Archer

by Haley Jenner

  Who the fuck is she with?

  I struggle to remove my cell from my pocket, growling at my incompetence. I pace the room as I call her. One ring, two rings, voicemail. Fucking voicemail. I try again. One ring, two rings, voicemail. "FUCK," I yell into the room and try again.

  And again.

  And again.

  It's the same every fucking time and I don’t understand what game she’s playing. I try again. One ring, two rings, voicemail. Fucking bitch. I listen to the husk of her voice telling the caller to leave their details.

  “Where the fuck are you, Annabelle? Call me back. NOW," I snap into the phone before throwing it onto the bed.

  Bracing my hands at the back of my head I crack my knuckles, attempting the release the tension in my body. Where could she possibly be? She’s obviously not a Janie’s; would she drive to the redhead’s place?

  I wait a few minutes before picking up my cell, making sure I didn't miss a returned call. Nothing.

  My fingers work furiously on the screen.

  ARCHER: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

  I wait a minute, maybe two. No reply.

  ARCHER: U FUCKING SOMEONE ELSE?

  ARCHER: I'LL FUCKING KILL HIM.

  I want to punch something. Instead I sit on the bed, my knees jerking in aggression.

  ARCHER: U COMING HOME?

  ARCHER: COME HOME. NOW.

  ARCHER: WHY U DOING THIS? PAYBACK? REAL FUCKING MATURE ANNABELLE. GROW UP AND GET YOUR ASS HOME.

  I sound like a fucking psychopath. I can't help it and can't bring myself to stop. My texts continue, demanding her to come home. To tell me where she is. Accusing her of a whole lot of fucked up shit. Promising bodily harm to any man that touches her. That thinks of touching her. She’s gives me nothing in return. She doesn't reply once. She reads my texts, I see the small writing change on my screen from 'DELIVERED' to 'READ', but that’s it. I consider tearing Carnation apart looking for her. But where the fuck would I even start?

  At some point into the early hours of the morning I pass out on the bed, legs still braced on the floor, cell in hand. My sleep is restless, my nightmares bad. I see her face in the desert. Bloody. Dead. Like so many others, and like them, I can't do anything to help her. Not a single fucking thing. I wake up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, heart beating erratically. I stare at the ceiling, working to calm my overwrought state. I rub my eyes roughly, trying to rid the images from behind my eyelids.

  Sitting upright in search of my cell, I notice it's already 9am and my screen is still blank. I want to throw the stupid fucking thing against the wall. I settle for throwing it against the pillows on the bed. Not surprisingly, it doesn't give me the relief I wanted.

  My head pounds, I feel like shit. I stink. I need to brush my teeth.

  I rub my jaw, feeling the excessive facial hair clouding my face. I can't blame her for leaving, but she hasn't left. Which means she's somewhere with someone else. Un-fucking-acceptable. Problem is, I'm at a fucking loss as to what to do.

  Brian shakes his head as I enter the site office. "Not a chance, Dean. Fuck off until you've sorted your shit."

  I sigh softly, meeting his eyes. "I need this today. I'm sober, swear to god. Belle's gone, I need the distraction. Anything Brian, please," I finish quietly. He watches me for a brief moment before nodding his head slightly, indicating I move outside to the site.

  I wasn't lying when I said I needed this today. The distraction of working on the tools is the only thing to keep me from losing my head. Again. God knows what the fuck she thought last night. Who am I kidding? She would’ve known I was off my face. Still, I'm pissed as a motherfucker she hasn’t contacted me. I don’t understand her, she blows up my phone the few days I’m gone, but when I attempt contact she’s fucking MIA. Belle’s never been vindictive, was never the type of person to act out like this for revenge. I don’t’ get it and it scares the shit out of me. Is she finally moving on? Beginning to separate herself from me? I don’t like that. Not one fucking bit.

  Belle’s car isn’t parked in the drive when I pull up to a stop at the house. She’d probably still be at work, if she’s actually there. I berate myself for not thinking of that earlier, she wouldn’t be able to avoid me there. I could go now. Confront her. But I can’t bring myself to start the car, because as awful as the confrontation would be, what would I do if she isn’t there?

