Page 25 of Lovesick
Oh my God. I think my frontal lobe just developed. Am I, Crew Calloway, seeking emotional intimacy over a roll in the sheets to make up for my father’s nonexistent love? Have I become a…feelings…whore? No, that’s not possible. I’m just…not feeling myself because I’m distracted. Yeah. This has nothing to do with my dad or Merit. I’m perfectly fine. I’M FINE.
“Thanks,” I say, although the tension in my voice belies my indifferent exterior. I keep my eyes focused forward, leaving her in my side view while I watch highlights from the Mustangs’ last season.
But Little Miss Oblivious doesn’t admit defeat. No, she decides to enter my line of sight completely, biting on her lower lip as if it’ll trigger some caveman urge of mine.
“Maybe you could show me some of your moves,” she offers.
Annoyance builds an unruly pit in my stomach, subsequently sponging up what little appetite I had left. “I’m not really a moves-sharing kind of guy.”
Every one of my teammates’ jaws practically slam against the ground. They’re all looking at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind—which maybe I have. Can’t a guy choose celibacy for once without being judged? Not every decision is a good one. Exhibit A: hiding my occupation from the girl who turned out to be the daughter of my coach. Exhibit B: making things awkward with said girl after saving her from an oncoming car.
The blonde gasps, turns her nose up, and throws her hair over her shoulder. “Your loss. I wasn’t even that interested anyways.”
When she flounces away in her six-inch heels, Knox is trailing behind her like a lost puppy, practically licking the ground she walks on for a single scrap.
Harlan, ever the detective, ponders the whole interaction for a solid minute, connecting the dots with metaphorical red string. “Oh, I get it. You’re still caught up on that girl,” he teases, a devious smirk hooking up the corners of his lips.
How could he insinuate something like that? I mean, it’s true, but still.
Pigeon-toed panic tramples me in a flash. “Pish, am not,” I grumble, this time taking a heartier swig of beer and cringing when the lukewarm, piss-flavored liquid sloshes into my gut.
“Shit, your one-night stand?” Foster asks, plucking a spicy chicken wing from the communal basket. He’s got an anthill of greasy bar food that looks nauseating from here, but dude has an insanely fast metabolism.
My brows knit. “How doyouknow about that?”
He gives me a shrug, tearing off a chunk of meat from the bone and not bothering to close his mouth as he chews. “I’m observant. And nosy.”
“Yep, Harlandefinitelydidn’t already tell a quarter of the team,” Sutton jokes.
My best friend steeples his fingers under his chin, dismantling my half-assed lie with that 170 IQ of his. “So, hypothetically, if I told you that she just walked into the bar in a wet dream of a dress, you wouldn’t look?”
Much to my chagrin, I look immediately, and the little tendril of hope that had wiggled through the cracks wilts when Merit is, in fact,notstanding at the entrance of the bar. Dress be damned. She could show up in a sweatshirt and sweatpants and I’d still be mesmerized.
Despair pistols through me, compounding the long-term tinnitus thing I have going on in my ears—or maybe that’s because the music is so loud that I can’t form a coherentthought. My heart physically hurts. It shouldn’t, right? Like, anatomically that has to be a concern for early onset heart failure or some shit.
I brace myself for Harlan’s endless parade of bragging, but he doesn’t even get halfway through his miniature celebration before something swipes his attention. “That’s what I thou?—”
And when I expect the final blow to bludgeon me into sad, fractured pieces, it never comes. Instead, I find him staring at something behind me, and I mirror his gaze to see Merit idling by the entrance of the bar, wearing a red bodycon dress that puts every other color to shame.
The satin material clings to every curve of her hourglass figure, and the hem ends at the middle of her thighs, leaving little to the imagination. The cowl neckline dips rather low on her chest, which is supported by two thin spaghetti straps that disappear beneath the beachy waves of her hair. And her makeup is relatively simple save for the bright scarlet lipstick that’s already been the sole perpetuator of three different fantasies.
God, she’s beautiful.
Sutton whistles, and even though it’s good-natured, I nearly go full attack-dog mode on his ass. “She’s the girl you’re obsessed with? Sheesh, it all makes sense now.”
“Obsessed is an understatement,” Harlan claims.
I don’t care that they’re digging into me. Right now, all I care about is going up to Merit and talking to her. If she turns me away, I’ll just work that much harder to get her attention.
I’m up and out of my seat without a second to spare, and I’m over to her in four long strides. I couldn’t tell from so far away given the dogshit lighting, but all her lacerations and bruises have mysteriously vanished.
I speak before I think—a recurring theme, unfortunately. “Your bruises.”
I can picture exactly where they were. The largest one wason her right shin, and the other was a purpling rosette on the side of her left bicep. To make matters worse, I fuckingreach outto touch her arm, as if the gesture will bring her some kind of solace.
Needless to say, Merit isn’t looking for solace, and she flinches away from me—a reaction that stings like irrigating a nasty wound with alcohol.
She doesn’t want me to touch her.
