tournament. “I didn’t forget,” Archer assured him. “Pick me up when it’s time to go.”
He could feel Evan’s eyes following him, an almost scorching sensation up his spine, all the way up the beach until he hit the boardwalk and was out of sight. He needed to get away. Away from the ocean, away from Evan. Away from feeling like maybe, just maybe, he could let a few of his secrets out from under lock and key to someone like Evan. Without judgment. Without repercussion.
But he knew better.
Wednesday, October 1st
Fly’s was a lot more crowded than Archer thought it would be. Two contests were being held that day, according to a flier someone shoved into his hands. The eighteen-and-under category had been earlier. Now the group consisted primarily of college kids or forty-something-year-olds with nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon.
He hated crowds.
Evan’s blinding green shirt marking him as a contestant was the only way he didn’t lose sight of him in the throng of people. They couldn’t hear each other over the noise, so they didn’t bother trying.
At least near the counters there was more breathing room. It was roped off for contestants only. One of the arcade employees started to say something to him about crossing through the barrier, but Evan said, “He’s with me,” and grabbed his hand to lead him along. Not his arm, not his wrist. His hand.
What is he doing?
Archer didn’t pull away, not until Evan had him up at the counter, filled out a nametag, and stuck it to the front of his shirt. He grinned crookedly. “We’re allowed one friend with us. This way they won’t shove you in the crowd with everyone else.”
I really am here as a cheerleader. There were worse ways to spend his afternoon, he guessed. Sitting at home and moping about Vivian, for instance.
The tournament consisted of rotating people around to various games, ranging from old-school 2-D fighters to racing games to 3-D zombie shooters. Archer followed Evan from one to the next, deafened by the whooping and howls from the crow. Although Evan gave him a little bit of history on some of them, Archer hoped he wasn’t expected to remember it all. Evan even made it up to the final rounds, where he was beaten out by a nervous-looking guy with square glasses and teeth too big for his face.
“Fourth place isn’t bad,” Archer said afterward, grateful they weren’t sticking around to watch the rest of the competition.
Evan laughed, peeling off his nametag and tossing it in a nearby trashcan. “Lost to a guy who only won because the arcade is the one place he goes outside of his mom’s basement. I made it further than I thought I would.”
They stepped out of Fly’s and into the cooler and roomier mall. For the first time in hours, Archer could breathe. Evan shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and nudged him with an elbow. “So…I didn’t win anything, but I feel like I owe you. You want dinner?”
He hadn’t exactly cheered. Unless standing there and making occasional awkward commentary counted as cheering. As for Evan buying him dinner, he shrugged. It beat going home. They stopped in front of the elevators, and he was about to suggest they order takeout and head back to Evan’s place when the elevator pinged and the doors slid open.
His heart stopped.
Richter Samuels stepped out onto the second floor and halted short of bumping right into him. Richter blinked. Stared. “Archer? Is that you?”
Oh, God. But he’d stood right there while Richter’s mother screamed that he didn’t have a pulse. How could paramedics have possibly gotten there quickly enough to revive him? Unless, in her hysteria, the woman had simply overreacted.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“Yeah,” he forced out. His voice almost cracked. Evan looked from him to Richter and back again. Archer cleared his throat to steady his nerves. “Richter, this is Evan. Evan, this is…he was one of Brody’s high school friends. Brody was Viv’s brother. The one who died?”
Recognition lit up Evan’s face. “Oh, yeah—hi. I’m sorry about your friend.”
Richter laughed. Outright laughed. “Nah, it’s cool. Haven’t talked to Brody in like a year. Faggot owed me money.”
Evan shifted and tensed. Archer didn’t so much as blink. He’d heard and been called worse over the years. Although Evan’s reaction made him contemplate shoving Richter over the nearby ledge. Too bad the fall to the first floor probably wouldn’t kill him.
“Speaking of dying, though,” Richter continued, “I totally had my own near-death experience.”
The muscles in Archer’s shoulders were wound so tightly his neck was starting to ache. The pain crept up into the back of his skull. “Is that right?”
“Hell yeah! There was this gas leak, knocked me right out.” He sounded so stupidly excited. “If my mom hadn’t stopped by and found me passed out on the kitchen floor, they said I woulda died. Isn’t that a trip?”
Evan gave a wistful smile. “That would’ve been unfortunate.”
There was something in that smile, in his tone, that made Archer crack a grin of his own. He bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “Very unfortunate.”
“I know, right?” Richter scratched at his scruffy chin. His nails were dirty. The idea of those hands touching Vivian made Archer’s stomach roll. “Well, anyway, I gotta go. Meeting up with some of the guys. Good seeing you, Archie.”
“Yep.” He stepped aside and watched Richter amble off. He smelled vaguely of weed and beer. Archer slipped into the elevator with Evan on his heels.
“He seems like an upstanding member of society,” Evan said. They exchanged looks, and Archer forced a smirk. Obviously, he had a mistake to remedy.
§
An hour later, they had takeout Chinese from a place up the street and were settled on Evan’s couch with a horror movie streaming through his game console. Evan fumbled with the chopsticks in a rather charming, childlike way. Watching him helped distract Archer from dwelling too much on Richter and what he needed to do.