  I’ve heard nothing from her, not even a single fucking text. My mind was preoccupied the entire day. The boys stayed the hell away from me, letting me do my own thing. I can’t control myself. My anger. I’m strung out. Jittery. Skittish. I thought on calling her again. Surely she’d be more likely to respond if I reach out when I’m sober. But I couldn’t do it, couldn’t let myself look more pathetic than I already am. So I left it. Just stewed inside, growling at anyone who came too close.

  A run. That’s what I’ll do. Work past some of this excess energy. I take the stairs two at a time and change quickly. My lungs start burning almost immediately as I warm up. My body’s a mess. I haven’t run in weeks, months even. I’ve barely made it a mile before my breath is labored, my chest is tight and my legs are aching. It’s fucking humiliating. Being fit was always important to me. I was always physical in any way I could be. Now, like every other part of my life, my physical fitness is fucked. A result of punishing my body with booze and cigarettes. I turn and head home, not having made it into a full run at any point of the distance, keeping only a jog the entire way. Fucking pathetic.

  Her car still isn’t parked in the drive when I turn into the street. It’s the first thing I look for and first thing I notice. I kick my shoes off on the porch, stripping my clothes off as I walk slowly up the stairs towards the shower. Catching my reflection in the mirror I turn to look at myself properly. I’m a fucking mess; emotionally, mentally, physically. My frame is leaner, unappealing on my large build. My face is gaunt, cheekbones hollow, highlighting the hardness of my jaw. The dark circles around my eyes shadowing further. I look like shit.

  The hot water is welcome on my aching muscles. I don’t know how long I stand there for, embracing the quiet, the nothing, but long enough to allow my body to relax moderately under the constant spray.

  I miss her. Belle. Like fucking crazy. I refuse to let myself touch her. I don’t deserve it. I think about it, all the fucking time. It’s my own personal hell. I watch her when she can’t sense it, the way her body moves. It brings back so many fucking memories; of the way she’d move when I was inside her, of the sounds she’d make, the way her eyes would hood over, meeting my stare, begging me to take her there just before she’d come.

  Like always, my cock hardens immediately at the memory of her and as usual I don’t hesitate to grab hold and stroke powerfully. Remembering her tits, her ass, her taste, her tongue. It’s embarrassing how quickly I come on an incoherent shout, my release washed away as quickly as it came in the constant rain of water. I’d give anything to bury myself inside her again. To feel her clench around me. To blow inside her. To hear her scream my name. It’d be selfish because I know she’d give it me; I don’t doubt it for a second. I see her watch me sometimes, the want crystal fucking clear in her eyes. Her need for me, her want for affection would outweigh her dignity. I couldn’t do it to her though. Couldn’t let her hit my low.

  It’s dark by the time I’m out of the shower and dressed and she still isn’t home. I call her and can feel my heart beat in my throat as I hear it ring. Once, twice. Fucking voicemail.

  I throw it against the wall, the crash echoing in my ears as I watch the pieces fall into a mess of plastic and glass. It gives me a microsecond of relief to my temper. I slam the door as I leave the house and drive faster than necessary, slamming my door when I reach The Shallow. It’s still early and the bar is relatively empty. Scanning the empty space, I’m relieved Ma isn’t working, I don’t need any more disappointment or disapproval tonight.

  I pull up stop at the end of the bar, my back to the room. I don
’t want company. I don’t want attention. I want to forget how fucked up my life is. I want to drink until I can barely remember my own name. I want to forget how much I need Belle and how I can no longer give her the life she wants or deserves. I want to forget that I’m a useless piece of shit with nothing left to offer.

  Mick, the bar manager has long since given me a tab and I motion to him and watch as he moves down the bar.

  “Three shots. Whisky. And a beer.”

  “Rough day?” he questions, lining three shot glasses in front of me before pouring.

  I don’t bother replying, throwing each shot back as he pours. I welcome the burn, the cheap nectar coating my throat working its way through my body. I take a long pull of my beer after, washing down the whisky, helping it to settle deeper into my stomach.

