Page 29 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

I…I don’t even know what to say right now. Irelyn is in the same boat as me—slack-jawed and bug-eyed. But whereas I’m sl ightly terrified, she’s ogling him like he’s a juicy cut of steak and she’s a feral barn cat who hasn’t eaten in days.

I’m so in shock that I don’t remember to greet him. Are his ass cheeks just hanging out? I mean, I know Crew can be promiscuous, but this is…next level.

“No, my ass cheeks are not just hanging out,” he says, his husky voice rife with amusement.

Shit. That was supposed to be an inside thought.

While I’m trying to untie my tongue, Irelyn holds her hand out and eyes him suspiciously. “Irelyn.”

Crew—too oblivious for his own good—doesn’t realize that he’s being analyzed by my best friend to see if he’s “worthy” enough for me, and he accepts her outstretched hand with an ear-to-ear beam. “Crew. Haven’t we met before? At Dusky’s?”

Irelyn’s guard dog facade falls for a second as she whispers an aside to me with her hand acting as a privacy curtain. Though it’s hardly an aside seeing as Crew is literally right there and can hear every word she’s saying.

“He’s got a good memory. That’s hot.”

“O-kay. Let’s go inside,” I shout, hoping my voice is loud enough to drown out her frankly unwarranted comment.

I begin to shepherd the Queen of Hearts and Mr. Christmas past the unfortunate partygoers and into the frat house. The Sig Chi guys part like the Red Sea for Crew, and I even hear a gaggle of freshmen girls squealing over him from somewhere to my right.

Jealousy shouldn’t bloom inside of my belly, but it does.

Let’s face the facts: Crew Calloway is a good-looking guy.

He also has quite the reputation despite it being his first year at MU.

Right now, he’s got nothing but a satin gift bow over his penis.

Women are going to stare and wish they were with him, and men are going to stare and wish they were him.

Crew’s not mine. I have no right to feel possessive. I think I need a drink. Or two. Or three .

The inside of the house is just as chaotic as the outside. As with any holiday, the frats half-ass their decorations. Fake spiderwebs stretch along the cornices, cheap animatronics bob and weave on a timer, and a bowl of half-eaten candy sits out on the coffee table.

Everywhere I look, I’m nearly flashed. There are couples making out on the worse-for-wear couches, there’s a rowdy group of functioning alcoholics playing beer pong in the open-plan kitchen, and there’s a mosh pit of sweaty, intoxicated bodies gyrating on the makeshift dance floor in the adjoining room.

The only untouched area is the staircase leading up to the second floor, guarded by a pitiful pledge who’s been painted in neon brushstrokes that glow under the third-rate lighting.

It’s musty as hell in here, and when I inhale, it feels like sticky nicotine adheres to my gasping lungs.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I contracted some airborne disease.

I don’t even know where to start. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get trampled. I should’ve brought Irelyn’s extendable leash. She’s a runner when she’s drunk, and I can’t afford to lose her again.

But, because things can never be easy, Irelyn and her social drifter tendencies break for the nearest squad of Alpha Phi girls, who are outfitted in an intricate loofa costume, a two-piece consisting of fake leaves as an ode to Eve, a gift bag with a matching bow headpiece, and an impressive balloon ensemble.

Aaand she left me alone with Crew. Not even a minute in.

As Crew and I make our way through the labyrinthine house, our unmapped trek leads us to the kitchen, where underage drinkers exploit the freakishly large kegs. The noise level is much more bearable in here, but finding any privacy tonight is going to be impossible.

After minutes of silence, Crew clears his fraying throat. He has to raise his voice to combat the cacophonous slurry of side conversations. “I had a great time at the movies the other night.”

He did?

“Me too,” I agree.

He pauses for a moment. “Uh, you look…”

Suddenly reminded of my nonexistent costume, I cross my arms over my chest to limit boobage as much as possible, feeling embarrassment crystallize in my veins. “Skanky?”

Crew shakes his head as a sheepish smile unravels over his lips.

“Beautiful,” he corrects, staring at me in a way that I’ve never seen before, vacant of the usual, primordial hunger that makes my core clench with need.

His irises sport an untapped reverence, and I’m beginning to think that his eyes don’t just change color based on the weather.

Huh. He didn’t try to be coy about the compliment either. Not like the other night.

“That’s just because I’m seminude,” I quip, feeling flayed alive underneath his admiring gaze.

“No, Merit. That’s because you’re you .”