Archer sighed. “You’re doing it wrong,” he instructed. “Position your fingers like this, to control them so you don’t keep dropping stuff.” After a few minutes of adjusting, Evan was able to pick up a piece of orange chicken. Archer’s mouth kept twitching, watching him as he clutched it so carefully, slowly, slowly lifting it up to his mouth and—it slipped out of his grip and plopped back into the box. He tried not to laugh. “Keep practicing.”
Evan grunted and tried again. This time he got the chicken into his mouth. “So, I was thinking,” he said after he’d finished his bite and licked away the sauce on his bottom lip, “if you still haven’t talked to Vivian…”
Archer paused mid-bite. A single noodle slid slowly off of his chopsticks. “I haven’t,” he said, and pushed the food into his mouth. Chewing gave him a few seconds to choose his words. “I’ll call her. I just haven’t decided what I want to say to her yet.” He couldn’t admit to Evan he had called her. Repeatedly. She hadn’t called him back.
Evan tapped the chopsticks against his box. “I don’t know, man. She’s the one that upset you, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to wait for her to call you.” When Archer gave him a skeptical look, Evan continued. “You could always have someone else talk to her. She’s in one of my classes, so I could try bringing it up.”
Well, if that didn’t kill his appetite… He sighed and set his food on the coffee table, leaning back against the arm of the couch and staring at the ceiling. “She’ll know what you’re doing. It’s always been like this with Viv and me. Whether or not I agree with what prick she decides to date doesn’t give me the right to say what I did.”
Evan stared down into his dinner, poking at it with little interest. “From what you’ve told me, sounds like she deserves getting
the silent treatment for awhile…”
“She didn’t,” Archer snapped. “Vivian’s a sweet girl. She never wants to upset anyone. She’s just…too trusting and forgiving. But if she weren’t, she probably would’ve ditched me long ago.” How many times had they fought over the years? And how many times had she forgiven him for saying stupid things, for shoving his opinion in where it wasn’t wanted? He could hate her decisions, but he couldn’t hate her.
Evan cast him a worried glance, but he’d withdrawn into himself and, whatever he was thinking, Archer wasn’t privy to it. But he could guess the general idea. “You don’t know her like I do,” he muttered.
“No. But I think friends are supposed to be able to tell each other what they’re feeling, even if the other person doesn’t wanna hear it. She shouldn’t condemn you for that.”
Tension snaked through every muscle in his body and sat him straight up. “You’re one to talk. You never tell anyone what you’re thinking.”
Evan deflated a little. “Sorry, you’re right.” He didn’t sound like he meant it.
The silence put a million miles between them where, moments ago, it was mere inches. Archer felt sick. He hadn’t meant to get angry. He had to get out of there before he said something else. Something worse. He couldn’t stand that kicked-puppy look.
He pushed himself to his feet, “If you’re done, I should get home.” He should’ve said ‘thanks for dinner,’ but couldn’t find the words. They were beyond him now, just like Evan seemed to be. No sooner had he gotten his shoes on than Evan shoved his food aside and stood abruptly.
“No…you know what? I’m not done.” There was a distinct crease between his brows, a stubborn, hard look on his face that Archer wasn’t sure what to do with. He stepped closer. Reflexively, Archer shrank back, shoulders lifting, tense, ready to strike. Evan inclined his chin.
“Vivian’s really lucky to have you, you know. When all her other friends are talking shit behind her back at The Grove, you’re the one sticking by and defending her. She’s making a stupid decision, a dangerous one, and you want to protect her. You’re letting her walk all over you and coming back for more. She shouldn’t forget that, and I don’t think you should, either.”
With him standing so near, Archer was painfully aware, while they were close in height, Evan seemed so much larger. And as Evan stared at him, his features slowly relaxed until they were the familiar, uncertain eyes and drawn mouth Archer was used to. “We’re friends, aren’t we? So I felt like you needed to hear that.”
The tension made his muscles tremble, everything so tightly wound and ready for escape.
‘You let her walk all over you…’
He needed to get out of there. To put distance between them before Evan could pick and cut further at his insecurities, his wounded pride. He needed to relearn how to breathe.
“No one walks all over me,” he growled. “No one.”
Archer didn’t bother with his jacket. He stormed out the door with Evan calling his name.
§
A near-death experience hadn’t changed Richter’s cleaning habits. The place still smelled of garbage, rotten food, and God knew what else. Archer kept his turtleneck pulled up over his nose and mouth to filter out some of the stench. He kicked aside a basket of neatly folded laundry—compliments of Richter’s mom?—inside the front door and slinked inside.
Richter lay sprawled across the couch in boxers with a porn movie playing on TV. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded. High. Or drunk. Or both. But it didn’t stop him from slowly looking up at Archer from the other side of the coffee table. He grinned slowly. “Archer… Dude, sweet, how’d you get in? You’re like…you’re like a ninja.” He sat up like a video in slow motion. “C’mon…c’mon over here, you gotta watch this, it’s wicked.”
The words rang in Archer’s head, dragging memories to the forefront of his brain.
You guys, c’mon, c’mon, cover her mouth. She’s being too loud.
