Falter (14 page)

When we reached the stairwell leading up to Gavyn’s apartment, I looked over my shoulder to make sure he was still following. In the darkness, I saw a faint glow radiating from his eyes. They had become a soft neon blue.

Completely captivated by the unusual orbs staring back at me, I misjudged the first step. The tip of my shoe hit the ledge, causing me to stumble forward. Archard’s hand shot out to grab my arm before I could brace myself against the railing.
 

Too engrossed to be distracted by the incident, I righted myself and continued gawking at his eyes, fascinated by their reflective radiance. “Are your eyes…?” I let my ridiculous question trail off and shook my head, dismissing what I was about to ask. There was no way his eyes were glowing.
 

Archard slid his hand slowly down my arm, skimming his fingers over my skin with a feather-light touch, and let go.

I pictured in my head what my less than graceful movements must have looked like, and a deep flush heated my cheeks.
 

It was almost impossible to focus on anything other than the man behind me. He followed without saying a word as we climbed the last few steps, but I was more than aware of his proximity; I could feel the energy flowing from his body. His presence felt wrong and right at the same time. Something familiar lingered between us, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

My mind raced with new questions about Archard, so much that I’d forgotten George’s condition. When we entered the apartment, George’s appearance harshly reminded me.

“George? This is the man I was telling you about.”
 

His breathing deepened, but he didn’t acknowledge that he heard me.
 

I looked back at Archard and tried to read his expression. That was useless. No surprise, no sympathy, no worry. Nothing.

I glanced out the bay window and took in a beautiful view of the four o’clock sun next to us. Pale blues, bright pinks, and deep purples were creeping into thick, cotton clouds that seemed low enough I could reach beyond the glass and touch them.
 

Archard interrupted my thoughts of running away on those clouds when I caught him moving across the apartment from the corner of my eye.
 

I shuffled toward the last beams of sunrays sweeping over the front of Gavyn’s apartment before evening set in. There was a plain, square end table with a small, white lamp sitting on top, hiding in the shadows next to George’s feet. I approached the table and leaned over, reaching under the shade and twisting the knob. The room’s late afternoon haze brightened under the little bit of light shining from the lamp, but at the same time, it made the shadows on George’s face appear more severe. I approached the other end of the futon and gently nudged his shoulder.
 

Archard kneeled down beside me at George’s head and gazed at the sleeping man with such empathy and respect that it seemed they had known each other for ages. He whispered in George’s ear, and then leaned back and waited. A smile graced George’s face, and his heavy eyes pulled open.
 

Happy surprise lit up his face when he looked at the man stooped beside him. “It’s you,” he said in a tone that implied he was seeing someone long ago lost to him.

Archard brushed a sweaty curl off George’s forehead. “I have a message for you, my friend.”

George’s happy expression faded to concern. He looked at Archard for a moment, then at me. Struggling with the words, he asked, “Nevaeh, would you let us talk awhile?”

I felt a little offended. Why couldn’t I stay? He never kept things from me. “George, I really don’t think—“

He stopped me. “Nevaeh, this man came to tell me somethin’, and I think it’s best if I hear it in private.” When I didn’t budge, he added, “Please.”

Archard never took his eyes off George. I gave a short nod, then walked out with my lips pressed together in a hard line and my arms crossed over my chest. I stopped a few steps down from Gavyn’s apartment door.
 

In the silence, I hoped to hear just one word exchanged between the two men, but not even a whisper echoed from the open doorway. Defeated by the inability to hear what they said, I decided to give them their privacy.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Where In The Hell Is Archard?

The café was filled for dinnertime, and the atmosphere was alive with chatter. I struggled to focus on my job and prepare drinks for the servers, but my mind continuously drifted to Archard.
 

His very essence left an imprint on me. I felt a pull to him, like gravity wanted us together. Uncontrollable, unwanted, and unrelenting. It seemed crazy to think about him with such familiarity and need. Frankly, it was scary. I’d guarded my emotions over the years for a reason. I refused to let myself get hurt. This attraction was too strong and would only lead to certain vulnerability. That was unacceptable.
 

A woman’s loud, guttural laugh shattered my distracting thoughts of Archard, and I realized how ridiculous I was being. The most important man in my life was upstairs, sicker than ever, and I’m thinking about some stranger like a silly, daydreaming school girl.
 

The rush of customers had come and gone within a couple of hours. Time ticked by so quickly that I’d forgotten how long Archard was upstairs. A twinge of anxiety tightened my chest. I didn’t want to interrupt them, but I felt the need to check on George.
 

I approached Gavyn from behind, my fingers aching to smooth over his back and steal his attention. He was working behind the serving bar with his head down, chopping away at something I couldn’t see, oblivious to my presence.

“Gavyn?” I called, leaning a hip against the steel cabinet next to him.

He looked up at me with indifference. “Yeah?”

The lack of interest in his tone was hurtful, but I continued. “I finished stocking, and we’re kind of slow now. Do you think it’s okay if I check on George? That guy’s been up there a long time.”

“He’s still up there?” His indifference turned to worry, and a soft wrinkle appeared between his brows as he glanced back down at what he was chopping.
 
“Yeah, I think it’d be a good idea.” Deep, green eyes shot back up to mine. “Do you need me to come up with you?”
 

I shook my head, trying to show strength and fearlessness. I untied my apron, slid it over my head, and set it neatly under the counter. Gavyn watched my movements, his gaze sliding over my frame. When I turned, and he realized I saw him watching, he quickly returned to his state of indifference and bowed his head, slicing his knife into a strawberry. I rolled my eyes, maddened by the mixed signals, and stomped off.

