Archer: I’ll get to see you and eat your food? I’m in.
Julian: Me too.
I feel like a fool for only responding with two words. Of course, Archer’s already used to me and quickly covers.
Archer: “Me too” is just Julian’s way of saying he’s thrilled by the invitation and can’t wait to see us.
Freya: I know. I speak Julian now.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I stare down at the screen.
That is exactly what it meant.
Rule #14: Misery loves company.
Archer
“Hold still,” Rex mutters with my left arm in his hand.Just the touch alone sends shock waves of pain through my shoulder and down my spine.
Before he can do anything, I shove him away. “Just give me a fucking second.”
“That was a close fight, Chopper.”
“I just let him think it was close,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Sure.” He doesn’t sound convinced as he wipes blood from the gaping wound above my right eye. I don’t want to think about how right he is, because the truth is thatwasclose.
I’ve lost before. I’ve had guys bigger than me throw punches harder than me, but I never met an opponent who wanted to win as much as me. No one so full-heartedly convinced that he is as unbeatable as me.
Rex calls it delusion. I call it confidence.
The entire time that tall-as-fuck German was wrestling me against the dirty ground and laying punches into my ribs and face, I wasn’t thinking about winning. Not like I normally do.
I was thinking aboutthem. I had visions of her bright smile and the taste of his soft lips in my mind, and it was a distraction. Except for the moment when my opponent lifted me up and slammed me into the concrete, dislocating my shoulder. At that point, I only thought about beating his ugly fucking face to prove a point.
And by the skin of my teeth, I did. Luckily for me and not so much for him, I had enough leg strength to kick him off me and slam my knee into his skull to knock him out.
Now I’m sitting on Rex’s couch in a piss-poor mood with a throbbing headache and only one working arm, staring down the barrel of what is about to be a very fucking painful maneuver.
“Here,” Rex says, handing me a bottle of cheap whiskey.
The nasty, acidic sting of the liquor only makes my head hurt more while also making me miss that smooth-as-honey whiskey Julian gave me last week.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Rex asks, staring at me from his coffee table. As he leans down and rests his elbows on his knees, I stare at the marred dark brown skin of his knuckles. Rex is a fighter too. He wears the rough patches of skin where his fists have met bone one too many times, like mine.
So why do I feel so different? Why is it that Rex can fight, win or lose, and it doesn’t appear as if his life depends on it? How can I explain it to him that I live for the hard-earned victory? It’s about more than money for me. It’s about feeling pain, feeling alive, and feeling as if I deserve to be. Because comfort is boring, and winning a fight is the only thing I actually have to work for.
“I don’t know, man,” I mumble, avoiding his eyes and taking another swig from the bottle.
“Maybe it’s time to slow down, Chopper.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to put this shoulder back where it belongs.”
But he doesn’t—not right away. He lets out a contemplativebreath, and we sit in silence for a while. He watches me nearly polish off the bottle of whiskey.
When I feel drunk enough, he takes it from me and says, “Why don’t you tell me about your date tomorrow night? Talk about that pretty girl and the rich guy.”
A lazy smile stretches across my face as Rex moves to my left side. My eyes focus on a framed picture of Rex and his family on the table near the door.