He hadn’t stopped shaking since leaving Evan’s.
No one understood. This was all for Vivian. Everything he did was for her. Her happiness. Her well-being. Her smiles.
Someone shut her up. Brody, man, stop laughing.
He didn’t think about it. Not until the gun was in his hand and shoved against Richter’s forehead. Not until he pulled the trigger and the resounding crack shocked him to his senses.
Richter slumped back. His blood was everywhere; on the couch, the curtains, the window behind it, on the television.
On him. All over him.
Couldn’t breathe. He’d broken the one rule he had for his kills: always make it look like an accident. It was supposed to look like another suicide.
I fucked up. And if he didn’t get out of there, he’d lose any and all chances of getting away with it. Someone in the mobile home park had to have heard the shot.
He tore out the front door, legs threatening to buckle beneath him. His stomach rolled. The trees blurred past him as he ran for his car half a mile up the road, nearly collapsing outside the door while fumbling to get inside. He pulled off his shoes to avoid getting blood on the floorboard.
No sound of sirens yet. But he couldn’t waste time. His gloveless hands were sticky with Richter’s blood, leaving dark smears over the steering wheel as he drove off. Slow and easy. No peeling out, no attracting attention.
Every curve, every stretch of road, he waited for flashing lights in his rearview mirror. Nothing. He made it home safe and sound, somehow making it up the steps and barreling into the apartment on unsteady feet.
He abandoned his shoes in the bathroom sink after shutting and locking the door. No sooner had he peeled off his jacket and shirt than he crumpled in front of the toilet, heaving. Losing everything he’d eaten that day.
Shaking, he dragged himself into the shower and ran the water as cold as he could tolerate it. Cold. Because Richter’s blood felt so ungodly hot on his skin and every nerve in his body was aflame and screaming.
He scrubbed himself until the water ran clean and his head cleared. Able to think again. To process. When he got out of the shower, he threw his bloodied clothing into the fireplace and set flame to it, not satisfied until only the ashes remained.
Then he collapsed into bed, naked and cold, staring up at the ceiling while his mind replayed the scene again and again in his head.
Richter.
Richter’s words. Reverberating. Echoing. Scathing. Searing.
Richter’s brains splattered over the living room. On him. On the cheap porn playing on the flat-screen he’d probably stolen. He’d screwed up. Screwed up so badly, and how was he going to finish off the last few people on his list if he couldn’t even get this one right?
And his mind carried it a step further. The police showing up at his door to take him away. Tossing him in a cell. Letting him rot there. Away from Vivian, away from his apartment, away from Evan.
Evan.
Archer grabbed hold of that image, of warm eyes and warmer words. “She’s lucky to have you.” He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop trembling.
Thursday, October 2nd
He didn’t sleep. Not that night. Not into the morning.
At some point, his phone rang. He ignored it. Whoever it was left a voicemail and halfway through the day, he worked up the will to check it.
“Hey. It’s Evan. I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I overstepped myself last night. I know it’s…dammit. I’m just sorry, okay? Call me if you want. I’d like to know you’re okay.”
Evan. So concerned. So worried.
“End of messages. To replay this message, press one…”
He pressed one.
Again. And again.
And again.
Friday, October 3rd
He planned on going to class only because if he missed anymore, the phone calls would start rolling in. Ones that involved threatening to kick him out if he didn’t show up. Then his mother would call, screaming about how he
was going to flunk out of college and his tuition wasn’t cheap.
After a few hours of sleep, he felt…not great, but better, and that was something. His phone was dead. He’d listened to Evan’s voice mail over and over, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Some sort of connection to another human being, some sort of comfort.
Now that the panic had faded, a cool and calculating frame of mind took over. Mechanically, he got up, dressed, and cleaned the dried blood out of the bathroom sink and off the floor. He skipped breakfast in favor of opening his laptop, writing, printing out pages and putting them into his bag. He took disinfectant wipes and cleaned down the inside of his car. By some miracle, none of it was visible on the dark gray interior.
Now all he could do was hope he hadn’t left any traces back at Richter’s place. Footprints, hair, anything that could give him away.
His hands started to tremble as he brought the car to life, and he took a moment to breathe, to steady the tremors. No sense in getting worked up or scared. If he were going to get caught, he’d get caught. Couldn’t do anything about it now. Frankly, he deserved it. But not yet. Not until he was finished.
Being surrounded by people at school didn’t help. Gonera gave him looks throughout most of class, and he knew she expected him to hand in his rewritten story. He took no notes. Didn’t open his book. Only sat with a stoic calmness in the back of the room and never let his gaze leave the whiteboard. Everyone left, and she was waiting.
“Mr. Pond.”
Mrs. STD.
Archer pushed his chair back and stood, swinging his backpack over a shoulder in the same fluid movement. He strolled over to lay the papers on her desk. She squinted at the first page, skimming. Her head popped up so quickly he half-expected it to snap right off her chicken neck.
“This is the same story.”
“No, it’s not.” Archer snatched it away. “It’s different, it just starts the same. No more monsters, and I tried adding in some…creative detail.” As she watched, he flipped to the third page and read aloud:
