Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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It started as a drizzle.
A slow drum against the windshield as he pulled his dad's truck under a flickering street light five minutes out of Creek View, but now that the rain is falling in heavy sheets, blurring the near pitch-black street, he shifts the truck into park and cuts the headlights, sending us into complete darkness as the flicking light above cuts out.
He sent Jordan back to Pullman to get something for him — something he said he couldn't fight without — and now that his eyes are locked on the time displayed on the dash, he seems to be counting the seconds for his brother to return.
Clearing my throat softly, I look over at him. All the bruises, the battered knuckles, the blood. It all makes sense now. Fight. He fights. A million questions have flashed through my mind on the way here, but it always comes back to one — why?
"Micah..." It comes out quieter than I intend, but he must hear me because he looks over. I want to ask, but I don't want to overstep. I open my mouth but shut it again, cheeks warming.
"It's for money." His voice is low, nearly lost in the patter of rain on the roof. "I fight for money. I use it to help my mom out right now since my dad's in the hospital. It's for her, for my brothers. It's not long-term, and no one knows."
I consider all of that, but my mind lingers on the final few words.
No one knows.
He swallows, his jaw hardening as he looks out of the windshield. "If anyone found out, if this got leaked, I could get kicked out of the league. I could lose my scholarship. My chances at the draft would be fucked."
"I would never —"
"I know." He cuts me off. "I know you wouldn't."
My skin warms at that, at the sincerity in his voice.
"Is there anything I can do?" I barely have enough money for rent and groceries as it is, but if there's anything I could do, I would.
"No. No, I'm taking care of it." He clears his throat, his eyes trained on the rivets of rain running down the windshield. When he finally looks at me, I catch his eyes in the flash of lightning. They're softer than I've ever seen them — a delicate blue-gray. A rare moment of tranquility in a usually tumultuous sea. "Thank you, though."
I nod, wanting to reach out to him, to interlace our fingers, but when the cold, damp bloodstain on the bottom of my sweatshirt brushes my stomach, I sit up straighter, arching my back uncomfortably to avoid it touching my skin again.
"Take it off." His voice is low, unwavering as it cuts through the dark truck.
The flickering of the streetlight above illuminates him for only a second, but it's enough to see him shrugging off his flannel. I keep my gaze on him in the dark, my eyes adjusting enough to see him look down at the flannel in his hands before looking back up at me. When the light flashes above, his eyes are locked on me, dipping down to my sweatshirt before rising back to mine.
