Archer

by Haley Jenner

  But it doesn't come.

  Belle sits like stone the entire time, unsure of where to put her hands, of how to act. I don’t try to relax her. I need her on edge. I need her to be cautious. Of me. Of what damage I could cause her. Tears leak from my eyes onto her skin. She can feel them, she would have to, but she doesn't move to touch me again, sensing my broken state.

  She lets me cry against her chest, as I try uselessly to let the sadness go. I feel like I've died. I needed this to work. I needed my want for her to give me some hope. Spark something inside of me back to life. But nothing. I still feel empty, hollow. I love her. My god, do I love her, but I'm ruined inside. and if she can't bring me back to life, what the fuck do I have? Nothing. Without Belle, without the all-consuming love I have for her; I have nothing.

  She remains still through my breakdown and I know that would be breaking her. I know with everything she would want to do anything she could to make it better. But she now seems as lost as I am. Unsure how to navigate the fuck up that is her man.

  My tears finally settle and I move my face to wipe my eyes along her the soft skin of her tits. I can’t stop myself from inhaling her scent, from angling my head to take her nipple into my mouth. It hardens immediately and she moans longingly as I suck it deep. Feeling it skim the roof of my mouth, I graze it along my teeth. Meeting her eyes, I move to the other side.

  “Don’t touch me. Please,” I half beg, half threaten. I must look like a fucking mess. I stink of booze, my face unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, face wet from my tears.

  I wait as she acknowledges my request; swallowing deeply, nodding quickly. I repeat my action on her other nipple and her body arches in to mine farther, her moan deep and needy.

  Our mouths crash together once again and it's a mess. Our tears intertwine, our teeth clash, our bodies tightening together. Out of habit her hands skim my body, making me tense, pulling away from her.

  “Please, don’t stop,” she all but begs.

  “Don't touch me,” I repeat desperately and she nods at my words. I rub my jaw to release the building tension in my body and moving to stand, I place her on the bed before pulling away.

  "Archer, please, anything, just…." she stops as she watches me undo my pants, relief settling in her eyes.

  I imagine her thought process is similar to mine. If we touch, if we spend time loving one another, intimately, we’ll find traction. We’ll find the connection we seem to have already lost. Through arguments and troubles past, our intimacy always gave us an avenue to communicate, to reconnect when the need arose. Now, the hope I had that this would work, is lost. Gone with the cold knowledge that even the briefest touch brought me nothing, when months ago it would have driven me crazy, made me mad with need.

  My cock is hard and I know I won't last long, but my need is only physical. Nothing deeper. Nothing of what I really needed. But come is already beading at my head, readying itself to explode inside of her.

  She reaches for me automatically as I come closer to the bed, but retracts quickly. I keep her eyes as I grab tightly onto her ankles, laying them against my shoulders. This way I can keep my distance. This way she can't touch me.

  I close my eyes as I enter her on one quick thrust, trying to shut out the disconnect further corroding my soul.

  She's tight. Almost constricting. For me, it feels fucking amazing. But, I refuse to meet her eyes and witness the pain my entrance caused. I heard it, in her gasp; it was tense and anguished, not rich and heady like I’m used to from her. I still when I'm fully seated within her body, refusing to open my eyes. After a few strained moments, I feel her slowly relax around me, growing accustom to my intrusion.

  "You can move," she murmurs and I pull out slowly, feeling every inch of me slide out of her. My eyes roll back into my skull from the pure pleasure of it all. Fuck, she feels good. My balls begin to draw up immediately, ready to release. Engulfed by the relief of being inside a woman again after long, tormented months. I slam back inside of her, her pained sob making my eyes instinctively close tighter. Hoping that by not seeing her, her sounds won't be able to break further into my soul.

  It doesn't work. I hear every pained gasp. Every muted cry. But I can't stop. I don't go slow. I pull out as fast as I enter her. Hard. Barbaric in the power of my drive. The room shakes as the bed hits the wall on every powerful thrust. I come fast on a loud sob, the sound rough in my throat. I don't meet her eyes as I pull out, choosing to turn my back on her immediately, moving fast towards the bathroom.

