Laced Steel: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Steel Crew Book 3) by MJ Fields

Author:MJ Fields [Fields, MJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blue Valley Publishing
Published: 2020-06-30T23:00:00+00:00

“Jesus, do these people ever let you park less than a mile away?” I grumble.

“I’d offer to give you a piggyback ride, but we’d probably make The Sound tomorrow,” Patrick says with a slight laugh.

“You can give me one.” Max hops on his back without warning, and Patrick almost falls.

“Get your boney ass off me,” he jokes.

“Chill, Max,” Amias grumbles.

“Leave him alone.” Brisa elbows Amias. “Superstar.”

“That’s fucking right, and since JT decided to hang back, that superstar status is gonna gain me some extra lovin’ tonight.”

“Better chill yourself, man.” Max turns, walking backward, and points at Amias. “You know which one of us is gonna get the most attention.”

“Turn around, smart ass, before you end up busting your ass and walking in there looking like you shit your pants,” Patrick says, looking down at his phone for the hundredth time.

“She’s not coming, man,” Amias pokes fun at Patrick.

“Who?” Max asks.

“Mind your business, both of you.” Patrick nods toward the house now coming into view.

“Holy shit,” Brisa gasps.

“Next level bouj right there,” Max quips.

“He’s right. If our homes are considered mansions, Gabrielle’s is a castle,” Tris says with a hint of awe in her voice.

Patrick chuckles. “Three of our houses could fit inside that bitch.”

And here I am in a skater dress. I laugh at myself, and not in the funny ha-ha way either.

“Who gives a shit?” Amias shrugs. “Certainly hasn’t made her a happier human. I bet her snatch has frostbite.”

Amias is clearly high on a high school baseball win right now, because it is very uncharacteristic of him to talk shit about females.

“Ew, Amias, gross.” Brisa cringes.

“She’s a cunt—we get it—but, dude, if Dad heard you say that shit …” Tris tsks.

“Not thinking cunt would go over well either,” Amias says smugly.

Amias and Max walk in first. Patrick stays behind us.

The place is packed. There seriously must be at least two hundred people here, and I’m happy to see that we aren’t underdressed. Not to say we are overdressed, but it’s not as bad as after the game in the parking lot.

Everything I’ve ever imagined about a stereotypical college frat party is playing out in front of me. Loud music, packed rooms, kegs and people cheering others on to “Chug, chug, chug.” But the fact it’s going on inside of this home is almost shocking. The contrast of the party and my lavish surroundings causes me to pause.

Looking up, I see an open foyer to the two-story ceilings, where South America is painted in beautiful earth tones and one country in gold. I wish I paid more attention during geography.

“It’s Colombia,” comes from behind me.

I turn and see Gabrielle in a gold-toned dress and shoes I would die to wear right now.

“My parents moved from Colombia to the United States before I was born.”

“Your home is”—I pause and look around, somehow managing to catch one of the ball players throwing up in a vase that looks incredibly expensive—“getting trashed.”

She looks around and nods to a very big, somewhat familiar looking guy who walks over to puking boy, grabs him under the arms, and drags him toward the door.

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