Page 89 of Sacrifice
JULIA
I can sense light. I can feel the warmth on my face, but I can’t open my eyes.
Rolling onto my side, my hand drops to the sheets. They’re softer than I remember. Something’s not making sense.
I drag my eyes open just as the door opens. Crew walks in, a green towel wrapped around his face, water droplets speckling his chiseled body. I pull the covers over my body, which is still naked. He smirks, knowing good and well I’m uncomfortable.
“How are ya, Sleeping Beauty?” he asks, standing at the foot of the bed, his hands on his trim hips. He hasn’t shaved and the dusting of stubble across his face only makes him that much sexier.
I stretch, my muscles complaining. My body is worn out from the previous night’s exertion.
I forgot what it’s like to be with Crew.
My body is a wreck, but my mind is strangely clear. And calm.
“You slept straight through the night,” he says, turning his back towards me and rifling through a dresser drawer. He pulls out a pair of black gym shorts and a gray T-shirt and lays them on the bed. “I think I used up the last bit of energy you had last night.”
I tighten the sheets around me. I wait for the feelings of guilt or disgust to sweep through me, but they don’t come. I don’t feel dirty or impulsive or careless lying in Crew’s bed.
It feels right.
And that in itself makes me question my sanity.
“What time is it?” I ask, trying to give myself a minute to figure this out.
“A little after eight. I gotta, uh, head to work in a little bit.”
“Ever should be back around ten. I better get up and get a shower,” I say, watching him pull his shirt on. It’s a sight to behold. “You’re wearingthatto work? Gym shorts and a T-shirt?”
“Yeah.” He sits on the edge of the bed and puts on his socks and sneakers.
“What are you doing, exactly?”
He doesn’t say anything. A feeling of unease creeps through my spine.
“Crew?”
His shoulders shrug before he stands and faces the bed. “I’m fighting.”
He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s informing me he’s going to the gas station or the grocery store.
“You’re what?” I ask in disbelief. “Crew? What are you doing?”
“I’m fighting. I told you.”
It all starts to make sense. I thought he was kidding when he mentioned it before. What man in their right mind would fight once they’ve been hurt and warned of the possible ramifications for doing it again? But the bruises, the workout clothes, the late nights . . . it all makes sense.
“Crew, you can’t.”
“I have to, Jules. I have a fight lined up and I’ll make the money we need.”
“What are you talking about?”
He sighs. “I got a fight with Hunter Davidson. I fight on July 13th. If I win, I’ll get $100,000. For Ever.”
I can’t believe what he’s saying. He’s not joking.
The room starts spinning. I squeeze my temples and try to separate this mess in my mind.
