Page 31 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

BLAME IT ON THE ALCOHOL

MERIT

W hat. The. Fuck.

Did Crew just say what I think he said? Am I hallucinating right now? I mean, I know I basically pressured him into telling me the truth, but I wasn’t expecting a Notebook -worthy confession.

Come on, Merit. Say something! Anything!

My thoughts are misty, my mouth is agape like a fish out of water, and I have no words of actual substance to contribute to the conversation.

It’s like everything has been lost in translation, and I can’t temper the unfettered torrents of anxiety funneling inside me.

My body anticipates him kissing me in a whirlwind of passion as he rolls his pelvis over my pussy in silent supplication, long-jumping over every obnoxious hurdle that’s stood in our way up until this moment.

I’m greedy, and I want to unwrap my present. Now.

But instead of claiming his mouth with mine, the most idiotic slew of words spews out of me. “You’re serious?”

Crew lowers his head to blow out a sexually frustrated breath—adjusting the bottom half of himself indiscreetly—and when he meets my gaze again, his eyes shine with firelight. “Deadly.”

My chest tightens on a pent-up inhale, the caution tape acting as a flimsy barrier against his hungry hands—ones that have already destroyed and rebuilt me. A crime is going to be committed tonight. And that crime? Crew Calloway is going to murder my pussy.

Tension razes the air as a riptide of lust washes over me, carrying me out to sea where I lose all sense of direction. My belly somersaults. He’s staring at my lips like they’re a Michelin star meal and he’s starving for a single taste.

“Prove it,” I whisper, rutting my hips against his, feeling the soft ribbon from his bow brush against my scantily clad form. He’s already hard, and considering his cock is the size of a small rocket, there’s no saying if he’ll burst out of his costume. “Take me back to that night.”

Crew knocks his forehead against mine, his arms beginning to shake, and that gentleman act of his is slowly starting to slip through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “Fuck, Merit.”

Judging by his distended bulge and the desperate little whimpers whirring in his throat, I give him less than a minute before he’s bowling over Sig Chi’s pledges and carrying me up the stairs to a secluded room.

But, because the world has some unresolved vendetta against me, we’re interrupted before we can get to the good bit.

Irelyn, alcohol-flushed, penetrates my line of sight, making me and Crew instinctively jump apart from each other.

“There you guys are! Let’s dance!” she enthuses, being the second person of the night to drag me by the arm.

Grimacing—and trying not to strangle the life out of her—I let her yank me through a meandering stream of bodies and onto the dance floor, all while Crew attempts to keep up with us.

Irelyn St. Clair, count your days .

My best friend has somehow assembled the rest of Crew’s hockey team out of sheer charisma, and we join them right as the unpaid and overworked DJ cues up “Yeah!” by Usher.

I can barely move in here. Some girl is twerking against my butt, and if I scoot forward any more, I’ll be flattened against Crew’s front. His delicious, naked front.

When it was just us in the hallway, I wasn’t so shy, but now there’s hundreds of wandering eyes waiting for me to slip up. If I pursue something with Crew, it’ll have to be in secret. That’s the only way it can work.

I need another drink.

Thankfully, Irelyn takes her red Solo cup from Harlan, sipping daintily from it.

The raucous, slightly distorted music is curb-stomping my brain in, and the temperature has risen a whole ten degrees within a matter of minutes.

I know I should ask first, but it’s a knee-jerk response when I grab Irelyn’s half-full drink and chug whatever mystery liquid is fermenting in her cup.

She doesn’t oppose. In fact, she cheers me on with a celebratory holler.

Ugh. It’s beer. And it’s warm. Not a good combination with the anxiety swooping low in my stomach.

My crutch disappears from my hand in the blink of an eye, and suddenly, Irelyn is twirling me under her arm, her pearly-white teeth glistening underneath the strobe lights.

A motley of neon colors shutters past my vision as I pocket all my worry to be tomorrow’s problem.

I stop fighting the endorphins, losing myself to the feel-good ambience and the high of my very own vodka-beer concoction.

Crew, however, is still in watchdog mode, taking his unofficial job as my bodyguard a little too seriously.

The rest of his teammates are riding the same wave as me and Irelyn, jumping up and down every time the beat drops.

