"Laugh when I say so," the Love Guru whispers in my ear.

With a determined nod, I bottle up my feelings in a huge jar and let my infuriating best friend pot one more striped ball. The arrogance in Ollie's eyes never shines brighter as he aligns his cue stick for his third shot—and my annoyance level almost blasts through the roof.

Right when Ollie's about to deliver the stroke, Ryan says, "Now."

My fury for Ollie bursts out in a fake guffaw, one that makes Ryan and almost everyone around us flinch and snap their head in my direction.

Oops. I bounce on my feet and raise my shoulder, embarrassed. Through a sheepish grin, I ask the man standing beside me, "Too much?"

Ryan suppresses a chuckle and shakes his head.

As we redirect our gaze to the pool table, the cue ball bumps the 13-ball. But Ollie's shot is too weak. The orange-striped ball stops a few inches away from the right corner pocket he's aiming.

"Dammit," Ollie mutters.

It's showtime.

Biting back a grin, I tip on my toes and plant a quick good-luck kiss on Ryan's cheek. In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of smoke coming out of Ollie's nose.

That's right, Mr. Dumpy. Eat your heart out.

As Ryan strides over to the pool table with a confident smile, I clap my hands like a cheerleader. "Go get 'em, Stud Muffin!"

Ollie grits his teeth and looks away, and I have to clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from cackling like an evil witch. Nevertheless, a tiny alarm bell rings in my head when he brings his glass to his lips.

Have I pushed him too far?

Although Ollie has a high alcohol tolerance and this is just his second—or maybe third—glass, he still has to drive home after this. The last thing I want is for him to end up in an accident, or worse, kill someone.

That's right, folks. Drunk driving is not cool. Never, ever, drink when you're about to drive.

Ollie knows better than to do such a reckless thing. And when I orchestrated this whole scheme to invoke his jealousy, I thought he would only be stuck in an eating frenzy like he always does when he's stressed out.

But what if I've crossed the line?

A surge of anxiety swirls in my stomach. I consider pulling the emergency brake and letting the game run its course, but my mind reminds me of the bet.

If Ryan loses, then he'll be humiliated in front of the crowd tonight—and I won't allow that to happen.

Ryan is here because he's trying to help me get out of The Sister Zone. And we wouldn't be in this situation if it wasn't for my infuriating best friend. The devil in me whispers that Ollie deserves this punishment for making me go through this misery, and I brush my wariness aside.

Screw it. I'll just call a cab for him.

Two excellent shots later, all Ryan needs to win the game is to pocket the 4-ball and the 8-ball.

The confidence in Ollie's eyes is replaced with growing anxiety, and he starts biting his fingernails—something he only does when he's extremely nervous.

As Ryan aims his cue at the last solid ball, Ollie's lips move in silence as if he's chanting a spell. He must've made a deal with the devil, for his bad mojo works. The violet ball hurls toward the side pocket, but it hits the side rail and bounces back to the center of the table.

As disappointment flits across Ryan's face, Ollie swaggers to the table with a triumphant smirk that sends a burning rage pulsating in my chest.

"It's okay, Stud Muffin! You've done amazing!" I plaster an encouraging smile on my face and clap my hands as hard as I can. As Ryan stops next to me, I keep my eyes on the table and whisper to him, "We gotta do something, Ry. We can't let him win."

Three striped balls are left on the playfield, and judging from their positions, it wouldn't be too hard for Ollie to sweep the table. Anxiety buzzes along my nerves, and the muscles in my shoulders tighten.

Shoot. What if he wins?

As I fidget in place and chew my lips, a pair of hands settle on my shoulders from behind. All my senses go on high alert. I whip my head around to face my would-be assailant and hold my hands up in a fighting stance. Narrowing my eyes in suspicion, I hiss, "What are you doing?"

Ryan gestures at Ollie. "Trying to make him jealous."

"Oh." A hot flush of embarrassment floods my face, and I offer him an apologetic grin.

With an amused chuckle, he shifts his eyes from the hands resting on my shoulders to my face. "May I?"

