Page 2 of Lovefool

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.