Throughout the set, I switch from grinding on my best friend to joining the giant kumbaya circle in the middle of the dance floor.

Some guy dressed in one of those blow-up dinosaur costumes does the worm on the ground, and chaos erupts shortly after.

I don’t remember the last time I felt so… relaxed .

I’m not sure how much time has passed, but by the twelfth or something song, I glance over to find Irelyn and Harlan getting pretty handsy with each other.

Sutton is dancing behind a blonde in an intricate getup made entirely from a Twister mat, and Foster has dipped from the dance floor, so that just leaves me and Crew.

Aside from a shoulder shimmy, he hasn’t let loose, and I know that man has an endless well of stamina because of…

past experience . His mouth is also wrenched in a perpetual frown.

Since everybody seems to be in their own little world, I take his hands and swing them in tandem with mine. “Dance with me,” I slur.

Crew’s stoic front falters, and a blush sprinkles his cheeks like he’s been caught watching cat videos and his manliness card is going to be revoked any second.

Before he can answer me, Harlan pipes up, “Crew doesn’t dance.”

I pout and let go of Crew as disappointment blizzards through me. It’s the first thing I’ve felt since I fast-tracked past tipsy and shot straight into drunkenness.

Irelyn makes a pish noise. “Bullshit. Everyone dances.”

If there’s one person in this world more stubborn than me, it’s Crew, and we’re finally on good terms. I’m not going to force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.

When I turn away, however, Crew’s fingers settle on my wrist, and he spins me back around so that I’m facing him, then reels me into his body. I yelp in surprise, bracing one hand against his chest, willing the room to stop rotating underneath my feet.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” I say, feeling his heart skitter underneath my palm .

“I do for you.”

Crew pulls some impressive dance moves out of God knows where, flicking his arm out to the side and sending me spiraling a foot until I’m breathless, my hand still in his.

Then—with effortless strength—he curls his arm back toward himself, taking me with him and subjecting me to another set of turns.

When the momentum catches up to me, he dips me, keeping a secure hold on my back so I don’t go crashing to the floor.

I blink, looking up at the face of the man I once called my enemy. Melting into his embrace is an autopilot response. It feels like I’ve been chasing happiness for as long as I can remember, and it’s been under my nose this whole time—sequestered in the clear, serene waters of his eyes.

Holy shit. I had no idea he could move like that.

My tongue doesn’t seem to be working. “You?—”

He lifts me upright as if I’m weightless. “Are a man of many talents?”

“Are like nobody I’ve ever met before,” I finish, awestruck. My heart starts to palpitate, but it’s the least of my concerns right now.

Crew, uncharacteristically, doesn’t rub the compliment in my face. Instead, flattery paints the tips of his ears red, and he tries to brush it off. “You’re drunk,” he jokes, his velvet-soft voice curling around what sounds like concern.

“Yup! But I’m no liar!” I boop him on the nose.

Crew grabs both of my shoulders and stares deep into my eyes. Not in the romantic way either. “Shit, Mer. Your pupils are dilated like crazy.”

I sigh dreamily. “Your eyes are so pretty.”

“Are you listening to yourself? You’re not even insulting me. At least give me a backhanded compliment.”

“Why would I do that? That’s mean.”

“Dear God, it’s worse than I thought.”

He’s so funny. And handsome. And charming. He’s the whole package. Why was I ever resisting him? We’d be a total power couple. Me, the dance major. Him, the NHL-bound hockey star. It’s like a romance book come to life.

Breaking free from his hypnotic eye fuckery, I tug on his arm, though it’s the equivalent of trying to move a solid wall. “I want to keep dancing!” I whine petulantly.

He brushes his thumb lovingly over my cheek. “Princess, you have no idea how much I’d love to keep dancing with you, but right now, I need to start sobering you up.”

A string of hiccups impedes my sentence as my vision starts to fuzz around the edges—like a long-forgotten memory buoying to the surface of the subconscious. Nausea practically body-slams me into the next life. “But I don’t want to somb…sob…er up.”

“I know, but doesn’t a warm, comfy bed sound nice? I’ll even tuck you in.”

I think Crew is gentle parenting me. And I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.

