Chapter 1
LOVE THY ENEMY’S TEAMMATE
LAKEN
I’ve always been a connoisseur of bad decisions—fucking that frat guy in the bathroom of a TGI Fridays, pregaming half a bottle of Pink Whitney before my twenty-first birthday, and trying to give myself a Brazilian wax with Nair—but this takes the cake.
I’m about to scale the side of my ex-boyfriend’s house with a sizable cohort of crickets at my disposal. Am I trespassing on private property? Maybe. Is it illegal to release insects in your no-good, cheating, piece of shit old flame’s house? I don’t think so, no.
Buford Montgomery. The only man who’s ever gone through the back door, and the only man who’s ever broken my heart. I was head over heels for him. Maybe not in love, per se, but deeply infatuated.
I mean, my dicknotized, touch-starved subconscious thought his red flags looked like a nice shade of pink.
His unwarranted jealousy when I went out with friends, his Instagram following that consisted of high-brow models whom he didn’t know, his controlling stances on what clothes I could and couldn’t wear.
I should’ve known he’d be prone to cheating. Looking back on the bulk of our relationship, his alarming lack of effort is an ice-cold shower of realization.
So, like any sane, well-adjusted girl in her twenties, instead of being the bigger person and leaving him to stew in his guilt, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
Not only did I find out he was cheating through goddamn video evidence, but said video went viral on Minnesota University’s very own gossip page, Mustang Mania.
Buford didn’t have much going for him besides an extensive collection of steamed polo shirts and the fact that he’s on the hockey team.
Here, hockey is revered as an Olympic sport, and the players are nothing short of gods.
Everyone worships the Minnesota Mustangs like they’re the real deal and not some ragtag team of wannabe Sidney Crosbys.
I once saw a girl drape herself over a puddle so one of the players could use her as a mat to keep his shoes clean.
We’re fucked, people. The greater public has turned to mob mentality and parasocial relationships. Luckily for me, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if Buford knocked his sticks with other guys.
“Lake, this is a bad idea,” my best friend—and partner in crime—Ellaria says, kneeling and interlocking her fingers into a basket so she can propel me onto the roof.
I flap my hand dismissively, and the motion jostles the tiny plastic bag of crickets in my pocket. I’m rocking a dress tonight—fashionable, yet unpractical. Unfortunately, all my other clothes were dirty.
“Pish, this doesn’t even make the top ten. This is completely justified. And far more levelheaded than etching CHEATER into his shiny Ferrari.”
Sweet, sweet Ellaria doesn’t know how much I need this. My therapist told me I need to find catharsis to combat the buzzards of self-doubt that circle me daily, and Buford only succeeded in gutting me down the middle.
Despite the nervous gnawing in my stomach and the heat that licks up my spine in fifty-degree weather, I can’t show any weakness.
Panic etches into Ellaria’s expression, carving out a divot between her perfectly sculpted brows. It would be comical if the situation wasn’t so time sensitive.
“What if we get caught?”
“That’s why you’re the lookout.”
“I don’t want to be the lookout! You know I don’t do well under pressure!”
I place my foot on my makeshift platform, being wary not to crush her fingers. Do I know what I’m doing? Not really. Have I seen this in movies? Yes, and I think that makes me half an expert.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. Everything will be fine, okay? Buford doesn’t have a Ring camera,” I reassure her.
The wind is starting to pick up, enshrouding the two of us in a vortex of glacial chill. All hints of warmth have dissolved with the sunset, and the sky has transmuted into this dreary shade of gray.
Amongst a backdrop of caliginous clouds, constellations of stars stitch themselves through an embroidery canvas, the underlying scent of petrichor compounding the sharp tang of ozone.
Ice crystals and skeletal branches hang above us, swaying, threatening to drop to the raised earth with any given gamble.
The atmosphere is dark, ominous—a direct reflection of the revenge taking place at approximately 7:25 p.m. on a Thursday.
My ex’s house is a three-story mansion, but I only need to make it to the second floor.
Adrenaline and regret are on one hell of a collision course, but to my utter surprise—and dismay—a warning vibrates in my brain like the rattle on an angry snake.
A warning that if I go through with this, something terrible is bound to happen.
Fate has a funny way of balancing the scales, even when you’ve been wronged by Satan’s spawn himself.
All Ellaria can do is nod, and I use the consolidated strength in my thighs to push myself up, latching my fingers onto the gutters and cringing when my skin makes contact with a wet, algae-like substance.