"Yeah." It requires a whole lot of energy to resist the urge to wriggle yet again, but I manage to stay still. "Do what you gotta do to crush that jerk into a bowl of mashed potatoes."

Holding back a laugh, Ryan starts massaging my shoulders. I have to fight the urgent need to writhe and twist under his gentle touch, but after a few seconds, my tensed muscles begin to relax.

Wow. Ryan is an amazing masseuse! Maybe he should open a massage parlor after this.

Ooh, I know! He should offer free massages for Lovejoy's loyal customers! I set my mouth in a determined line and nod to myself. Yep, I definitely should write that the next time he asks me to fill out a question—

Wait, wait. Focus, Vanessa. Focus.

As the tension flows away from my system, my eyes are drawn back to the man standing with his back to me. Ollie's new pair of jeans hugs his muscular thighs like a glove and shows off his perfect derrière—and the sight causes my pulse to pick up its pace again.

Focus, Vanessa. Focus!

I put on a carefree smile and hum in pleasure, loud enough for Ollie to hear it. But my effort proves to be fruitless since he doesn't even glance at me.

He draws back his cue and gives the cue ball a bump with a gentle stroke. I stand on the tip of my toes and peek over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the table. The white ball strikes the blue-striped ball, knocking it into a nearby side pocket before stopping in the perfect location for Ollie's next shot.

"Oh, no. It's not working." My voice trembles with nervousness. "What should we do now?"

Ryan pulls his mouth into a hard line, his forehead creased in deep thought. "You're not going to like this, but we should make out."

"What? No!" I squeak in protest. My loud voice gains the attention of Ollie and Emilia, and I flash them an awkward grin. Tilting my head up to look at Ryan, I whisper, "How about a kiss on the cheek?"

Hesitation crosses Ryan's face, yet after a short while, he complies with my request. Flinging his arm around my neck from behind, he bends to whisper in my ear, "Pretend I'm saying something sexy, okay?"

"Got it." I run my hands up and down the lean muscles of his arm and feign a giggle. "Oh, stop it, Stud Muffin! You're making me blush! We can't do that here. We're in public!"

Frustration and anger burn in Ollie's eyes as he reaches for his drink. He drops his gaze to the table, hiding his expression from me, and scans the balls for his next move, but his fingers tighten around his glass.

The alarm bell in my head rings louder when he takes another sip of his drink.

Have I gone too far?

Ollie staggers around the table toward the cue ball before setting the half-empty glass on the side rail near him. The thought that he's drunk gnaws at my mind, and my concern for his well-being rises again.

Should I just stop—

Ryan plants a long kiss on my left cheek, and I'm snapped back to my senses. No. You can't stop now, Vanessa. You've gone this far. You can just call him a cab later. It's no big deal.

I imagine Ollie is the one hugging me and kissing me, and warmth spreads from my cheek to my chest. My eyes fall shut, and a genuine beam of satisfaction spreads across my face. As Ryan's lips leave my skin, I open my eyes and see Ollie delivering a powerful stroke of his cue stick.

Too powerful.

A grin works its way to my mouth as the white ball sends the burgundy ball ricocheting against one side rail to another. I'm about to give him my loudest mocking laughter when—to my utter shock—the 15-ball enters the right corner pocket with a dull thud. The cue ball spins in place, and Ollie heaves a relieved sigh.

Dammit. How was that even possible?

Ollie is one ball away from winning, the last remaining obstacle being the solid ball right in the middle of the cue ball and the 8-ball. It's quite a difficult situation, but not impossible. Ollie just needs to perform a perfect jump shot—which I know firsthand he's capable of doing.

Yes. That show-off did the exact same trick three years ago when he hustled me into singing his favorite song on stage.

Panic lights my nerve endings on fire as Ollie elevates the back of his cue stick, pointing it down at a steep angle.

"We have to do something, Ry." My shaky hand grips Ryan's shirt sleeve in panic. "We have to do something!"

Ryan's previous suggestion crosses my mind, but I quickly kick the idea far, far away from my head. The last thing I want is for Ryan to be humiliated in front of the whole bar, but making out with him in front of Ollie would be far too cruel for the latter.

"Don't panic, okay?" Ryan says. "I'm gonna do something."

