Page 32 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)
CONFESSIONS FROM HER BEDSIDE TABLE
CREW
I never liked these shoes anyways.
I’m not particularly squeamish—hockey has given me some pretty thick skin over the years—but as I stare down at the brightly colored, half-digested chunks of food now decorating my sneakers, it’s taking everything in me not to gag and make Merit feel worse.
I carry her the rest of the way to the car, and I try to comfort her while she apologizes over and over again, crying her makeup off. I’ve never felt such primal concern for someone before. I’m ready to flip a U-ie and race to the nearest hospital, but she somehow convinces me to take her home.
I slip her out of the passenger seat and into my arms, taking her house key from her and turning it in the lock.
Once I get the door open, I carry her bridal-style across the threshold of her apartment, and my heart cavorts when she nuzzles her head into my chest. She’s got her arms slung around my neck as she clings to me like a koala, muffling the tiny hiccups that roll out of her in a quick succession.
I know our time together has been limited, but I honestly can’t remember my life before her.
Everything was so monochromatic—a repetitive, tireless cycle that I was sure I could never escape.
Then I saw her, and my whole world was suddenly submerged in effervescent color, scaring away the tyrannical darkness that had ruled over me for far too long.
“Creeew, there’s puke in my hair,” Merit whimpers.
Yep, this is the girl I’m obsessed with.
I tighten my grip, more afraid to let go for my sake than hers. “I’m going to wash it out, Princess. Just hang on a little longer for me, yeah?”
“Okay.”
I’m not really the caretaker type. I’ve dealt with my fair share of drunk girls in the past, but I’ve never run them a bath, let alone washed their hair for them. This is so unlike me. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but Merit needs me right now, and I’m always going to be there for her.
Getting her upstairs isn’t much of a feat, but the soft sobs that carry over the suffocating silence perforates the membrane of my heart like an invasive procedure.
She’s shivering despite the combination of our body heat, goose bumps proliferating rapidly over her bare arms. Not that I was moving at a leisurely pace before, but I catapult into speed demon mode, getting her into the bathroom and turning the bathtub faucet on before she freezes into a popsicle.
The gloam of the night had made it hard for me to get a good look at her, but now, as we stall underneath the fluorescent lights, I can assess the damage more clearly.
She has green-tinged vomit matted in strands of her hair, her cheeks have been tarried with streaks of mascara, and burst capillaries branch over the whites of her puffy-lidded eyes.
But despite it all, she’s never looked more beautiful.
I plug the stainless-steel stopper into the drain, letting hot water accumulate in the tub as it splashes against acrylic in miniature river rapids. A fine spray shrouds the air, hopefully emitting enough heat to counteract the cold that clings to Merit like a persistent cough.
Irelyn must have superglued the caution tape to her goddamn body because neither the strenuous dancing nor the puking seems to have unraveled it.
“I’ll get the water ready and then give you your privacy.”
“Don’t leave,” Merit says, swaying on her feet, her pallor still looking exceptionally green. She tugs at her top, letting her arms flop to the sides. “I need help getting this off.”
It gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside that she trusts me enough to undress her, and that’s definitely not a normal response. I’m made of trauma and storm clouds and anger, not glitter and rainbows and butterflies.
So, because I’ll always do what Merit tells me, I slowly begin to unwrap the neon-yellow tape that’s been distracting me for two hours straight. It’s not exactly the way I wanted to rip it off her tonight.
Sliver after sliver, I expose more of that buttery, flawless skin, peeling away the literal and figurative barrier that’s been prohibiting my touch.
Her body is just as breathtaking as I remember it—her toned belly, curvaceous hips, and small breasts that fit perfectly in the palms of my hands.
And although I want nothing more than to stare at that God-gifted paradise between her legs, I avert my eyes out of respect.
Fuck, it’s hot in here. Is she sober enough to notice how flustered I am?
I lead her over to the bath cautiously, shut the faucet off, and lower her into her own personal hot spring. She situates herself in the water, displacing it in ripples as a contented sigh leaks from her colorless lips.
“This feels nice,” she moans, scooting her butt around to assume the ultimate comfort position, pearlescent droplets sluicing down the contour of her chest .
Don’t look at her boobs, dude. Be a gentleman for once in your life. And Little Crew, don’t get any fucking ideas.
