When the music rose to a sharp crescendo, so did my panting, right into the mic. It was hard to believe this six-foot-two behemoth could deliver such a delicate touch, but I didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. My body had a memory of its own.
“Should I stop?” he whispered into my ear.
“Yes, stop,” I whispered, rolling my neck to the side to allow him full access.
He chuckled as he dove into my neck and rubbed between my legs again. I was breathing heavily, not caring if the microphone was in front of me. It was rhythmic and it didn’t clash with the music; it enhanced it. Husky breathing every second beat. I could feel the swell building and my muscles starting to tighten as he sucked on the back of my neck, hungrily groaning into my skin.
“Whoa, that’s more action than this balcony has seen in a long time.” Bently’s voice came from nowhere, and Peters jerked away his body like I was poison. “Seriously, DJ Sinister, you can come back here whenever you want.” Bently laughed, pulling his beer up for a swig.
Scanning the balcony for the nearest exit, I realized I would have to pass both of them before getting to the stairs. I had a what-the-hell-did-I-just-do look on my face, and when I glanced at Peters, it was on his, too.
Before I could brush past them, Bently grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the booth. “Be cool, shorty,” he whispered into my ear, and I closed my eyes. “Play it off. No one cares. Open your eyes and take your bow.” I opened them to the masses below.
People were drinking and laughing and making out and dancing.
No one cared about the DJ and QB, arch nemeses, standing up on the balcony, about to get as intimate as lovers. They didn’t know us, and we didn’t know them. If there ever was a place for judgment to lapse with Gray Peters, it should be in the safe embrace of five hundred lunatics.
“DJ SIIINNNESTEEERR!” Bently screamed into the microphone, to which the crowd lost their shit. Most likely because the good DJ was back.
Bently nodded at Peters, and before I knew it, I was pulled away. We made our way down the stairs and pushed through the masked mob. Several people slapped me on the back, spewing out accolades to DJ Sinister, but Sydney Porter was about to enter cardiac arrest. When we passed by a dark hallway, Peters jerked my arm back and dragged me into obscurity.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you up there. Too much booze I guess.” Peters raked a hand through his now drenched hair. “Shit.”
“Nothing happened, Peters.” I honed in on his eyes so he understood the plan. “As far as I’m concerned, we were passengers on a crowded subway.”
“Passengers on the subway?” He smirked and looked down at the ground. His dark hair swung across his forehead, blocking my view of his face, and I brushed it to the side.
“Yes, you’d be the homeless guy with gout, riding the rails night after night, just trying to stay warm. I’d be the five-foot-ten supermodel who just got her big break. Then the subway hits a bump in the track and it goes dark. For seven minutes.”
Peters lifted his head, sporting an incredible grin. It was infectious, and my cheeks lifted, matching his smile. Just for tonight, his beaming face was all I wanted to see.
“And because I have the body mass of a praying mantis, I fall into your lap, turn around, and slap you across the face for getting ‘handsy’ with me.” Lifting my hand, I lightly smacked him across his cheek, and his grin grew wider. “Then I stand up, shake it off, and hop out at the next stop to meet my multi-platinum musician boyfriend.”
He closed his eyes and laughed. “So what do the homeless guy and the supermodel do now?” he said, leaning a hip against a flyer-covered wall.
I reached up and playfully tugged on his ears. “They dance!”
Chapter Twenty
Contrary to popular belief, Gray Peters is not rich.
My father, Hank Peters, is a history teacher at my old high school. He enjoys football, drinks Bud Light and builds miniature model WWII airplanes in the garage of our quaint yet respectable seventies-era ranch house. My mother, Della Peters, is a librarian at the local community college. She’s a firm believer in the healing power of crystals, plays guitar in a local folk band, and refuses to eat anything with a face.
Yes, I have a Porsche, and that throws off a lot of people. It was my grandfather’s car, and he left it to me when he passed. To say it’s special to me would be a gross understatement. So when some bitch turned it into a soggy taquería four weeks ago, you can imagine the burning rage that might inspire. That fury, that sudden passion for unbridled violence, was just a tenth of what I felt at this very moment.
“Christ, Peters.” Fernando shook his head and slumped down on the bench seat in front of me. “What happened?” He stole glances at the front of the bus, where Coach sat staring me down.
Coach was practically picking his teeth with his pocketknife, ruminating over how he was going to commit the perfect crime, murdering his QB. His face was as red as Elmo’s, but not cute and fluffy, more like sweat-laden and dangerously close to a full-on stroke.
“Coach has been staring at you like that all morning.” Fernando continued. Pulling off his shoes, he leaned against the window. “I thought I was going to get that look. One of those club kids put a video of me DJing on YouTube last night.”
Fernando drew in a sad, long breath. “Nine hundred hits by eight AM.” He pulled out his phone, tapping onto the screen. “Twelve hundred,” he said with a little too much excitement. “Twelve hundred hits. I’m a fucking YouTube star.”
“You’re a fucking moron.” Chance sat in the seat across from me, slamming his hand into a bag of Cheetos. “She got you good, Fernando. She’s hilarious.” He chuckled to himself. “Cute too, right, Peters?” He winked at me while tossing a Cheeto at my face.
I took a breath as the powdered orange stick bounced off my cheek.
“Sydney Porter is the ugliest, most vile person in the entire universe,” I bellowed. “I hope she slits her wrists on a Justin Bieber CD and bleeds out all over her DJ booth while a line of grade school children walk up to her and one by one spit on her hideous face.”
Half the team, including Jack, turned their heads at my announcement.
I narrowed my eyes on Jack, and he whipped his head around, cowering next to the assistant coach. No one talked to Jack. That was my message to the entire team when Coach and I arrived fifteen minutes late for the bus this morning.
That’s right. Coach and me. My new BFF.
After my night with Sydney Porter, I was ready to bury the hatchet and inch into her life. I wanted her. Badly. So much so I had to excuse myself after we’d been dancing for another hour just to take care of business in the bathroom. I know it’s dirty, but at the time, I was ready to grovel at her Converse-clad feet to just hold her hand.
Then this happened…
“Son, son, wake up. What the hell are you doing out here?”
My eyes shot open, and I rubbed my face. I was covered in glitter, and a piece got in my eye (gold pixie glitter). I cursed. Still in a daze, I realized I’d fallen asleep in a cab, wearing half a dozen glow-in-the-dark necklaces and a man’s red thong on my head.
As I scrambled to pull off the thong, I’d only made it worse. The crotch portion hit me across my eyes and then slid down my face. It moved past my nose, alerting me of its recent use, and stopped against my open mouth.
“Two hundred and seventy-six.” I heard a smoky growl from the front seat.
“What?” I’d finally flung off the thong, tossing it down on the floorboard.