Lovefool (The Minnesota Mustangs #3)

1. Love Thy Enemy’s Teammate

LOVE THY ENEMY’S TEAMMATE

LAKE

I’ve always been a connoisseur of bad decisions—fucking that frat guy in the bathroom of a TGI Friday’s, pregaming half a bottle of Pink Whitney before my twenty-first birthday party, and trying to give myself a Brazilian wax with Nair—but this takes the cake.

I’m about to scale the side of my old flame’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 ex-boyfriend’s home? 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 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, 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 doesn’t have much going for him besides a sad 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 treated as 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 stick with other women.

“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 plastic bag of crickets in my pocket. I’m rocking a black babydoll dress tonight—unpractical yet fashionable. When doling out payback, a girl has to look her best.

“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 on a daily basis.

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, careful not to crush her fingers. Do I know what I’m doing? Not really. Have I seen this in movies? Yes, and that makes me half the expert, right?

“I’ll only be a few minutes. Everything will be fine, okay? Buford doesn’t have a Ring camera,” I reassure her.

The wind starts to pick up, enshrouding the two of us in a vortex of glacial chill.

All hints of warmth dissolved with the sunset, and the sky has transmuted into a 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 upwards, latching my fingers onto the gutters and cringing when my skin contacts some wet, algae-like substance.

Pulling myself onto the grid of moss-furred shingles, 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, but 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. The light isn’t on, which means nobody is home.

Cracking the window open enough to slip 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 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.

I unleash my miniature demon brigade 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—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.

Suddenly, my illusion of freedom is squandered beneath the staccato of heavy footsteps advancing toward me.

Someone is home.

I pull fruitlessly—trying to liberate 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. I resume the yanking 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 dress pocket to send a panicked 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 four cups of coffee. If the window won’t open, I’ll have to go downstairs in my underwear and make a break for the front door.

Shit. What if he has cameras inside of the house?

I wish I could pray to 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 if my ex-boyfriend is already back or if it’s someone else. I’m a sitting duck.

Elbow-deep in fear, the crickets still flit around, incriminating me—immortalizing my polyester-clad blunder for years to come.

I need to hide.

With the commotion growing nearer, I valiantly lurch forward, hear the pointed ripping sound of fabric, and then go flying onto the floor—among a sea of my fallen brethren—because I underestimated the inertia of my movement.

The jagged split of my dress runs the length of my body, leaving me stranded in only my bra and panties. At least I wore a cute set today.

I don’t even have time to compose myself before there’s a behemoth standing in the doorway—a figure far bulkier than Buford’s scrawny, five-foot-eight silhouette.

The most unwomanly scream thunders out of me.

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.

His damp hair falls into his eyes with an effortlessly messy look as rivulets of water snake down the chiseled architecture of his above-average body.

The dude is built like a fucking tree trunk, shiny like a goddamn glazed donut, and is currently the speed bump responsible for short-circuiting my brain.

His biceps are as big as my head—corded in thick muscle that was probably hell to hone.