  At some point the bar fills up. People line the bar beside me, yelling out their orders over the echoing sounds of the room. Loud music. Laughing. Yelling. Glasses breaking.

  I sit in silence. Avoiding any kind of contact with anyone bar Mick and that’s only because he’s the only one who can give me what I want - more booze. I don’t’ speak, just gesture and he understands my language.

  My mind is working towards numb. My thoughts are broken, the alcohol finally impeding my ability to form fully conscious thoughts.

  “Archer,” a nasally voice greets me. Tits pushing against my side, pissing me off.

  “Fuck off,” I slur, not bothering to look who was there. I don’t care. I don’t need the headache of conversation or company.

  Toby and Bennett arrive late into the night. I don’t know if by coincidence or if someone called them. Again, I don’t care. I don’t speak, but welcome the barrier they force between me and the outside world.

  The room spins. My brain stops communicating with my body. Whisky drips down my chin as I miss my mouth. I struggle to see. I drop my glass.

  Arms help lift me from my seat as my legs forget how to work. “I think it’s time to go, buddy,” a voice speaks close to my ear. It’s Toby or Bennett. I don’t know which one. It doesn’t matter. I want sleep. I want unconscious oblivion to take me away.

  I settle on my feet, pushing their hands away. Not wanting the prying eyes of this town to see how pathetic I really am. I stumble through the bar with them close on my heels. I’ve made it to the exit when it all turns to shit, when the promise of unconsciousness flees and I’m once again balancing on a very sharp edge of self-destruction.

  “Thought that was you over there, Dean, drowning your sorrows as per usual. Annabelle finally left your sorry ass? You seem a little more pathetic than usual.”

  I stop, the grimy tone making my blood boil. Lewis Pendal. Limp dick fucking asshole. Refusing to turn around, I crack my neck to release the buildup of tension.

  “Just keep walking, Archer, we don’t need his shit tonight,” Toby urges me forward, pushing on my back to kick start my feet.

  “That means she’s good for the taking fellas. Ass is a little bigger than I tend to like, but those thick lips make her look like a porn-star. Wouldn’t mind seeing them wrapped around my dick,” he laughs, his piss weak dipshit friends joining in.

  I turn slowly. More from necessity than purpose. “Watch your fucking mouth, Pendal. I’m drunk but I could still kick your fucking ass,” I slur out.

  Lewis stands from his stool, puffing his chest out, looking to his friends to back him. The dickheads do, crowding in close, trying to intimidate. What fucking losers, I could kill every single one of them, with my bare fucking hands. I step closer, looking down on his acne scarred face. Ugly motherfucker. I see the fear cross his eyes. Even with his loser entourage he knows I could skin him alive.

  “Yeah, she probably ain’t worth the hassle. We wouldn’t stand a chance anyway, would we boys? She has a thing for Dean dick. We don’t fit her type,” he smiles, showing off his crooked teeth.

  “Pendal, back the fuck down. We know you’re an inbred stupid motherfucker, but don’t sign your own death warrant,” Bennett warns quietly, pushing Lewis’ chest back slightly.

  “Saw Annabelle and the little Dean last night actually,” Lewis continues, ignoring Bennett’s warning. “He was doin’ a gig at The Coffee House. Annabelle was front and center, smiling big. They were nice and cozy between sets, cuddling close, sharing coffee. Word around town is they left together, touchy as always. Seems little Dean has taken the opportunity of his older brother bein’ a deadbeat and moved in on his girl. She’s probably sitting on his cock as we speak.”

  My vision clouds and I see red. I don’t remember hitting him the first time. Or the second. I know he went down. I know his friends bailed. I know I could have killed him. Wanted to, but Bennett and Toby pull me off. Struggling between their strength to keep me from inflicting maximum pain.

  I pace the length of the cell, a space I’ve now become accustomed too. I’ve counted every brick, every crack, and every chip. I know it as well as I know my own home. Could tell you many steps across and back, to the bars and to the far back wall.

  “Thatcher, call Belle to come and get me,” I yell and my voice shouts back at me, echoing through the empty space.