“Are you asking me to sleep with you?” I tease, waggling my eyebrows.

He scrubs a hand down his face, sighing in frustration. “No, I?—”

“Crew Calloway wants to sleep with me!” I scream, dancing around in circles, trying to garner as much attention as possible from the crowd. Luckily for Crew, the music drowns out my pathetic attempts to start something.

“I’m taking you home, Merit. You’re in no state to drive, and neither is Irelyn.”

Aw, I love Irelyn. She’s my best friend.

I stomp my feet in outrage, though I know Crew is more than capable of throwing me into the car. “But I don’t want to go hooome.”

“Too bad,” he growls, that passive stance of his languishing, and—risky, given his clothing placement—he swoops me up over his shoulder, holding the backs of my thighs to keep me from falling on my ass.

The movement jostles my stomach, which promptly sends a jet of bile up my throat. I swallow my breakfast back down.

“Crew, put me down.”

“I’m not playing this game with you, Merit. Say goodbye to Irelyn.”

Crew says something indistinguishable to Harlan—who gives him a thumbs-up—then he swings me around so I can face my best friend.

“Irelyn, help! He’s kidnapping me!” I screech, flailing my feet and pounding my fists on his back.

The redhead cracks an oblivious smile and waves. “Bye, Merit!”

Oh, I’m going to kill her. Right after Crew gives me my walking ability back. Wow. This is definitely not how I imagined losing it.

Through my floundering, pleas, and then subsequent brigade of insults, Crew manages to navigate out of the frat house without bumping into anyone, which makes for a pretty smooth ride even though I’m six feet off the ground.

The nausea has escalated to an unbearable ten by the time we step back into civilization, and my mouth begins to water.

The cool air should neutralize my fever, but it doesn’t seem to be helping.

Finally, he places me gently on the sidewalk, fretting over me like a worried parent. “Are you okay? Do you need me to carry you to the car?” he asks.

“I don’t feel well,” I mumble under my breath, wrapping my arms around my midsection.

Panic fleets across his face. “I know. We’ll get some water in you, and you’ll feel a lot better, okay? I promise.”

I don’t know how he’s so certain, but I believe him.

Crew says he parked at least a few blocks down, which means that I have to bear both the cold and the shame while walking around like a giant ball of caution tape.

His strides are a lot longer than mine—more sure-footed—and I trudge behind him, seeing double every time I look down at the cracks in the cement.

My worn-out sneakers halt for a moment, and I place a hand on my upset belly.

Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke.

“Crew, I?—”

He swings his head around fast enough to give himself whiplash—unchecked fear twinkling in his eyes—and I think I’m about to lose the contents of my stomach before a massive burp expels out of me instead.

Embarrassment is the first thing I feel, but it’s swiftly squandered by a metric ton of relief.

“I’m good. False alarm,” I tell him.

Crew just shakes his head with a chuckle. “Hot.”

We both resume walking, and he purposefully slows down so I can keep up.

Each streetlight we pass is a beacon in the dead of night, guiding our way to Crew’s Toyota, and a frost-laced breeze joins us on our journey.

Little clumps of weeds squish under the dirty soles of my shoes as an autumnal menagerie of molting leaves skitter across the road’s cold asphalt.

Although the pressure in my throat is gone, my gut still hasn’t called for a ceasefire. “I know, right? I’m hottest the girl that you’ve been with ever.”

Am I making sense? I mean, I make sense to me.

He keeps his gaze forward-facing, and even with my rattled senses, I can hear an underlying somberness in his tone.

“Yeah, you are, Princess.”

In a perfect world, I’d kiss him. Right here, right now, where nobody can see us. And I wouldn’t stop until the sun came up.

But we don’t live in a perfect world, and I don’t carpe diem or whatever the Romans said. Instead, I half-burp and half-gag, keeling over from the force as tears prick the backs of my eyes.

Crew stops directly in front of me, holding me by my shoulders. “False alarm?”

I want to say yes, but what comes out of my mouth is not a reassuring confirmation. My stomach lets out a rumble that would be a goddamn seven on the Richter scale, and I then humiliatingly proceed to projectile vomit all over Crew’s clean, white shoes.