Chapter Seven: Archer

Chapter Seven

Archer

“Well, kids, it looks like you’re going to be here for a while.” Mr. Dawson hangs up the phone and goes to the window, watching the storm. “A tree fell and knocked out power lines. The road is blocked.”

“How bad?” Dean asks.

“Weston said there’s been a lot of damage in town they have to get to first. He’ll keep us posted. I know Quinn and Archer need to leave soon to make it home in time. Though you shouldn’t drive in this rain anyway.”

Quinn shifts in her seat, and the collar of her oversized sweatshirt falls down her shoulder. Her hair is in a messy braid, she’s not wearing any makeup, and she’s refused to look at me all morning. She’s done an impressive job of pretending I’m not here, actually. No one else has noticed her go about the kitchen, getting coffee and helping her mom make breakfast and act like it’s just her family sitting around the large island counter.

“Should we go into the basement?” Mrs. Dawson asks. She tightens her grip on Jackson, who doesn’t seem bothered by the storm at all.

“Nah,” Mr. Dawson says, looking out the window. “This house has survived for over a hundred years. It’ll go a hundred more. I’m not worried.”

A loud crash of thunder booms overhead, startling the dogs. The lights flicker. Once. Twice. And then the power goes out.

“Quinn, can you call your brothers and make sure they’re awake and aware of the storm? Owen can sleep through anything.” Mrs. Dawson gets up, keeping Jackson’s hand in hers as if she’s afraid the small boy will blow away in the storm, and gets battery-powered candles and a flashlight out from under the kitchen sink.

“I’ve been texting Logan all morning,” Quinn responds, not looking up from her phone. “They’ve been up doing inventory at the bar.”

“The bar? Maybe they should come here where it’s safer.”

“Jackie,” Mr. Dawson starts. “It’d be far more dangerous to have them drive. The bar has a basement.”

“Grammy will you read to me? I’m tired.” Jackson tugs on Mrs. Dawson’s hand.

“Of course, baby! Let me get another flashlight and we can go snuggle on the couch.”

Kara goes into the living room with them to work on her lesson plans for the week, and Mr. Dawson tells Dean he needs him to sort through a client’s file so they can get a head start on a project for tomorrow.

And now just Quinn and I are in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure her coffee mug is empty, but she brings it to her lips and pretends to take a drink, turning away from me to look outside at the storm.

It’s just now ten AM, and I’m not at all worried about making it back home in time. But being stuck in this house with Quinn…it’s not uncomfortable at all. Especially after last night.

Hah. The tension is so thick it’s hard to fucking breathe.

Regretting the second helping of bacon and eggs I got, I push the last bit around on my plate and steal a glance at Quinn. She’s holding her coffee cup—which is definitely empty—and frowning as she reads something on her phone.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No.” She doesn’t look away from her phone, but at least she answered me. She sets her mug down and types up a reply then fires off the email. “I get no service here,” she mutters and trades her phone for the coffee mug again. This time, she takes it to the sink.

Those little bitty shorts ride up her tight ass as she walks. I want to put my hands on it. Press my cock up against it as I kiss her neck, gathering her hair into one hand and move it over her shoulder.

I swallow hard. I can’t think like that. Not here. Not now.

Not ever.

“Are you done?” Quinn puts one hand on her hip and for a split second, I think she knows what I’m thinking.

“Yeah,” I say, picking up my last piece of bacon. I pop it in my mouth and stand, bringing my plate over to the sink. Quinn takes it from me and bends over to let the dogs lick the remnants of eggs. Her ass is in the air right in front of me, and I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose to get a rise out of me.

Because she is, and I have to change my stance thanks to my hardening cock.

“Quinn,” I start, not sure what to say, but I have to say something. “We should talk.”

“About what?” She straightens up and rounds on me, crossing her arms. Her eyes meet mine, drilling in with an intensity I’ve never seen from her. She has little flecks of blue in her brilliant green irises that I haven’t noticed before.

I move closer, stepping over Boots. If I say it now, there will be no more wondering. No more waiting. She’ll either take me or leave me, but at least I’ll know. I can kiss her now or move on. Somehow, someway.

It’s not hard. All I have to do is open my mouth and let the words come out, speaking with unwavering vehemence as I tell her how I feel.

Yet, I can’t.

Standing here looking at Quinn, with her messy hair, thick sweater hiding her perfect tits, and dogs circling around her feet in hopes of more food, I feel more nervous that I did the first time I stood in front of a patient on the operating table with a scalpel in my hand.

“Archer?”

“Your wrist. How’s your wrist?”

“My wrist?” she questions, nostrils flaring. She lets out a sigh and picks up the plate the dogs licked clean. “Same as yesterday. I ordered a posture brace on A****n to help with my shoulder pain, not that you care.”

I’d offer to massage her shoulders, but the moment my hands land on her back, all bets are off.

Suddenly, Quinn advances. She’s inches away, arms crossed tightly over her chest and head tipped up to mine.

“That’s not what you wanted to talk about.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and cocks her head. “Is it?”

“Quinn.”

“Don’t Quinn me, Archer Jones. You know as well as I do you weren’t going to talk to me about my wrist.” She lets out a frustrated breath and lets her arms fall to the sides. Her fingers brush against me, and my skin feels electric just from that small touch.