  I curse loudly as my shoulder hits the doorframe in my haste to distance myself. I'm a coward. Fucking weak. I couldn't even meet her eyes. I couldn't bear to see the pain, the agony that I caused. With my back to the door I lean against it to close it softly, and on a defeated sigh, flick the lock into place. Shutting myself away from her, I slide down the wood until the cold tiles meet my ass. I'm still fully clothed; I’m such a fucking asshole. I treated her like a whore, pulling my cock out just enough to fuck her. I bring the palms of my hands to my eyes and rub. My body shudders with my inability to control my breathing and I feel the bile in my gut rising through my chest into my throat. I barely make it before I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I fall back to the ground and yell into the small space. The torment in my throat echoing against the tiled walls.

  I can't be here. How could I possibly walk out and face her? Look into her tortured eyes and pretend that I didn’t treat her as an insignificant nothing in my life. I wish I’d died. At least that way her last memories of me would've been happy. She would not have a single doubt in her brain that I love her more than my own life. That my heart beats solely for her. Instead, she gets this version of me. The subhuman that just fucked her like she was a nobody. Cold and emotionless.

  I stand quickly, throw cold water on my face and do up my pants. I need to get out of here. I feel smothered and can't catch my breath in this fucking house. Throwing open the door with more force than necessary, I startle her. She's still naked, on our bed, waiting, but I don't look at her as I walk from the room. I don't take a single glance back towards her as I walk from our house, through the front door and into the cool air.

  I can't bring myself to go home that night. Instead, I pass out on Bennett's couch smelling of booze, cigarettes and vomit. The next day is just as painful. Just as depressing. Already, I see the cracks showing in Belle. She's determined to break through, I see that in her eyes, but I know the damage I'm inflicting began settling months ago. Our contact when I was deployed was sporadic. Initially, not by choice. Unintentionally, my environment built a barrier between us and even when I needed to feel connected, I couldn't. Then I wouldn't, further strengthening the wall my career had built for us.

  Without Belle, everything took its toll. Every bomb blast. Every injured or lost soldier. Every death of an innocent. Every single moment began breaking me down until I resembled the shell of a man I was so scared to become. I felt weak, pathetic that I wasn't strong enough to shut it down. My self-pity only helped the darkness bury itself deeper inside. Now the damage has rooted itself into our lives and no matter how hard I try, I can't stop forcing it upon us. I hate myself even more for this; loathe my very being for creating that hurt.

  I decide it’s easier to be oblivious. To drink myself to the point my subconscious doesn’t know how to function. This way I barely remember my own name, being so out of it, I don't actually remember how to feel.

  This is my life. The habit I build for myself. I drink myself into an amnesic state every night. Sometimes I go home, sometimes not. Inadvertently, I crack her further, beat her down emotionally until she resembles just a shell of the person she used to be.

  I can’t help but resent her existence. For making me feel like shit when I want to feel nothing. I can’t stop resenting her for coming into my life in the first place. For showing me the promise of something so perfect, just to have it ripped away. But most of all I resent her
, fucking despise her for not bringing me back. For not doing what she was supposed to fucking do. Belle failed me. She failed us. I love her to the point of pain, but even that isn't enough, and this I blame on her.

  I resent her. I despise her. I need her. I hate her. But fuck me, I love her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Annabelle (Archer 29 / Annabelle 24)

  My cell wakes me from a restless sleep and out of habit I reach for Archer, but like most nights his side of the bed is cold and empty. I contemplate not answering the call, wondering whether I could pretend for a few more hours that our relationship isn't a train wreck. That we’re happy. That Archer doesn't resent my existence or place in his life. But I’m weak and even knowing what awaits me on the end of the line; I can’t will myself to ignore the incessant ringing. Reaching out I answer with a soft hello, my voice scratchy from sleep. Sheriff Thatcher's tone touches my ears and I barely hear his words. "Leaving home now," I sigh, climbing from the warmth of my bed.

