Opening them up, the blood drains from my face as I stare at the photo on the screen. It’s a selfie of him. His eyes are both completely swollen. His nose is clearly broken, and his lip has an open gash that is bleeding down his chin.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
Rex: I still won though.
Glancing at the time, I see it’s nearly seven in the morning, so there’s a slim chance he’ll be up. I ring his number anyway. Tiptoeing out of the room to let the other two sleep, I walk into the living room and pet Onyx on the couch.
“Chopper, you missed a hell of a fight,” Rex says. His voice is like gravel.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snap in a harsh whisper.
“What are you talking about?” he replies, trying to laugh it off. “Didn’t you see my message? I won.”
“Did you go alone?”
“Of course I went alone. All those fuckers bet against me too. You should have seen their fucking faces.”
He doesn’t sound good. His words are slurred like he’s drunk and his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth.
“You could have gotten killed, Rex,” I snarl into the phone.
He lets out a sigh, sounding bitter. “You’ve changed, man,” he complains. “I thought you were my friend, but ever since you found those two, you just left me high and dry. You don’t care about me, Archer.”
I huff angrily into the phone. “I wasn’t your friend. I was your cash cow. You only wanted me in those fights so you could cash in.”
“Fuck you,” he shouts. Then he starts spouting some even angrier stuff in French while I pace the living room, fuming. As mad as I am, I regret saying what I just said. It felt wrong, cruel actually.
“Jesus, Rex. Will you just listen to me? You can’t go to those fights alone anymore. You haven’t been training, and if shit goes down, you don’t have anyone there to have your back.”
“Guess I’ll just have to find another dumbass American with a death wish,” he barks.
I hear him guzzling something I assume is liquor.
“Rex, where are you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he grumbles. “I’m just fine. Alone.”
The phone goes dead, and I stare down at it in frustration. I slam it down on the couch and pace around the living room while my mind spirals.
How could he be so fucking irresponsible? What if he had gotten himself killed? Doesn’t he think about how that would affect me? Or his family? He puts himself in unnecessary risk and for what? To take a few punches and prove he’s good enough alone?
Stopping in my tracks, I stare blankly ahead as it all comes crashing down in my mind.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.
This is how my friends and family feel every day? This is how Freya and Julian felt after my last fight? This feeling is terrible. This helplessness is debilitating, and all the while, this is what I have been doing to the people I care about most.
Soft footsteps grab my attention, and I look up at the bedroom door to find Freya standing there, wearing one of Julian’s shirts.
“Everything okay?” she whispers.
I force away all the worry and guilt and stress, and I plaster a grin on my face. “Everything’s perfect, Chef.”
“Then come back to bed,” she replies with a yawn.
“I’ll be right there.”
When I don’t move, she comes toward me, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her body is soft and warm. It feels like a gift.
