I rub the back of my neck, hoping to relieve the tension. “If you can ask next time you talk to Cohen and let me know, that’d be great.”

Archer lifts his chin, anchoring all his attention on me. “What’s the deal between you and her?”

“We’re”—I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him the truth even though Cassidy asked to wait—“friends.”

Tenting his hands together, he levels them on his desk, his voice turning stern. “I know what faking being friends is. Georgia and I did it for years.”

“Wrong.” My voice wavers as I continue, “You and Georgia fake hated each other. I’ve never disliked Cassidy, and we don’t pretend shit.”

Okay, the last statement is a lie.

We do pretend that we don’t have feelings for each other.

He nods, staying quiet.

His silence pisses me off.

I point at his phone next to him. “Can you ask Georgia if she’s heard from her?” I’d text her myself, but like with Cohen, it’s late, and I don’t want to wake anyone up.

Archer blows out a ragged sigh. “Look, bro, Cassidy might not be the girl for you.”

I pull in a breath, trying not to flip my shit on him.

How fucking dare he.

“The hell are you talking about?” I snarl. My stomach twists.

My brother, the number one person in my life, is telling me the only damn woman who’s ever made me feel something might not be the one for me.

He’s insinuating that the woman I’m falling for isn’t for me.

Bull-fucking-shit.

Realizing he’s hit a nerve, Archer lowers his voice. “She’s on probation for a drug charge.”

“And I was recently released from prison. What’s your point?”

Chapter Twenty

Cassidy

One of the most miserable feelings in the world is not being able to sleep.

Two days have passed since Quinton’s chokeslam visit, and I’ve turned into an insomniac. Even with shutting and locking my bedroom door, the panic that he can barge in at any time haunts me, becoming a real-life nightmare since I can’t actually manage to sleep to have a nightmare. Attempting to sleep has become as much of a pain in the ass as Quinton.

I dreaded calling off work but had no choice. No way could I wear my Twisted Fox employee shirt without my bruise being on display. Luckily, Johnna took my shift with no questions asked.

It’s three in the morning, and I’ve been bingeing Shameless episodes. Just as I hit the remote button that tells Netflix, Yes, I have no life and am still watching, my phone vibrates on my nightstand. My back goes straight. Quinton has instilled a fear in me that rises whenever it goes off. I stretch across the bed to retrieve it and see Lincoln’s name flashing across the screen.