Mills: Okay. First—calm down before you get arrested. Second—answer your FaceTime.
I hit the button on my screen, immediately dropping my head back, my eyes hitting the ceiling as my sister and Millie speak simultaneously.
But I can’t even focus on what they’re saying because my head’s about to explode. I’m so pissed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were supposed to get married, then divorced. The latter being the most important part of that sentence. But now I’m fucking collateral damage because of some dumbass football vendetta.
Fuck.
Alcohol is bad. So. So. Bad.
“Shit, what are you going to tell Mom and Dad?” Samantha mutters from the little box her face is in.
“Who cares! That’s the least of my worries right now, Sami. What am I going to do about all my clients at the salon? I’m going to lose them when I tell them I won’t be back for a month. I can’t leave the fucking city limits. And that’s not exactly ideal when you’re about to start your own fucking salon.”
Millie’s shaking her head as she cuts in.
“I won’t let that happen. I’ll explain or make shit up to keep them. Listen, if you have to come back and live out your days with everyone thinking you single-handedly saved the world on the president’s command after you met a secret service detail in Vegas, bitch, so be it. You won’t get fired, and our salon will not fail. I have zero problems lying for a good reason. And what’s better than for a best friend?”
My shoulders start their descent down from my ears, a tiny bit relieved. I trust that Millie will hold it down for me. Plus, I’d kept my July light client-wise so I could focus on starting our own thing. But this is still the most fucked situation.
I’m still frowning as I glance at Crew. He’s been talking a mile a minute about ten feet away on his phone, arms flying in every direction. Clearly, he’s just as mad as I am. Which is rich since this is all his fault.
As if on cue, I hear him say, “This is a fucking disaster. I’m stuck with a girl I picked up at a goddamn nightclub because the good ole boys club is real. The owner can kiss my ass, and so can that judge. They’re literally trying to ruin my life using last night’s pussy.”
My eyes narrow. Using my pussy? Is he serious? Dick. How about using your stupid fucking temper tantrum because you lost a dumbass game nobody but a bunch of old dudes cares about. In fact, this unholy matrimony consequence is everyone’s fault but mine and my pussy’s.
All I did was marry some dude who grown-ass men would let spit on them, just so they can tell their friends about it. The penalty for that is a next-day divorce and some ribbing from your friends—not sanctioned corrupt-ass revenge.
Again, I say…I hate football. I’m banning it from my vocabulary. I won’t even read about it anymore. From now on, I’m only reading hockey romance.
I’ll take those toothless, ice-skating yahoos over lame-ass quarterbacks any day. Or those linebacker guys with the thighs that could crush steel. I mean, nobody loves those football pics where they’re always wearing half shirts showing off their sweaty abs, holding balls and putting those veiny arms on display. The ones that could probably never tire of holding me up against the wall while I was basically getting fucked through it—goddammit.
I give my head a tiny shake, trying to ward off my traitorous thoughts. But my pussy is literally an enemy of the state. The state being my anger.
He was just blaming you, you dumb bitch.
My sister saves me from my thoughts as she chimes in.
“Okay. We’re not freaking out. We’re here now. And there’s nothing you can do about this. Everything will be okay. We’ll work it out. Okay?” I’m staring into the phone, nodding, knowing she can see my worry, but she does the one thing only a big sister can do—states the obvious, then pivots. “I second what Millie said, Elliebelly. We got your back…but only because you’re a dumbass and couldn’t help but lie on it.” A grin grows on her face. “If you think I’m ever letting you live this down…wrong. Dead wrong. This will be like when you found out that I inadvertently named the hamster in my eighth-grade science class Queef because I didn’t know what it meant.”
Millie’s mouth drops open as she laughs, and Sami smiles. I know what she’s doing…trying to pull me into the bright side. But I’m not going, half shrugging and digging in my heels as she continues.
“Remember that? You took out a whole page dedicated to Queef in the back of my senior yearbook with the title ‘Never forget how far you’ve come.’”
I chuckle. I can’t help it—that was my best troll work to date. But I don’t want to laugh. I want to be angry. Very angry. Living in the feeling until I morph into my villain era. An airy breath drags from my lungs just as my eyes tick back to Crew.
“What are you looking at?”
I whisper my answers back to my sister, half under my breath.
“Him. He’s mad.”
I flip the camera, letting them see him pacing as he runs his hand through his hair, half facing us as he talks on the phone. His head falls back for a brief second as he lets out an irritated groan before he grips the back of his neck. If I didn’t currently dislike him so much, I would think it was sexy.
I bring the screen back to me, rolling my eyes. “He has some fucking nerve acting like he’s a victim. This could’ve all been avoided if he wasn’t a dick to the owner and did a whole underhanded trade thing…I don’t know. All I do know is that if I ever hear a man make fun of a woman for loving Harry Styles or anything, for that matter…I am going to out them for the fangirls they are. My life is being ruined because this judge is the equivalent of a Swiftie. The Raiders are basically his Taylor, and I’m paying the price for Crew’s betrayal.”
“Yeah, that judge is a real antihero…” Mills throws out, making my sister smile before she answers in the exact way I knew one of them would the moment I made a fucking Taylor Swift comparison.
Here we go. They’re always like this together. I’m already shaking my head, but there’s no hope that they’ll listen.
“You’d think he’d be more understanding of their love story.”
Millie laughs harder as she piggybacks off my sister.
“Right, but he was basically ‘You’re on your own, kid.’”
Samantha’s almost wheezing as she answers.
“Exactly, it’s not like she was the mastermind either.”
Millie’s picture is shaking, probably because she’s smacking the bed she’s lying in as she laughs harder.
“He knew all too well she wasn’t. But ruining Crew’s reputation was better than revenge.”
Samantha can’t even speak—neither of them can as they say three words, then stop in a fit of laughter before a few more words come out.
“I bet our girl… I bet our girl was wishing…wishing she was… in a lavender haze.” They’re laughing so hard you can’t hear them making any sound anymore.
I hate them. I roll my eyes, trying not to smile. Trying really hard. Whatever. I drop my phone down by my side, letting out a harsh breath and shaking my head before I lift it and hiss at them.