Page 29 of Lovefool

“Shhh, don’t tell Tammy,” I whisper, smushing my index finger to my lips.

“You’re not leaving my sight tonight, Lake. Not even for a second.”

12

SO MUCH FOR PROFESSIONALISM

SUTTON

How the hell do I lose a girl ten minutes after I said I’d keep an eye on her?

She was here one second, then vanished the next. Slipped off my arm somewhere amongst the unpredictable ebb and flow of the guests. Thankfully, she’s not so intoxicated that I’m worried I’ll find her half-asleep in a laundry hamper somewhere, but I am worried that she’s sniffed out trouble like a bloodhound.

I’m so stupid. I should’ve invited her. I wanted to, I did, but I didn’t want her thinking that I thought a party would be a prime place to spend time with her. I wasn’t even a hundred percent committed to coming tonight, but my teammates practically dragged me here by the scruff because they said they never see me anymore. That’s only half true, okay? They see me at hockey practices.

I admit that my mind has been…elsewhere…these past few weeks. It’s getting bad, folks. I’m stalking Lake on Instagram, I’m reading her newspaper articles, my subconscious is planting fast-growing seeds of obsession inside of me that want to strangle and choke me with thick, tuberous roots. The girl clings to me like goddamn cigarette smoke, and I’m beginning to love the smell too much.

I don’t know how much longer I can take the late-night spirals, the fitful dreams, the unmitigated desire to take her by the face and invade her mouth with my tongue in the most reprehensible way. I…Jesus—jerking off in the shower thinking about her has become as routine as my morning dose of caffeine.

My scruples have a hard time keeping me in check when it comes to her. I’m like Icarus flying too close to the sun, but the only difference between me and him is that I’d suffer through a lifetime of first-degree burns if it meant I could be close to Lake.

Heat-blasted with sweat rinsing down my neck, I finally find her staring at Buford Montgomery from a few feet away, as if her eyes alone could make the asshole spontaneously combust. A snarl twists her lips, and unfortunately for me, vengeance has never looked hotter. That skin-tight dress she’s wearing has been plucking the seams of my self-restraint, just waiting for me to burn this place to the ground if I don’t rip that fabric right off her body.

I’m but a powerless man.

When I follow her line of sight, I get a disgusting eyeful of Buford making out sloppily with some poor girl. Despite being stone-cold sober tonight, my stomach isn’t against the idea of rebelling my late lunch.

“She should know that he’s a lying, cheating piece of shit,” Lake growls, her incisors coruscating underneath the low light. She’s all animalistic vitriol, and I know I should probably be talking her down, but I honestly wouldn’t mind watching Buford get his ass kicked.

Scared that I’m about to be torn apart by a five-foot-seven, bloodthirsty huntress, I gently reach out to touch her arm, prepared to endure whatever long-winded tirade she has poised like an arrow’s fletching between expert fingers.

But it never comes.

Instead, she melts on contact, losing the magmatic fight that gives her that external, volatile glow. Her eyes are wide—lubricated with a thin sheen of tears from relief—and wounded with a pain that I could never understand.

“I know. Trust me, I want him to hurt for everything he’s done to you, but I don’t think your boss would like it if you compromised the articles.”

Lake palms her forehead with a groan. “Ugh, why do you have to make sober sense?”

“Look, if it’s any consolation, I’ll give him hell out on the ice, okay? I promise. That way you won’t get into trouble,” I say, feeling her cheek with the back of my hand as discreetly as possible. She’s warm. Febrile.

I’m really not looking to stay at this party long. I need to get Lake out of here before she contracts some airborne disease or runs into another imbecile who deserves a belated circumcision with a pair of kitchen scissors.

“You always take good care of me,” she whispers under her citrus-tinged breath, listing into my body as all fight evaporates into the air, merging with the miasma of alcohol, body odor, and the nauseating stench of sex.

I bristle. “Do you want me to…not…take care of you?”

I never asked her if she was okay with me playing bodyguard. I know she’s capable of taking care of herself, but she shouldn’t have to. At least, not all the time. It’s my default setting. I show people I care by protecting them—shouldering their burdens.

Lake shakes her head frantically, enough to give her poor neck whiplash. “No! No, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I like being taken care of, but you can’t tell sober Lake I told you, okay? It’s a secret.”

A smile clips my mouth, and I pat down a few of her flyaways. She glances up at me through hooded eyes, clinging to my body as if it’s the only buoy in the ocean, a dazed grin adorning those hot-to-the-touch cheeks of hers.

“I promise I won’t tell her,” I swear.

“She really likes you, you know? Wanted you to—hic—kiss her at the protest.”

For the first time since I met her, my nerves take a much-needed break from tormenting me, and I have to fight every atom that’s telling me to kiss her while she’s halfway into the stratosphere.