  I try this time and time again and every time my demands go ignored. Unanswered. “Thatcher, you motherfucking piece of shit. CALL. ANNABELLE.” I scream, over and over again, shaking the bars, rattling the small space.

  “Calm down, Dean,” Sheriff Thatcher sighs, coming into view. “You’re not getting out tonight. You’re too worked up. You’re fucking lucky your friends were there tonight, you could have killed Pendal and woulda been stuck in here for a lot longer than a night.”

  “He fucking deserved it. Talking about Belle the way he was,” I spit, pushing away from the bars.

  “I know son, witnesses all collaborated that. Lucky you were too pissed to do any real damage. Surface wound,” he informs me.

  Breathing in deeply, Thatcher takes in my broken state, shaking his head in disappointment. “Can’t let you out tonight, Archer. You’ll go on a manhunt for her and I can’t have you tearing up town lookin’ for her. I’ll let you out in the morning, when you’re sober and have had time to cool down.”

  “Just call her. She’ll get me. She’ll take me straight home,” I plead, my hand closing around the cold metal of the bars once again.

  “Already tried, Archer, she didn’t answer, and before you suggest it, tried her numerous times over the last hour. No go, kid. Get some sleep,” he offers apologetically before walking away.

  I yell. I scream at nothing and listen to the pained echo yell back. I punch the wall, ripping open my knuckles. I drop down onto the cot, defeated. Tears sting my eyes as I lay down and I try in vain to stop them leaking out, palming my eyes with excessive force to keep them contained. I’m so fucked up right now.

  She didn’t even answer. Not one of the phone calls. She wouldn’t come for me. How did I let myself get to this place? I’ve done it. Finally done it. I’ve lost her. I’ve lost Belle and I know I should feel relieved, that I should let her go and be happy. But I feel fucking miserable. I want her gone, because I need her to stop reminding me of what could have been. But she belongs with me. She’s mine and the knowledge that she might not love me enough to fight anymore, hurts bad.

  I’m so fucked up.

  Belle’s car isn’t there when I pull into our drive the next morning. I’m done. Done playing these fucking games. I shower, cleaning the broken skin on my hands. I look like shit, but at least I’m clean.

  I drive slowly. Nerves taking over. What if she isn’t there? Do I drive to Bellingham? See if she’s there? Or do I accept it and finally let her go?

  It takes no time at all to reach Main Street and I pull the Jeep to a stop, parking across the road. Relief settles in my stomach almost immediately and I take a slow deep breath. One I feel I’ve been holding since I stumbled into our house two nights ago to find her gone.

  She’s there; head bent over a bunch of flowers, too many colors
to count. The furrow of her brow giving away her concentration, perfecting every last detail.

  Climbing from my car, I watch her. She looks tired, pale. Even from a distance I can see she’s not wearing makeup. Her eyes look hollow in her face, the dark circles surrounding them, mirroring my own. Her fringe is pinned back, the rest of her thick hair tied on top of her head. She’s dressed casually, jeans and a white t-shirt. I know she’d smell like flowers. If I was close enough. The soft floral scent always embedded into her skin. I breathe deeply through my nose, trying to recall the perfume of her skin.

  I miss her. So fucking much. But I stare at her and she looks terrible. Still beautiful, but not herself.

  I did that.

  Me.

  She looks like a shell of the person Belle used to be and the blame falls solely on my shoulders. I’ve succeeded in destroying the most important person in my life. The person I love more than life itself. Slowly, I’m killing who she is piece by piece.

  My mind is in a constant tug-of-war. I want her gone, so I can stop destroying her. Give her the opportunity of having some level of happiness in her life. I can no longer give it to her and she deserves to find it somewhere. But I’m a selfish fuck and I can’t imagine life without her. Not being able to see her again makes my stomach ache. Belle is mine, no-one else's. How can I let her go knowing some other guy might make her happier than I ever could? How could I let another man touch her? Make her laugh? Give her a family? That all belongs to me.

  I watch her for longer than is probably healthy. She finishes the arrangement and moves on to another. She’s lost herself in her work, completely oblivious to the world around her.