Page 68 of Crush
That's what I'm here for after all, right?
I went from room to room, gathering up all the laundry, and threw it in the wash.
Hours passed as I folded the Ellis family clothes, deep in thought.
Cynthia sounds like a real bitch.
She should be groveling for Chloe's forgiveness—not implying that Chloe somehowbetrayedher for telling her dad the truth. It was no wonder that Chloe still had issues over it. Her mother was holding her as an emotional hostage over their divorce.
Shea's right; Chloe probably should be in therapy.
She was obviously dealing with a lot. A lot more than any fourteen-year-old girl should have to deal with. Once Chloe got over the fear of being 'in therapy,' it'd turn out to be a really good thing for her.
Chloe wants us to be together—and just getting a mere whiff of me and Shea's mutual attraction made all her old wounds resurface.
I could only imagine how much worse it'd be for her if she knew the truth—that she was right and, in fact, her dad and I had already fooled around.
Hell, she nearly caught us last night.
At what point are we gaslighting this poor girl and making her problems worse?
Unless, of course, Shea and I manage to keep it strictly professional.
Like he wants.
I finished folding the laundry and returned the sorted, organized stacks to everyone's bedrooms.
But when I got to puttingmyclothes away last, I realized something was missing.
My thong from last night.
I looked all over my bedroom for it—under the bed, in the trash, lost somewhere in the bed sheets,anywhereShea could've thrown it.
But I just couldn't find it. And I had a funny feeling it wasn't exactly missing.
Really, Shea?
I sat on my bed and shook my head with a sigh.
Who do we think we're fooling?
This isn't going to work out.
Chapter 25
Shea
The next day.
Last night, Ilya and Brooksy managed to lure the entire team out to dinner—and afterward, to the bar.
“A hair of the dog that bit ya, that's all,” Brooksy told us.
I had to admit—a beer sounded decent. But while I kept it limited to a beer, some of the other guys on the team got carried away. And Coach caught wind of our activities when a few guys staggered back to the hotel wasted, worse yet, after curfew.
Coach, of course, wasn't pleased.
During the next day's practice, Coach exacted his revenge on theBoston Boozehoundswith a grueling, hours-long practice. Drills, drills, drills, until our stomachs were weak and flighty. Line rushes until our legs were weak and trembling. Scrimmage until lunch came and went and no one had any gas left in the tank.
