Page 74 of Sterling Fight

What if you love someone and they die?

Look at Judd’s father. He fell apart. Look at my mother. In her own way, she did the same.

The sad thoughts cause me to close my eyes, but they spring open when I hear the heavy thud of the garage door announcing Judd’s entrance and then the soft thud of something against the hallway wall.

Bolting upright, I reach for my phone and check the time. After midnight. I toss the light blanket off my legs and slip out of the guest room, but don’t wander far before seeing a sliver of light coming from the library. The pocket doors are haphazardly closed, and I hesitate outside them when I notice Judd on the velvet chaise. His head is tipped back, eyes closed. His shirt is unbuttoned to his waist. One hand holds a glass of amber liquid. The other holds an ice pack against his left side, on his lower abdomen.

Pressing open the pocket doors, the soft rolling sound of their movement doesn’t startle Judd. With his eyes still closed, he mumbles, “You should be asleep.”

“Are you drunk?” The accusation is tightly spoken. Panic takes over, my tone shrill when I ask, “Did you drink and drive?”

Judd slowly lifts his head, eyes dull as they seek mine. He lifts the half-full glass in his hands. “I never drink it. It’s only a reminder of why I fight.”

His father was an alcoholic. His father beat him.

“Judd, this is sick torture.” I rush to stand before him, examining him closer. His right cheek looks red and raw. The beginning stages of a bruise shades his eye. His knuckles are swollen on both hands.

Gingerly, I take the glass from him and place it on the floor near the corner of the chaise.

Judd lets his head fall back. He doesn’t look drunk. He looks exhausted.

I bite my lip. I don’t want to ask how was the fight? Win or lose, he’s suffered injury.

My gaze falls to his left side, and I brush back his shirt. Judd lifts his head again and moves the ice bag, revealing a welt on his side.

“Judd,” I gasp.

“I lost tonight. Couldn’t keep my head in the ring.”

“Where was your head?” I whisper, my fingers trailing above the redness along his side but afraid to touch him.

“Here. Home.” His voice is rough.

Instantly, I’m angry. He told me earlier he fights the demons of his past, but his answer implies he didn’t fight well because he was thinking of the present. Of me. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. Neither makes me happy, and mostly because it’s hurting Judd.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he whispers.

“We aren’t fighting.” I tilt my head, looking down at him, splayed out and worn out.

“You don’t approve.”

“I don’t understand.” A heavy pause filters between us. “Your father is dead, Judd. He isn’t here. You don’t need to defend yourself.”

“I do.” He snaps back. “Even arguing with you, I’m defending myself.”

I clamp my lips shut and swallow at the sudden sting in my eyes. “I just don’t want to see you hurting.”

“I’m not hurt.”

Another lie. And I’m making it worse.

For me, this is where my flight or fight comes in. I either flee and leave him to himself or fight for what I want. The issue is, I’m not a clean fighter. I might not necessarily play fair, but I want Judd to know there is another way.

A way to prove his father wrong. To fight the past by living the present to its fullest.

Slowly, I lower to my knees. I’m wearing a silky nightie I’d brought with me. Not necessarily the sexiest thing I own but something that brings me comfort. Kneeling at Judd’s feet, I remove his shoes and press his knees apart so I can wedge myself between his legs.

His head is tilted to the side. His temple resting on his fist. He squints at me with the eye that’s bruised.