  Pulling up in front of the local PD, I breathe deeply helping to prepare myself for the venom that Archer spits nowadays. Sympathetic eyes meet mine when I walk through the door. "Sorry for calling you on this one sweetheart, had to lock up the boys with him this time," Sheriff says by way of explanation.

  I don’t know why Bennett and Toby insist on remaining so loyal. All Archer does is constantly drag them down. On the rare occasion they’re not surrounded by the cold brick walls of a cell, they tend to run this chore for me. I’m thankful for the times they do run point on babysitting. Protects me from further heartbreak inflicted from an intoxicated Archer. But who am I to judge their loyalty or question their motivations. Here I stand, in this very spot, readying myself for combat. Knowing the damage he can inflict with his words, his body language and the distance he forces between us. Yet, I stay. I let Archer treat me no better than a doormat, hoping he’ll break through whatever he’s dealing with. Wishing with everything, that even the smallest snippets of my Archer will return.

  It’s always the same shit. Drunk and disorderly, public nuisance, fighting. He’s so angry. All the time. Anger that ranges anywhere from mere irritation to an explosive rage that’s unpredictable and indiscriminate.

  Patting my shoulder tenderly the Sheriff walks off to gather my cargo. The station is quiet, only one other officer shooting me pity glances every so often. I want to tell him to fuck off. To save his pity, but in all honesty, I’m too embarrassed to meet his stare. Here I am, like many nights before, disheveled from sleep, dressed in sweats and a hoodie coming to collect my very drunken significant other, who will let everyone know how unwelcome my presence is. So instead, I focus my eyes on the door, waiting for Archer. Preparing myself for the scene that has played out so many times before.

  I watch Archer stumble through the precinct. Lip cut, bruised cheekbone, smiling sarcastically at the Sheriff. "Thanks, Thatcher" he slurs out, coming to an abrupt stop when he sees me. "The fuck? Why'd you call her?" he turns on the Sheriff, incredulous.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  I concentrate on not allowing his words to affect me. I'm used to this, yet as much as I work to prepare myself for it, the sting doesn't lessen. Archer glares at me, feet having ceased their movement. The way he looks at me nowadays hurts the most. More than his words ever could. He blames me for how he feels. For his inability to fight through. I don’t understand it. How can it be my fault? He came home this way. He’s the one not wanting to fix what’s broken inside of him, instead living in blissful hatred for himself and the world around him.

  Placing my hand on his shoulder I guide him out the door, but he startles from my touch, pulling away as though it burns him.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  I don't assist him to climb into my car and it takes him three attempts to jump up into the seat. I stare blankly out of the windscreen, waiting patiently. It actually might be amusing to watch if the reality wasn't so heart wrenching. I start the ignition once he has himself settled. "Put your seatbelt on." He ignores me, jaw set tight staring ahead. "Please," I whisper and I notice how pathetic I sound to my own ears. My plea pisses him off, I see him grind his teeth with obvious agitation. He’s like a petulant child when he's drunk and it pisses me off. "For fuck's sake, Archer, put your fucking seatbelt on, or spend the night in lock up, cos' I won't take you home," I yell.

  Archer doesn't want me here, seeing him like this, around him, but does he think I want to be here? To see him in this kind of fucked up state? I notice a small smirk grace his full lips as he pulls the belt across his chest. He thinks this is funny; he enjoys it when I snap. Who is this person who finds enjoyment in breaking me down? How did someone who once declared to love me so deeply, find amusement in causing me such pain?

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  We drive in complete silence. Once upon a time, I loved driving with Archer. We would always fool around, much like our first date. It became our thing. Our sexual tension would build so much when were in the confined space of a car. I guess it was the anticipation, knowing that we'd be touching that way. I know he remembers as well, I can see it in the way he flexes his hand, scratches his shorn head, fidgets in his seat, trying to keep his mind elsewhere.