"O-okay."

Wrapping his arm around my waist, Ryan bends down and brings his lips closer to my ear. The hair at the back of my neck bristles as he stops less than an inch away from my earlobe. His lips almost graze my skin, and it sends shivers running across my skin—no, not the good kind.

What is he doing? He's not going to bite my ear off, is he?

While I muster every ounce of energy not to shudder, my frustrating best friend steals a glance at us. In a smooth move, Ryan turns his head slightly so that Ollie can't get a clear look at what he's doing to me.

Ryan's warm breath brushes my cheeks and tickles my ear when he whispers, "Don't hold your laugh."

"What—"

A mixture of a shriek and a gasp escapes me as Ryan's fingers begin tickling my waist. A fit of giggles flies out of my mouth. One of my hands instinctively grips his arm while the other shoots up to cover my mouth. "Ry, what are you—Ry—you're tickling—"

"Shh. Don't hold it." Ryan's prodding fingers continue tickling up and down my back, and bursts of unstoppable, loud giggles erupt from my belly. As he moves his hand up to the nape of my neck, tears spill out of my eyes and cloud my vision.

Still, the dark flush of jealousy across Ollie's face is as clear as daylight.

"Okay, okay, it's working," I splutter between choked sobs of laughter, my body shaking uncontrollably. "Don't stop. Don't stop."

"Yes, ma'am," Ryan replies.

As my cackles grow louder and out of control, Ollie clenches his jaw and tries to focus his attention on the game. He's about to take his shot when Ryan pulls my sweater down my arm to reveal a little more of my skin and trails his mouth down my neck to my shoulder.

Although Ryan's keeping a safe, two-inch distance from my bare skin, it must've looked different to Ollie. His chest heaves up and down, his face becomes bright red with rage, and smoke billows out of his nose and ears like a choo choo train.

Yes! This is working!

Wrapping up my revenge in a giant, sparkly bow, I whack Ryan's arm playfully. "Stud Muffin, stop it! People are watching!"

Everything seems to be moving in slow-motion as Ollie unleashes his wrath on the pool table and shoots his stick down the center of the cue ball with an all-too-powerful force. The cue ball jumps right off the table surface and flies into the air.

My heart thumps in my ears as I hold my breath and fold my hands. Please don't win. Please don't win. Please don't win . . .

Now, people say be careful what you wish for. To be honest, I never heed that warning.

Until now.

The cue ball smacks Ollie in his left eye with a loud thump, and I gasp in horror.

"Fuck!" Ollie screams in pain, his hand flying up to his left eye as the cue ball falls back onto the table.

Although Ollie has always wanted to star in his own horror movie—and come out as the last man standing—I doubt he'll enjoy this one. Hell, he's probably regretting the day he was born right this very second.

Because I swear what happens next looks like a scene straight out of a Final Destination movie.

While Ryan and I remain frozen in shock, Ollie sways side to side and struggles to stand straight. Trying his best to regain his balance, he stretches out a hand to hold onto the side rail. Yet to my horror, his hand accidentally knocks over his drink. The loud smash of the glass breaking echoes through the bar, and a puddle of scotch spreads across the floor.

My eyes go wide as he steps into the puddle. "Ol, watch—"

His foot slips on the slick floor, and gravity pulls him backward. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

He flails his arms frantically and reaches for the pool table to keep from falling, but he trips over his leg. His body plunges forward and his forehead thuds against the edge of the pool table, causing me to wince.

I want to rush to his side and help him. I try to, I swear. But my whole body remains as stiff as a statue as Ollie groans in pain and totters backward.

His body staggers around . . . and around . . . and around . . . until the back of his head hits the wall column. With a loud thump, he tumbles face-first to the ground.

Horror washes over me as blood seeps out of Ollie's head, mixed with the puddle of alcohol on the floor.

Oh my God . . . Did I just . . . kill my best friend?

Author's Note:

So, did you see the ending coming? xD

Anyway, after every chaos, there are always those fluffy #MrDumpyAndMissMochi moments. Are you excited?

Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you do, please show some support by tapping that little star button. Thank you for reading! :)