I rounded the corner into the hallway and flattened myself against the wall, letting two customers pass as they exited the guest bathrooms.
 

“Excuse us,” the man said, glancing at me for a second before returning to his conversation with a young woman about what store they would go to next.

I ignored the clatter of a pan crashing to the floor in the kitchen—along with the colorful spray of curse words that followed—and jogged by, heading straight for the stairs at the end of the hall. I pulled the dark, blue door closed behind me and climbed up the steps.

Stopping just before entering Gavyn’s apartment, I knocked on the doorframe and waited for a response. No answer. I rushed through the doorway half expecting the worst, but George was still lying on the futon. Alone.
 

“George,” I whispered, quietly padding across the room. “Where’s Archard?” His skin heated my fingers as I touched his wet forehead. Wiping the sweat from his brow, I asked again.

He grumbled and opened his eyes slowly. “Huh?”

“George, can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you, girl. I’m sick, not deaf.” A weak smile curved his lips.

“Where did Archard go?” I asked, scanning the room for any signs of change or something missing. It would be my luck he was a thief. Nothing looked out of place though.

“He left a while ago.”
 

Hearing George’s feeble voice deepened my fear for him, but I didn’t want him to know it; so, instead of dropping to my knees and wallowing until he surrendered his stubborn pride and went to a hospital, I kept my composure, carrying on as if little was wrong. “Well, what did he say?”

His eyes closed, again. “He brought me a message of peace. Said my sins were forgiven.” He coughed, struggling to catch a decent breath. “Said I would be better soon—better than ever.”

I lowered to the edge of the chair behind me. Tears welled in my eyes. My vision blurred. What was he talking about, sins? I did not consider George to be a very sinful man. Neither of us were big on faith, but if we were, I’m fairly certain he didn’t believe some strange man could grant him forgiveness. Why would Archard tell him something like that? George must’ve misunderstood.
 

I eased back into the cushy, black leather chair at his side and stared out the massive, clear pane of glass opposite me, searching for a way to escape the fears that were making my head throb. A cool breeze whistled in through a crack around the slightly ajar window. I narrowed my eyes and leaned forward. I didn’t remember it being open before I left.

George’s teeth chattered next to me, drawing my attentive gaze away from the opening. Below the pile of blankets, his body shook around shuddering breaths.
 

I pushed myself out of the chair, sneering at his discomfort, and marched over to close the window. As I approached the pane, a shiver from the sharp sting of the cold air bit into my skin. My hand reached out to pull the gap closed, but I stopped with my fingers resting on the latch. Easing it open further, I leaned out into the chilly evening. The breeze ruffled my hair, but did nothing to clear my head.

I surveyed the narrow alley filled with eerie shadows and dampness below me. My nose scrunched at the occasional sour smell of mold and stray animals drifting on an updraft. I assumed that this building and the one next to it were pretty old considering they didn’t have any fire escapes. My heart skipped a few beats when I glanced down and became overwhelmed by a disorienting sensation of falling. The second floor was higher off of the ground than it seemed. No one would make that fall uninjured; if someone decided to jump…good luck. But, for just a moment, I let my mind ponder the freedom one might find in the brief descent. There had been many nights of my life, during my rather hellish times on the street, I’d considered ending it all. And what about now? If George died, what would be left for me?

A nip at my nose reminded me how cold it was and that I’d been hanging out of the window long enough. I pulled the glass panel in, latched the lock, and looked around for anything broken that could explain who opened it, and why.
 

Dismissing the thought of a break-in due to a lack of evidence—besides the fact that no one could
 
have possibly scaled the wall to get in from the outside—and George being far too ill to get up and do it himself, I realized there was only one person who could have opened the window. Archard.

Irritation dug into my nerves.
 

How could he do that after seeing how sick George was?
 

I cursed under my breath and turned to walk away. My movement reflecting on the glass revealed a smudge on the smooth, translucent surface. I’d almost missed it. The smudge shimmered under the last sliver of sunlight inching its way out of Gavyn’s apartment. Its opalescent glimmer had a touch of gold, like mother of pearl on a seashell. The small, imperfect oval of film resembled a single fingerprint, yet there was no distinguishable print pattern.

I bent over to examine it closer, spotting a single fuzzy fiber sticking out from the center. It was creamy-white and soft as silk. I plucked the fiber from the spot and rolled it between my thumb and index finger. A familiar odor rose from the fuzz, pulling me into a vague memory. The smell was fainter than I remembered. It was intoxicating, indescribable, and invoked feelings that heated my cheeks to a rosy red.
 

I breathed in deeply, the vagueness of my memory clearing like rippling waters smoothing to expose the depths below. It was the same aroma from the bathroom on the first night of my stay here.
 

I closed my fist around the fuzz trying to place where it might have come from and how it got here. I opened my hand and lifted it closer to stare down at the small white strand, waiting for an answer to pop into my head. Finally, an “Aha!” moment. Down—the fuzz resembled down feathers. A bird must have flown to the sill and left the smudge and strand of feather.
 

I was happy to find a logical answer to at least one of my questions, though it didn’t render a reasonable connection to the familiar smell. I held up my palm and pursed my lips to blow the tiny feather away, but before the breath left my lips, the fuzz began to disintegrate. It crumbled into pieces so small I could barely see them, then drifted from my palm.
 

I stared at my hand in disbelief, flipping it over and back again, surprised by what I just saw. How does something just fall to pieces like that? It was solid when I held it—I was sure of that. This couldn’t be another trick.