While Merit slow-cooks in the bath, I scavenge the medicine cabinet for a glass that I can use to scoop up water, eventually procuring a plastic toothbrush cup that will do the trick. I also end up crumpling my bow loincloth so I can wrap a towel around my hips.
I never want to see that thing ever again.
Crouching down to be eye level with her, I begin wetting her hair, washing away the sticky remnants of the eventful night. Liquid cascades down her head and shoulders, plinking into the mostly stagnant sea that laps against the briny flesh of her lower back.
I don’t even realize she’s crying again until her frame shakes. “I’m so sorry. I ruined the whole night, and now you have to look after me.”
I chuckle—probably not an appropriate response, but an instinctual one. “You didn’t ruin anything, Merit. I had a great time tonight,” I reassure her, combing my fingers through her damp tresses and loosening the grime.
“But you didn’t even get drunk.”
“I don’t need to be drunk to have a good time with you.”
Reaching for a bottle of grapefruit shampoo, I squirt a pink dollop into my hand, lathering it up before scrubbing my fingers over her scalp. She leans into my mollifying ministrations as affection calcifies in my bones.
“I didn’t want to drink so much. I just got nervous,” she confesses.
Nervous? Merit doesn’t strike me as someone who gets nervous. In fact, I’d say she’s more prepared than the average person.
“You wanna tell me why you were nervous?” I ask, pouring a cupful of water over her head and watching as the frothy shampoo drains into the now-lukewarm bath. It collects in a bubbling film around her waist.
She refuses to look at me, a sanguine blush draping over her cheeks. “You— hic —make me nervous.”
I can’t help but jerk back in surprise. “Me?”
What is she talking about? I’m the nervous wreck around here—around her . I can’t think straight when we’re in the same room. She makes it both easier and harder to breathe, and my heart is in a constant state of anxiety because of her.
Merit Lawson isn’t the kind of drug that you just quit—she’s the kind that you dedicate your entire life to.
“Don’t play dumb, Crew. You’re…you! You’re the captain of the hockey team who’s going to get signed to the NHL by the end of college. You’re literally the local celebrity of MU, and your muscles are so big that they have their own zip code.”
“Zip code, huh?”
Merit plays coy like she isn’t naked in front of me. “Yuh-huh.”
I wring out some of her umber locks—which have turned near-black underneath the water. “I don’t know, Princess. I think you may have me beat in the muscle department,” I say, poking her defined arm.
I’m not lying. Dance is one of the hardest sports there is, and Merit is the most talented performer I’ve ever seen. She has the same chance of going pro in her field as I do in mine.
I grab her equally aromatic conditioner, slicking the ends of her hair in clumps of white cream.
“By the way, you’re the one who makes me nervous.
I’m always a mess around you. Do you know how insanely talented you are?
How smart you are? How beautiful you are?
You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. ”
I’m surprised everything sails out of my mouth smoothly. Being this close to her makes my pulse hurtle and my stomach sizzle with warmth. It also gives me a clear view of something I’ve never noticed before—a thin, jagged scar cutting between her breasts like an inlet between rocky shorelines.
Look, I don’t want to sound like a perv, but I’ve been spellbound by Merit’s chest a few times in the past, and I’ve never noticed this. Surely I would have, right? Why has she never told me about it?
Finally, she makes eye contact with me, a genuine, dimple-inducing smile playing over her mouth. “You really mean that?”
It’s funny how she doesn’t realize that I’d lay my heart on the line for her.
“More than you could possibly understand.”
Toweling Merit off, I get her dressed in an oversized T-shirt and some pajama shorts, prepping her bed like a penguin building a comfy nest for their lifetime mate.
I rummaged around for everything she might need—extra pillows and blankets, a heating pad, ibuprofen, a giant glass of water, Gatorade, and some saltines.
Merit snuggles underneath her quilted, rose-colored comforter, her wet hair fanning out over a matching throw pillow.
Her room is quite spacious for a two-bedroom apartment, adhering to a color palette of pastel pinks and off-whites.
She has various succulents on her desk and shelves—which have been taken over by school supplies and quirky trinkets—and fairy lights droop from the overlapping spindles in the ceiling.
A barrister bookshelf is stuffed to the brim with multicolored spines, multiple first-place dance trophies, and a picture of her younger self in an adorable, bubblegum-pink tutu.