It had been at least an hour since Archer had stumbled into the bathroom. Lana rolled her eyes and jammed her gun into the waistband of her dress as he staggered out, pale-faced, and coughed.
“Okay…let’s get these….Rebel. Jerks,” he waved around his gun weakly.
“Uhh…you’re sure you’re fine?” He had a clean bill of health now, cancer-wise, but the aftereffects of the chemo still lingered.
“Duh. Don’t I look fine?” he tilted against the side of the building, trying to look macho and failing heartily.
“Okay – why I don’t I take them out?” She pulled out her gun and pushed another magazine clip of ammo into the chamber.
“No! Lana, if I let you do that, my mom…won’t let me get rid of these swirling purple dots I keep in my head.” He moaned and cupped his dizzy head.
“Stay there,” Lana demanded. She rushed off into the firefight, managing to wing two of the men, fatally wound a third, and take out one of the bodyguards with the biggest guns. She heard someone returning fire at her flank, felt a pulse of relief at seeing Archer, and kept shooting until they were down.
She blew the smoke from her barrel. “Not bad.”
He rolled his eyes while she holstered her weapon. “I’m an international man of mystery, Lana. I know how to fire a Luger.”
“That’s a Rugger,” she replied.
“So?” He grunted and leaned back against the building.
“Woah…need some help?” she asked.
“Dizzy,” he complained.
She rolled her eyes and got an arm around him. “Want to go back to the car?”
“No…let’s just stand there.” He indicated a shadowed alcove in the back alley which seemed to have come straight from a terrible mob film.
“Fine. We can radio out for later.” She let go of him and gave a disgusted grunt as he slumped against the door. He gave her an extended, strange glare as they leaned against the doorway.
“What?” she wondered.
“You’ve been so weirdly nice to me lately,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “You almost died. That’s why.”
“Oh.” He said. “Not because we…” he made a crude gesture with his hands.
“Why would that change anything? How many times have we done it before?”
“Too many times. I thought you were going to kill me that one time with those flippers of yours,” he shuddered.
“Shut up about my hands,” she growled, but he plunged on.
“Remember Morocco? I thought you had some kind of weird choking fetish…LA…” All sound choked into silence. That was when she grabbed him by the turtleneck and slammed their lips together.
She kissed him because, in spite of all of his flaws, Sterling Archer was an amazing kisser. And when she had him backed in the corner he made a pretty damn good bitch.
His hands went right for her boobs (they ALWAYS go right for her boobs), which got manhandled before he flipped her over, pulled down her pants and plunged into her slit from behind.
They fucked; there was no way to refine it. He grabbed her by the ass and pounded himself into her slippery cunt until he made a strangled, whiny groan, jerked forward, and came.
Lana adored his vulnerability. Secretly. It’s what had made being in a relationship with him tolerable. She considered telling him she didn’t mind being around him as much as she used to when he pulled out of her.
“…Seriously?” she asked, hanging onto the crumbling doorframe. “Seriously? You’re going to just PULL OUT ON ME when I’m ten seconds from exploding?”
Archer shrugged and adjusted his pants. “Can’t you just…like…do something with those huge man-hands of yours?”
Lana made a low-pitched sound of rage.
Her fist connected with his nose, smacking Archer’s head into the molding and mercifully knocking him out cold. Though she’d have to lug him in a fireman’s carry to the helicopter, the adrenalin rush was better than the one her later and completely solitary orgasm gave her.