Pulling myself onto the grid of moss-furred shingles, I make sure that I move with caution so that my scaly little buddies don’t rappel prematurely.
Once I get a decent foothold, I flash my best friend a thumbs-up.
Even reduced to the size of an ant, the worry on Ellaria’s face is brighter than a distress beacon.
Thankfully, Buford has no sense of self-preservation and always keeps his windows unlocked. The hardest part is over. I just need to get in, fuck shit up, then get out.
As I crawl on all fours to get to the dormer, I realize the mission is going seamlessly well for being so ill-planned. I have no idea where my douchebag of an ex is. The light isn’t on, which means nobody is home. As long as he doesn’t come back mid-operation, we’re fine.
Cracking the window open enough to slip my body through, I descend into the shadowy bowels of hell, scrambling for my chirping ammunition.
God, this feels good. Right. I’m a slut for revenge. I should’ve done this a lot sooner. Buford just thinks he can mess with my feelings and get away with it? HAH. He’s lucky I’m not doing any permanent damage.
Once my feet hit the carpeted floor, all chaos breaks loose.
My miniature demon brigade is unleashed with a flourish of my hand, and a flurry of brown scatters in front of my eyes, the noisy orchestra of whirs deluging my eardrums and desecrating the silence of the night.
If I’m lucky, those little fuckers will find their ways into the walls and drive Buford insane.
With a mental pat on the back, I turn around to make my grand exit right before something hinders my departure. A tug on my body—an outward resistance. The tapered end of my dress is caught in the window’s hinges.
My first thought is: I’m screwed. My second thought is: I’m about to flash the neighbors.
Fuck. No, no, no. Oh, God. I’ve got to get out of here.
I pull fruitlessly—trying to free myself from the inadvertent shackles of this goddamn prison—but life loves to play with me in a sadistic sort of way because instead of letting up, a brutal force of wind slams the window deadbolt-tight.
A shriek peals out of me. The yanking resumes with newfound urgency.
I have to call Ellaria. I am not abandoning this hundred-dollar ensemble. Also, I can’t leave any evidence behind. If I do, Buford will know I was the one behind this declaration of war.
I slip my phone out of my pocket to send a hasty text.
ME
EMERGENCY. WE HAVE A CODE RED.
ELLARIA
What the hell is a code red?!?
ME
Partial nudity.
ELLARIA
EXCUSE ME?
ME
My dress is stuck in the window. I can’t get it out.
ELLARIA
I don’t know how to get to you. You’re two stories up.
Oh, this is bad. Humiliating. I should’ve taken the high road.
This is my punishment for undertaking a decision on three hours of sleep and two cups of coffee.
If the window won’t open, I’ll have to…I’ll have to go downstairs and make a break for the front door.
Shit. What if he has cameras inside of the house?
I wish I could pray for the Man Upstairs to absolve me, but I had this coming. Buford is astral projecting from wherever the hell he is and fucking me with a hot fireplace poker. Right in the ass.
The more I struggle, the quicker fear crests inside of me, and there’s no telling when my ex-boyfriend will be back. It could be a minute from now, ten minutes, thirty minutes. I’m a sitting duck.
However, within the span of a second, my illusion of choice is squandered beneath the staccato of heavy footsteps advancing toward me.
Elbow-deep in shame, the crickets still flit around, incriminating me—possibly immortalizing my polyester-clad blunder for years to come.
Someone is coming. I need to do the right thing.
Is the right thing confessing my guilt and facing the consequences of my actions? No, it’s not. The right thing is saving myself from embarrassment and rolling my body under his bed. Will I be there forever? Quite possibly.
I’m sorry, dear friend.
With the commotion growing nearer, I valiantly lurch forward, hear the pointed ripping sound of fabric, then go flying onto the floor—among a sea of my fallen brethren—because I underestimate the inertia of my movement.
The jagged maw of my dress’s split runs the length of my body, leaving me stranded in only my bra and panties. At least I wore a cute set today.
The most unwomanly scream thunders out of me. I don’t even have time to compose myself before there’s a behemoth standing in the doorway—highlighted in moonlight—far bulkier than Buford’s scrawny, five-foot-eight silhouette.
When the light turns on, I’m greeted by the sight of a mountain man in nothing but a towel, with hair so voluptuous that you’d think he just stepped out of a TRESemmé commercial.
I instantly spring to my feet, cover my private areas, and catalog the shared nudity of both parties—except his is far more tasteful.