A smile stretches across my lips as the impact reverberates through my bones, a sharp, electric thrill shooting up my arm. It only feeds the rush, the addictive thrill of a good fight. He stumbles from the hit, nearly falling to his face on the wet, gritty concrete floor of this abandoned Métro station.
Graffiti covers the walls, glowing from the movement of barrel fires set up in the perimeter of the dusty, old underground walls. The stench of mold and must fills the air. Deep shouts and cheers echo in the dark space while I wait for my opponent to stand upright again so I can deliver him the final blow of the evening.
Across the circle, I catch Rex’s attention as he cheers, a wad of euros clutched in his tight fist. I don’t know how much helaid down on tonight’s brawl, but I don’t care. The money doesn’t interest me, but it sure as fuck interests him.
It’s the victory I care about. The intoxicating high of always landing on top.
When I shoot Rex a wicked wink, he shakes his head and yells at me to knock him out or, to be precise, knock himthe fuckout.
The opponent staggers. Grinding the toe of my sneaker against the dirt and shattered glass on the floor, I brace a strong footing. Running my tongue along my teeth, I taste blood as I rear back my right fist and send it flying against the man’s face. He careens toward the floor from the impact, landing with a thud as more than half the crowd boos and bellows with disappointment.
Holding up my hands in victory, I spin slowly around, gloating in my triumph while Rex collects his plunder with a pompous grin. The guy on the ground groans in pain, and I give him a playful slap on the ass before taking my phone and wallet from Rex.
Most of the crowd disperses after that, but one burly guy starts harping on Rex in French. That’s our sign—it’s time to go.
My friend holds his own, sticking his chest out and yelling back. I’m no help here. How disappointed my mother would be in how little I retained from my French lessons. It’s certainly not enough to argue back, but it is enough to pick up the angry guy is the fight organizer, and he seems to think Rex and I swindled him somehow by making them believe I was just some green trust fund baby who wanted to take a swing (literally) at illegal street fighting in Europe.
He’s notallwrong.
And to be clear, my poor French is not the only reason my mother would be disappointed in me. I never call. Can’t stay out of trouble. Didn’t finish college. The list goes on.
“Time to go, Rex!” I shout, grabbing my hoodie from the floor and slipping it on. I might be sweating my ass off, but it’s cold as fuck outside right now, and freezing to death in the streets of Paris is not how I want to go.
Before the outraged Frenchman can grab ahold of Rex, we take off in a sprint, rushing up the dilapidated and piss-covered stairs of the abandoned station and out into the quiet night. Rex and I run for long enough that we escape the clutches of the enraged scumbag and look like two regular guys jogging late along the Seine.
When the coast is officially clear, we let up and start walking. Neither of us says a word, catching our breaths as Rex counts his money with a satisfied smile.
“They actually thought that little punk stood a chance,” he laughs, pocketing his cash.
“Little punk?” I spin toward him. “Rex, that guy was taller than me. And he wasn’t a punk either. That guy looked like the fucking Hulk.”
Rex laughs. “Who the fuck is the Hulk?”
I stop in my tracks, my jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right? The Incredible Hulk…the Avengers…comic books, man.”
He simply shrugs with an expression that says he doesn’t give half a shit about some nerdy superhero stories.
“You’re embarrassing yourself right now,” I laugh, turning away from him with a grin.
“Me? I thinkyou’reembarrassing yourself, Archer.”
My laugh echoes through the dark, empty streets. I don’t even know what time it is or what part of town we’re in now, not that it matters. This is what I love about Paris. It’s always buzzing, like it’s alive. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if there was a beating heart beneath the cobblestones and catacombs.
Rex was born and raised in Paris, but he and I met originally in Amsterdam, where I was staying with my brother and he was visiting for a fight. We bonded over narrowly escaping the blauwen when a ring got busted before the fight could even start. Rex and I were supposed to go head-to-head that night but ended up crawling under an empty tour bus and waiting out the raid until morning.
We spent the rest of the weekend getting high and touring the city together. We shared everything with each other. Like how his real name is Rémy but he goes by Rex in the fighting circles. How his family emigrated to Paris from Senegal and wanted him to become a doctor. And how mine is still back in the States and wanted me to be a pilot.
That was three years ago, and we’ve been best friends since. He was the one who talked me into coming to Paris more permanently a couple months ago. Before I met Rex, I’d set up my own fights, usually getting myself into messy situations, and if it wasn’t for him stepping in to do that for me now, I’d probably be dead.
I spot the Eiffel Tower in the distance when we turn the corner, and I follow Rex because he always knows where he’s going, even without looking. A deep yawn and a dull ache in my head make my eyes water. “I’m heading home, Chunks. What about you?”
Rex calls me Chopper as a running joke on account of the fact that my family and inheritance stem from a multibillion-dollar aviation company run by my dad and brother. He let me take him for a helicopter ride once, and he spent the entire ride hurling into a paper bag in his lap. He expected me of all people to make that a chill, smooth ride, and honestly, that’s on him.
So now he calls me Chopper, and I call him Chunks.
“It’s still early,” he replies, lifting his nose to the air like he’s trying to sniff out nearby pussy. “You calling it a night already?”
“Fuck yeah. I’m beat.”
