Chapter 8
Archer
My shoulders burn as I slam my gloved fist into the pads in Rex’s hands. Left, right, right, left, left. Even when the ache becomes unbearable and my muscles begin to shake, I don’t stop.
“All right, break,” Rex says, lowering the pads.
Sweat drips down my forehead and over my brows as I tear off my gloves and grab a bottle of water.
As I squirt it into my mouth, Rex asks, “Really? Twelve hours?”
Too breathless to speak, I nod.
“Sounds like a dream. Twelve hours with a sexy woman in an elevator.” He makes a longing expression as if I was stuck inside a fantasy instead of a freezing cold compartment with nowhere to relieve myself and not a drop of water to drink.
“She was gorgeous—like you wouldn’t believe,” I reply breathlessly, indulging him in the story.
“What did she look like?” he asks, needing the details. “Blond?”
I shake my head. “No, dark hair, bronze skin, and the cutest fucking smile I’ve ever seen.”
“Did you get her number?”
I tilt my head at him. “Of course I did. Got the guy’s too.”
“Oh yeah, truly an Archer fantasy come true. Tell me again why you didn’t have an orgy and record it for me?
” His tone is full of humor, but I’m not entirely convinced Rex is joking.
If he had been in my position, he definitely would have laid the moves on Freya.
He might even have let Julian join in, though unlike me, he is strictly interested in the ladies.
And it’s not like the thought didn’t cross my mind. It’s not every day you get stuck in an enclosed space with two of the most gorgeous people you’ve ever laid eyes on. But it wasn’t like that. We spent the entire time talking, which might be why I can’t stop thinking about either of them.
If it had been a scene straight out of a porno, I’d still be thinking about it but in a very different way. As it is, the last three days have been nothing but hearing Freya’s California accent in my head and seeing Julian’s cold eyes staring at me from across the compartment.
The three of us formed a bond that night, and it’s not as easy to shake as sex would have been. Now I just stare at that empty group chat, trying to figure out a way to strike up a conversation, because in some strange way, I miss them.
Without answering Rex’s perverted question, I pick up my gloves and get back to my training. After about twenty more minutes, he drops the bags again.
“You have a fight tomorrow. You need to take it easy,” he says, and I reluctantly oblige.
“Any word on…what’s his name? Kramer?”
Rex chuckles. “Koszmar. And no, I haven’t found him yet, and to be honest with you, Chopper, I don’t think I want to. This guy is dangerous. He’s not a fighter—he’s a murderer.”
I scoff at his warning. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic, Archer. Do you know why he calls himself Koszmar? Because it’s Polish for nightmare.”
I laugh with a shake of my head. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Of course I do know that. I only pretend I can’t remember his name to mess with Rex, but the truth is I know everything there is to know about this guy, which is to say not much.
There are no photos or videos online. Only whispers of a man drifting through the circuit. The enigma only feeds my obsession.
I will find him. And I will beat him.
“Laugh all you want, my friend, but he is a real nightmare. From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t stop until his opponent is dead.”
“All the more reason for me to beat him.” Grabbing my shirt from the bench, I toss it over my head and wipe the sweat from my brow with a towel. “Just find him. Let me be the judge of how dangerous he is.”
“You know,” he replies, “a normal person would be afraid of this guy.”
“Not me.” I shoot him a cheesy grin.
Rex’s face tightens with unease as he follows me out of the gym in the basement of my building. When we jog up the stairs toward the lobby, he doesn’t say a word. He buttons his coat at the top of the stairs and gives me an expression like he’d like to say something.
Instead, I grab his shoulder to ease his nerves. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
His dark, nearly black eyes narrow. “Yeah, don’t be late. By the docks at midnight.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, walking away from him toward the elevators. As I press the button, I hear him gasp.
“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 her and 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 some Penthouse Forum fantasy.
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.
With the hot water from the shower running down my body, I wrap my hand around my cock and let the fantasy play out in my mind.
Freya’s skirt is pulled up to her waist, my fingers softly toying with the lips of her pussy. And Julian joins in, his face between her legs, licking her while she purrs in my lap.
I can practically hear her delicate moans in my ear.
So in my imagination, I pull her to face me, straddling my hips as I sink deep inside her, letting her feel what it’s like to take a cock.
I picture the look of surprise on her face as she bounces on my lap.
Surprise that we’ve let this happen. Surprise that she’s not more embarrassed by how much she wants it. Surprise at how good it feels.
As she moves, finding her pleasure, Julian is behind her. I feel his hand on my leg. His fingers find their way to the spot where Freya and I are joined.
After she comes, I lift her from my lap, and Julian is there, cleaning up my cock and licking up her release.
“Unh,” I groan.
My fist picks up speed, stroking in a fast tempo to the dirty scene playing out in my head.
I picture that instead of my fist, it’s his pretty pink lips.
He’s moaning around my shaft. Her perky breasts are against my tongue.
All our cries echo in the tiny space, the scent of sex filling the compartment.
My hand slams against the tile wall of the shower as I come, moaning loudly.
“Fuck,” I bark breathlessly as the orgasm crashes over me in waves. That’s the most I’ve come in a long time. Especially from a filthy scene my dirty mind conjured so effortlessly.
They’ve managed to embed themselves in my psyche, and a normal person might feel a little ashamed of what I just did. But as I turn the water off, I decide there’s nothing wrong with a little indulgence.
And absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t try to see them again.