Shit. I know I said I was more than ready to explore something with Crew if the occasion arose, but I’ve been conditioned to deadbolt a million locks over my heart.

I’m not one of those people who bounce back from heartbreak.

I don’t think I was ever made to blossom amid hardship.

Not to mention that I’m still keeping a ginormous secret from him, and everything will change if he finds out.

Instead of saying thank you like a normal person, I panic, scrabbling for a distraction that’ll keep me from parsing through my worry and quantum-leaping to conclusions. And lo and behold, a small, six-centimeter glass answers all my prayers.

Alcohol. Yes. I need it injected straight into my veins. I need to stop thinking .

“Let’s do some shots,” I decide, grabbing Crew by the wrist and nearly yanking his arm out of its socket.

Do I know what’s in these mystery glasses? No idea. Will I regret this later? Probably.

“Are you su?—”

I thrust an overspilling shot glass in Crew’s direction and simultaneously shove a finger against his lips, shushing him. My eye twitches. “Shots, Crew. Shots.”

He nods out of fear, accepting my alcoholic offering without so much as another word.

No chaser. I’m going all in.

I brace myself for the preliminary burn, squeeze my eyes shut, and toss back my drink, needing this shit to work in t-minus-zero seconds. A tumbleweed of fire travels down my esophagus, nearly unswallowable as my first mistake of the night rushes into my stomach like a pressurized stream.

Holding back a gag, I reach for another ounce of pure pain while Crew is just now downing his. I polish off my second shot with a little more ease this time, the spice bringing tears to my eyes.

Crew’s face pinches. “God, that’s foul.”

Does he sense how nervous I am? I hope not. Where’s Irelyn when I need her?

After jeopardizing the state of my palate, I regain my bearings, and—placebo effect or not—I swear I can feel my worry begin to taper off, giving leeway for cloud-like euphoria to percolate into my overactive brain.

My filter is nonexistent tonight. “Do you want to dance? Should we go outside? What do you want to do? I’m good with anything. I’m here to party. I love partying.”

Damn. Take a Xanax or something, girl.

A paroxysm of concern sweeps over his ruggedly handsome features, and he breaks my unofficial no-contact rule by touching me lightly on the arm, which is pretty much the equivalent of pulling the pin of a grenade and hurling it in my direction.

“Are you okay?”

I bark out a hysterical laugh. “Me? I’m great. I’m dandy. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but…”

I think my guardian angel is watching over me tonight because, thankfully, Crew’s name is called from somewhere in the sea of people, shifting the spotlight off me. He glances up to search for his faceless pursuer, and then it’s like a light bulb goes off in his head.

“I want you to formally meet the guys,” he tells me, turning the tables and tugging me toward an unknown destination.

When we breach an opening in the crowd, he makes sure to pull me close to his body, bearing the brunt of the packed mob so I don’t have to push or shove. I feel… untouchable . I hadn’t even realized that his previous grasp on my wrist has metamorphosed into proper hand holding.

I’m impressed when we make it out the other side unscathed, and I find a few members of Crew’s hockey team clumping in an offshoot from the rest of the partygoers.

I try to make myself scarce when it comes to my father’s hockey practices.

Some of his friends look familiar from the fundraiser committee.

“Merit, I’d like you to meet Harlan, Sutton, and Foster,” Crew introduces, our fingers still interlaced.

Finally understanding the incriminating implication of our hand holding, I sever contact almost instantly, disguising my miniature freakout for what I think is a rather smooth transition into a handshake. “Hi, nice to meet you guys.”

“Oh, so you’re the famous Merit,” the brunet with green eyes says—the one who’s currently rocking a laundry basket around his waist.

He shakes my hand. “Hi, I’m Harlan. ”

Crew doesn’t…he doesn’t talk about me, right? That would be preposterous.

Even though I’m only two shots in, my stomach roils, and I swallow back a particularly thick glob of saliva.

Crew smacks his friend on the arm. “Dude,” he grounds out through his teeth.

“You’re the girl running the fundraiser!

” the largest of the men exclaims, dressed in a toga and looking like the lucky winner of the genetic lottery with his lumberjack beard and equally luscious mullet.

He has to have a few extra inches over Crew, and whereas the rest of his teammates are on the leaner side, he’s packing on some bulky muscle, flaunting a little pudge in his midsection.

I’m glad he recognizes me from class and not the locker room fiasco.

Heat flares in my cheeks. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Sutton. It’s nice to meet you.”