  After a few minutes the excess alcohol gets the better of him and he passes out, head against the window, snoring softly. Pulling into our driveway, I look up at our house. Our home, where so many of my happiest memories were made. Archer worked so hard before he left on his last contract to fix it up, to turn it into what we wanted. It was perfect. Was. Now it's haunted, ghosts of happier times hovering, invading our space.

  I turn to take in Archer. He’s so beautiful when he sleeps. The shadows under his eyes are darker, but they don't take away from how handsome he is. His full red lips are slightly agape; his right hand rested on his crotch, left arm twisted out onto the seat. I take in the terminator tattoo inked on the inside of his forearm, stretching from the bottom of his hand up to his elbow crease. I used to love that artwork, thought it was hot. Now I hate it. It reminds me that Archer isn't really here anymore, that he encompasses that ink completely. A machine, no feelings, no thoughts.

  He shifts in his seat, his head tipping back, causing him to snore loudly. I stare at him for what feels like hours, my anger boiling. Steeling myself, I jump from the car and walk to his side. Opening the door, I unclip his seatbelt. I could wake him; shake him heavily until he comes back into consciousness. I could leave him; let him sleep in the car. But as tempting as that is, it could backfire, he’d probably vomit. Ugh! I consider him for only a moment longer before using all my might to pull on his arm, hard, and watch as his deep weight falls heavily from the car, landing with a loud thump on the grass.

  Holding my lips tight I suppress the giggle threatening to bubble from my lips. Releasing my predicament, I leg it towards the house, working to put as much distance between us as possible.

  "THE FUCK?!" Archer bellows behind me.

  Turning, I watch from the door as he gathers his bearings, realization dawning on him as he turns on me, livid.

  Such an asshole.

  "What the fuck, Belle?" he hisses stalking towards me. I ignore his anger, his threatening posture. Archer would never hurt me, well not physically.

  I hear his footsteps, crashing up the porch steps as I jog up the stairs towards our bedroom. He slams the front door behind him as I climb back into bed. I don't know why I provoke him, call it self-induced torture.

  I listen to him pacing downstairs. Fighting with his warring emotions; he struggles between pretending as though I don't exist and forcing an argument. Fucking asshole. I groan when I hear him stalk up the stairs, but really, I only have myself to blame. My split second of satisfaction watching him hit the ground is now, not so appealing. Throwing the door open he stands at the end of our bed, tall, broad and imposing as all hell. I don’t acknowledge his presence, instead working to regulate my breathing to feign sleep.

  "I know what
you sound like when you're sleeping. Slept beside you for a few years now."

  "My bad, I assumed you would’ve forgotten," my tone is dead, empty. I should have ignored him, kept up my façade. It would’ve pissed him off, but he would have left. Eventually.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  "Don't fucking start this shit again," he dismisses me. "Why do you have to go out of your way to piss me off? Why do you even come and get me?" His slur has gone; the drive, nap and fall, all sobering to his state.

  I choose to lay in silence, refusing to partake in his argument. "You wanna see me in a state like that?" he queries and I let out a snort of disgust.

  “You’ve have to be kidding, right? Trust me when I say there is nothing less appealing.”

  "Are you gonna pretend that you didn't make me eat shit by falling from your fucking car?" he demands. "Fuck, before……. before I would have…. shit, woman, you piss me off,” he growls, running his hands over his hands over his shorn head.

  "You know what, Archer?” I yell. “Fuck you and your before. Before what? Before you came home? Before you stopped living? Before I became an inconvenience to you? Before what Archer?" my voice continues to rise in volume as I come up high on my knees. "What would you have done before, Archer? Fucked me into submission? Spanked my ass? Please tell me, I'm fucking dying to know," I breathe into his face, my words spiked with bitterness.

  He laughs then, a nasty laugh, unwelcome to my ears. Grabbing my shoulders, he pulls me in close, licking the shell of my ear. "That what you want, baby, me to fuck you? That why you're being such a bitch?" He pauses briefly, pulling back to meet my eyes. "I get it. You make me hard, constantly. I live in a perpetual state of torment because of you and what you do to my dick, Belle. Why don’t we help one another out? You want my cock?" he whispers.