* * *
It’s been almost two weeks since the shit that happened at Julie’s rental.
I’ve been extra diligent about pushing away thoughts related to Julie. I need to get into the right headspace, especially since we are leaving for New York tomorrow. She gives me distance with a professionalism that only makes me more curious about the damn woman. Not once have any of those massages been awkward.
Would almost be easier if she was just drama. I’m used to that shit.
She’s always haunting my mind when I need it least. I had to get a new suit tailored for New York since there’s a debut gala the day before our fights, and Andrew is ordering us to look sharp, prim, and dressed in black.
Julie was in my head nearly the whole damn time, eager to see her reaction when I’m wearing more than these sweats. And I’m fucking looking forward to whatever the hell she’s going to be wearing.
Julie gave me one more massage earlier this morning, adding a new routine and another evaluation. It’s like I didn’t even need to tell her that I needed this time to channel my focus.
She just slides perfectly into that role of support.
The battle inside of me is becoming tiring—I know how hairy this will get if it all goes south. What if she turns out to be a chick that’s off her rocker once we engage in something? What if it just doesn’t fucking work, and now we have to work together?
She’s actually good at her job and learned my body real quick, and has seriously helped me more than once. I don’t want to replace her as a professional.
It’s reckless, honestly. This whole idea is.
Exiting Rhino to breathe in some cooler air, I rub my eye as I sit on the curb.
We can’t dance around like this for much longer. I’m not that type of man, and my discipline is slipping—
My phone vibrates, and Sarah’s face is on the screen.
“Hey Sarah, how you been?” I ask as I answer, staring out at the parking lot. The white light of the sun breaches the trees, some of the leaves starting to turn.
“Hey, Joey. I’m doing better. I wanted to call and wish you good luck this weekend.”
“That’s kind of you.” I glance down at my hand, examining the bruises and recent callouses.
“You know you don’t have to do this,” Sarah says, her tone apologetic.
“Nah, we’re not debating it.”
She sighs, and I hear some kids in the background. “Well, when are you coming home, at least?”
“After the fight, I think—”
“Yes, it’s Uncle Joey,” Sarah says, her voice distant, like she’s speaking away from the phone.
I grin ear to ear, especially when Sarah adds, “Mollie wants to say hi.”
“Put the kid on.”
A few seconds pass—along with the sound of my sister speaking to my niece—until a small voice belonging to a six-year-old says, “Hey, Uncle Joey.”
“Hey, blondie.”
“When you coming home?”
“I got work to do. How about I’ll try to make it out over the next few weekends?”
I can hear her breathing on the phone, and I picture her little face thinking about those words. “Okay,” she says. “Mommy’s hair is growing back again!”
“Oh, really? What color is it?” I ask, unable to stop the grin.
