“You can’t seriously be taking that.”
With a shrug, I reply, “It’s fixed. I think.”
“Archer Wilde, you have a death wish,” he says with a shake of his head as he leaves my building.
When the elevator opens, I step in wearing a forced smile.
That phrase…death wish…sticks with me. It stings. But instead of dwelling on how it makes me think of my older brother who died in a helicopter crash before I was born and the toll his death took on my family and, by proxy, me, I pull out my phone and snap a pic of the inside of the compartment.
Then I press the button for my floor, and the thing moves without a problem.
Opening the group text with Freya and Julian, I send over the photo.
Archer: Back at the scene of the crime.
The doors open and I walk out, heading toward my apartment. While I’m fishing around for my keys, my phone pings with an incoming text. Just as I slip the key into the lock, I read the response. It’s from Freya.
Freya: You’re not seriously riding that, are you?
With a grin, I type back.
Archer: I did, and it wasn’t the same without you.
Freya: I hope you didn’t get stuck.
Archer: Not this time.
The chat goes quiet as I set my phone down on the counter and make myself a protein shake. This is normally the part of the day when I do my research on my opponent for tomorrow night. I like to see videos of him fighting if they’re available. I want to know his style, his attitude, his energy.
For a while, I do. But I keep getting distracted.
Instead of watching videos of his fights, I search up Freya’s social media profile, scrolling through photos of her and her family. She has a sister who appears to be around her age and two brothers who both look younger. There are a lot of photos of herand her mom, a beautiful woman who barely looks old enough to be her mother.
Apparently, Freya grew up in California. Judging by these photos, I bet she misses her family. It makes me wonder why she’s so far away from them. Is it really to follow her dreams of opening a restaurant? Why Paris?
The next thing I know, I’m searching for the dishes she mentioned in the elevator. Mango-lime sorbet and cardamom éclairs. My mouth starts to water. I have no doubt her restaurant would be incredible.
I wince at the sensation of something like guilt stabbing my insides. My comments to her were insensitive. What an idiot I was to not even consider that she probably can’t just dig into her savings account to find the funds to open a restaurant.
But I can.
Fuck, so could Julian.
At the thought of him, I open the group text and look for a response, but there is none. He probably wants nothing to do with us. He didn’t seem to have the same bonding experience that Freya and I did.
Opening up my browser where the search results for éclairs are displayed, I punch in a new search:Paris sex club.
The first result is a place called Legacy. I click the link to dive deeper. The website is minimal and sleek. There are no names or photos or any evidence that this is the place Julian owns.
But still, something about it holds my interest. I keep poking around as I stand in my kitchen, drinking down my protein shake. I wonder if Rex has ever been to this club. For all I know, he’s a member already. He should be.
After cleaning out the blender, I head into the shower. As I wash up, I can’t stop thinking about Freya and Julian. It’s like they’ve plagued my mind, planted some sort of bug that won’t let me think a single thought without them. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Then Rex’s fucking comments infiltrate my thoughts too. Those fucking visions of the three of us using those twelve hours to live out somePenthouse Forumfantasy.
I mean…how would that have even happened?
Sure, we did get pretty cozy once the cold air seeped in. What if…Freya had moved into my lap to keep herself warm. In my mind, I’m hugging her tightly, her back against my chest. I could have had my hands on her body…or even…up her skirt.