Goddammit.

“But fine. I’ll play that game. Here.” She holds up her hand. “Examine me, doctor.”

Her words are meant to mock, but they do the opposite. I’ll examine every inch of her body. Twice. Three times. Just to be certain nothing was missed.

I take her wrist and tug her forward, knocking her off balance so she falls against me, both her hands flat on my chest. I slip my other hand around her waist, stopping at the small of her back. Quinn’s lips part and she gasps.

Instead of struggling to get away, she relaxes in my arms, and nothing has ever felt more right.

Even though this is wrong.

Quinn is in my arms, back arched and tits against my chest. My cock is hard, pulsing against the confines of my jeans. Thunder booms above and Quinn shivers.

“Do you still want to talk?” My voice is gruffer than I intend, but the harshness does something for Quinn. She slides her hands up my chest and around my shoulders.

“There are other things I’d rather do,” she says, voice breathy. Fuck. She’s killing me. She brushes her hips against mine, feeling my erection through my pants. “And I think you would too.”

I do. I so fucking do and she knows it.

“Archer,” she says softly and hearing her whisper my name is almost enough to make me come right then and there. I slowly bring my face down to hers. I’m going to kiss her. After all this time, it’s finally fucking happening.

Then the floor creaks and Dean and Mr. Dawson’s voices echo through the house. Dean’s been a better brother to me than my real brother. Mr. Dawson stepped in and filled the role of a father when my own was bailing Robert out of jail or going to the hospital to confirm the identity of the unconscious junkie the paramedics brought in.

“Stop,” I tell Quinn, ripping my heart out of my chest as I speak. “You’re Dean’s sister.”

“I know who I am, and if that’s all you see me as…” She pushes away and walks out of the kitchen without looking back.

*

“I’m telling you, you gotta fuck her out of your system.”

I carefully make the incision, not taking my eyes off my patient to look at Sam. “And that means?”

“You’ve been hung up on this piece of ass for years. She’s always been your forbidden fruit. And trust me on this: the fruit looks better than it actually tastes. Drive back up to that Podunk town, fuck her hard and dirty, kick her out as soon as you’re done, and she’ll be history.”

“That is terrible advice,” Shelly, one of the OR nurses says. “If you like this girl, tell her. Take her out on a date and treat her like an actual human being and not a piece of meat.”

“That’s not a way to get over her,” Sam counters.

I can feel Shelly’s eyes on me. “I don’t think he wants to get over her.”

Shelly’s right, but I don’t let anyone in the operating room know. I used to agree with Sam, having thought Quinn was someone I sexually desired, but seeing her again over the weekend changed things.

Though really, it’s always been the same.

I never let myself think about it. I shut down the thought the moment it came into my mind. Quinn had to be the girl I wanted to fuck, not the girl I wanted to settle down with. Because I couldn’t. I still can’t.

“She doesn’t live in that Podunk town.” I exchange tools and go back to the mass we’re removing from this guy’s abdomen. “She lives in Chicago.”

“Then drive your ass up there so you can tap her ass.”

“You’re disgusting,” Shelly says.

Sam laughs. “I do what I have to do. And now it’s time for Archer to figure this shit out. I mean, look at him. He could be out fucking the world, but he’s gotten less ass in the last five years than I did those months I had mono.”

Shelly shakes her head. “I’ll say it again. Disgusting.”

“If you’re not willing to fuck her out of your system, then at least fuck someone else. You’ll be doing yourself a favor in more ways than one. If you’re never going to make your move, then you need to move on.”

We finish the surgery, and I think about what Sam said, wondering if there’s any validity to it. Not the part about using Quinn like a real-life sex doll, but the part of her losing her appeal if we finally hooked up. I’ve thought about and pined after this woman for years, unable to get her out of my head.

Maybe that’s all I need. One night with Quinn to snap me out of this fucking annoying-as-hell funk so I can get on with my life.

I meet with my patient and his family in the recovery unit and talk about how the procedure went and what he can expect in terms of healing. Stomach grumbling, I head out, telling Sam I’ll meet him in the cafeteria. We have about an hour before our next scheduled surgery and I’m fucking starving.

“Archer Jones,” a familiar female voice says, coming from behind me. “Just the man I was looking for.”

I turn away from the elevator and see Melissa Miller, one of the attending physicians I worked under, making her way over.

“Hello, Dr. Miller.” The elevator opens and she motions to step in.

“I was going to tell you I’ve finished your letter of recommendation, but you might not need it. I have a friend on the surgical team at another hospital, and—I’ll cut to the chase. Are you still interested in a trauma fellowship?”

“Yes, I still am.”

“Great.” She smiles. “I was supposed to go to a conference at the end of the week and can’t now due to work obligations. The Board has everything already paid for and set up. One of the speakers is particular, to say the least. Talking to him before applying could be a foot in the door since the fellowship is extremely competitive. You’re one of the best resident surgeons I’ve seen, it never hurts to get a leg up.”

“Absolutely.”

“What’s your schedule like this week?”

I laugh.

“That bad?” She raises her eyebrows. “Let me pull a few strings. I know a good surgeon when I see one.”

“Thank you, Dr. Miller. Where is the conference?”

“Chicago.”