Chapter 2
Archer
“Take him down, Chopper!” my buddy Rex bellows, his deep voice ringing through the commotion.
My opponent throws me a left hook that I narrowly deflect, giving me ample opportunity to sock him hard across his left cheekbone.
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 he laid 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 him the fuck out.
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 not all wrong.
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 think you’re embarrassing 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.”
“You want me to walk you back? We can hop on the Métro,” he offers, which is very telling of the kind of guy Rex is.
“Nah, I’ll grab a cab. Thanks, though.”
We slap hands and part ways. I assume Rex is headed to any place where he can find a willing bed partner for the night.
He’s got the looks and charm for it, so I have no doubt in his abilities.
As for me, I head toward a bustling street nearby where I will have no problem finding a cab to take me back to the 8th arrondissement.
It’s only January, so the night air is biting and harsh. Shoving my gauze-wrapped hands into the sleeves of my hoodie, I walk against the wind toward an open cab parked near a row of restaurants.
He rolls up his window when he sees me coming, and I’m not the least bit surprised. I know how I look. Busted lip and swollen eyebrow. I’m not dressed well for this weather, and I probably have blood on my jeans.
Before approaching his window, I pull out the black Amex in my wallet and flash it at him. Suddenly, the window goes down, and he waits for me to tell him where I need to go. I’m not ignorant to the privilege of being a rich white guy. Wait until this guy sees where he’s about to drop me off.
“Avenue Montaigne,” I say, bending over to speak through his open window. The driver’s eyes narrow as he scans my appearance, and then, seemingly deciding against his better judgment, he unlocks his car.
“Très bien,” he replies with a nod.
“Thank fuck,” I mumble, my lips feeling frozen as I grab the handle to the door and climb in. His cab is warm, and I shiver in my seat while he drives, glancing skeptically in his rearview every few minutes to make sure I’m not about to pull a weapon or try to steal his money.
Paris is beautiful at night, and I watch it slowly roll by on the ride back to my apartment.
My brother tried to get me to settle down in Amsterdam with him and his family, and Lord knows my mother would have much preferred I come back to the States with her and my dad, but I can’t stand the thought of cementing my feet to the ground anywhere.
Nowhere feels like home, and yet at the same time, everywhere does. I wasn’t born in a helicopter, but I might as well have been. I’m not meant to live on the ground.
I’ve been in Paris for a couple of months now, and I’m already thinking it might be time to run again. Run from what? I don’t know. All I know is that I have to keep moving or someone or something is going to catch me.
I must doze off because I snap my eyes open to someone barking something at me that I don’t understand in French.
Picking my head up, I see the total on the cab’s payment machine and the familiar building that is my home through the frosty glass, so I tap my credit card to the machine and climb out, not bothering to mumble a goodbye.
Half-asleep and so hungry my stomach is churning, I stumble up to my building.
The doorman opens the double-set, heavy mahogany door for the guy in front of me, mumbling something to him in French before noticing me coming up behind him.
There is a flash of alarm on his face, so I put up my hands in surrender.
“Hey, Félix,” I greet him, and I instantly hope my voice, regardless of how gravelly and tired it is, jogs his memory so he realizes it’s me. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve strolled home gory in the middle of the night.
“Oh, bonsoir, Monsieur Wilde,” he says to me with a nod of his head.
As he holds the door open, the man in front of me turns back with vigilance. The moment his icy blue eyes land on me, he stares at me like I’m a cockroach stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
I’ve noticed him in the building before. He’s young, probably around my age, with nearly white hair and the face of a Bond villain thanks to scorn-filled eyes and sharp cheekbones.
Ignoring his hesitant expression of concern, I brush right past him and march unbothered toward the elevator.
The attendant presses the button for me, and I give him a polite nod.
Behind me, I hear the soft whispers in French that I assume is Mr. High and Mighty asking the doorman to confirm that I’m actually a resident and he didn’t just let in a vagrant criminal off the streets.
With exhaustion, I roll my eyes. It’s currently somewhere in the vicinity of three to four in the morning, and the sleepy apartment lobby staff don’t need me or anyone else giving them hell. So I turn my back on the blond and hope he takes the stairs.
I’m never so lucky. Instead, he stands right next to me.
When the elevator doors open with a soft ring, I climb on and avoid eye contact with the prick getting in after me. His attention keeps drifting my way, and it takes everything in me to keep my cool.
But when he glances at me again, I snap.
“Do you have a problem?” I bark at him.
His evil eyes narrow. “You smell like urine,” he bites back.
“Probably because my sweatshirt was on the ground in an abandoned Métro station. Is that good enough for you?”
Just then, the door opens, but as soon as I take a step to exit the enclosed space, he slams a hand over the opening. My eyes connect first with his hand, a collection of rings on his delicate fingers. Then my gaze travels up to his face, and I grit my teeth as I glare into his arctic-cold eyes.
“Mind?” I growl.
“Are you a criminal?” he spits. “I’ll call the police.”
“Don’t waste your breath, pretty boy. I’m just going to sleep.”
I take a step, but he doesn’t budge. In my mind, I imagine breaking his arm. It would be easy, especially at this angle. Easier than I’m sure he realizes, or he wouldn’t stand here like this.
The nice thing to do would be to just sock him in the jaw and let him take a little nap on the floor of this fancy elevator. The doorman can find him in the morning.
Instead, I get in his face and sneer. “Fine. You got me. I’m a criminal.”
Holding up my right hand, I let him see the white gauze and crimson-covered fist. His nostrils flare, and his body recoils.
Would you look at that? The exact effect I was going for.
“Night,” I call, shoving his arm away and marching off down the hall toward my apartment. He doesn’t say a word or come after me, and before I even get my key in the door, the elevator is closed, and he’s gone.