Chapter 14 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 that was close.
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 about them. 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 contemplative breath, 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.
“Freya is going to cook for us in her apartment. I’ve never been so excited for anything in my entire life.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks, softly gripping my arm just above the elbow. The pain that shoots up to my shoulder is subtle, but it’s enough to make my stomach turn. I swallow down the excess saliva in my mouth as Rex asks, “What do you think is going to happen?”
I close my eyes and picture exactly what I want to happen. “I’m finally going to kiss her, and just when I can feel him getting jealous, I’ll watch Julian kiss her.”
“Sounds hot,” he says, keeping me distracted. “Then what?”
“I don’t care,” I slur. “As long as I’m with them.”
Rex stills, and I wait with my eyes clenched shut, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he says, “You really like them, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Good for you, Chopper. Maybe if these two keep you busy enough, you’ll stop getting yourself nearly killed every night.”
I know what Rex is implying. That with someone who really loves me, I’ll stop being so reckless. I’ll plant my feet on the ground and stop running straight toward death.
I wish he was right. I wish I could feel love like that, but I know the moment either of them give me one ounce of true devotion or affection, I’ll have to prove to them, myself, and the universe that I am an unlovable and unworthy lost cause.
I won’t quit until they see the truth, that I was born with grief in my veins, made to fill the gaping holes in someone else’s chest. A placeholder. A replacement.
My parents had me just a few short years after the death of my oldest brother, and while I never knew the guy a day in my life, his death still hung over me like a shadow. I was expected to be the joy in replacement of the grief, and that’s just too much fucking pressure on one kid.
Archer, the happy kid.
Archer, the wild kid.
Archer…so much like Preston.
But with all those expectations, I had no space to just be fucking Archer. The sometimes sad, overwhelmed, erratic, scared, and flighty kid.
Well now, I guess…the sad, overwhelmed, erratic, scared, and flighty man.
“Just fucking do it, Chunks,” I grumble sadly, so at least the scorching pain in my shoulder could overpower this pathetic feeling in my chest.
“Just think about that threesome you’re about to have tomorrow night,” he says just before he jerks my arm upward.
My shoulder tries to protest, giving him enough resistance that he has to grunt and put his back into it.
All the while, blinding white pain makes my vision short-circuit and my stomach roil and clench as an inhuman, animalistic cry of agony slips through my lips.
At the eventual pop, the pain crescendos, and I’m left with a vibrating buzz and heat blazing through my skin. Grabbing the bin Rex set on the floor near me, I retch violently as tears fill my eyes.
“Who’s Chunks now?” he jokes, shoving me playfully on my now appropriately located shoulder.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, my voice echoing in the trash can.
“Get some sleep, Chopper. You can crash on my couch tonight.”
Once my stomach is empty, I set the bin down and lean back against the couch. He shuts off the light as he disappears down the hall. I stare up at the dark ceiling, my skin crusted with salty tears and sweat and blood.
I am such a fucking mess. What the fuck has gotten into me?
Not only did I nearly lose a match tonight, but ever since, I’ve been feeling sorry for myself. I can’t stand the sound of my own voice in my head.
My phone lights up on the coffee table, so I reach over and pick it up.
It’s a text in the group chat from Freya.
Freya: I can’t sleep. Either of you up?
I quickly type my reply.
Archer: I am.
Julian: So am I.
Freya: Can we three-way?
Freya: Video chat! I meant three-way video chat!
My head aches as I laugh, but I couldn’t stop if I tried. Sitting up, I hit the tiny camera icon in the corner of the screen. Instantly, it starts to call them.
The first one to pick up is Freya, who is lying in a dark room similar to mine. Her cheek is resting on her pillow, a hand covering her face as she laughs quietly.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she says.
“I don’t know why,” I reply. “I was going to say yes either way.”
Julian’s picture pops up on the bottom left corner so it’s the three of us on the screen.
He’s wearing that smirky half smile, half menacing look he always seems to have.
Now that I’ve gotten to know him, I know that look means he’s not actually plotting something evil but that he’s just found something so funny he’s unable to hold his usual glowering expression.
“Someone said three-way,” he remarks, making Freya cover her face even more.
Unlike Freya and me, he’s not in his bed but in what looks like his living room. Behind him, I see a painting that I assume is an original, hanging above his fireplace. I distinctly remember staring at it the night I held him on his couch.
“Obviously, I meant a three-way video call,” she says again, still humiliated.
“Relax, Chef,” I reply. “It was cute.”
“And appropriate,” Julian adds.
Freya giggles again, and it sounds like warm honey. It’s like the sound alone could heal these open wounds on my face and soothe the pain in my head. “I needed a good laugh,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I stand from the couch and pick up the trash bin from the floor.
She lets out a despondent sigh. “I’ve just been feeling down today. Mercury is in retrograde. My emotions are all over the place, and I can’t think straight.”
“I’ve been feeling that way today too,” Julian adds.
As I tie up the bag to take it to the dumpster outside, I pause, staring at the two other faces on the phone screen.
Is it really possible that they are feeling this same sense of moodiness that I am?
You won’t catch me attributing this feeling to some planets in orbit, but I like the idea that somehow my misery likes their company.
“Me too,” I mumble.
“Where are you?” Julian asks. “That doesn’t look like your place.”
My picture is so dark I’m surprised he can make out anything. As I shove my keys and wallet in my pocket, I open the front door, taking the trash with me. I’ll have to text Rex when I get home—not that he’d worry about me but just to be considerate.
“I was at my buddy’s house. He helps me out after my fights.”
The stairwell of his apartment is nearly pitch black as I quickly jog down the steps toward the door leading to the street.
“You had another fight tonight?” Freya asks with concern in her voice.
“Yeah, but don’t worry. I won,” I reply, forcing humor into my tone.
Julian joins her in the third degree. “You weren’t hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I say, evading the question.