An old man with a paperboy cap turned his wrinkled head toward me. “The fare is two hundred and seventy-six dollars.” He’d pointed at the meter attached to the dash.
“What are you talking about?” I’d said just as a tap came from outside the window.
It was Coach Samuels in a bathrobe and slippers, eating a banana and holding the Saturday paper. When I looked up at his face, his fangs were out, and he was looking to murder someone.
“Lock the door!” I’d yelled at the cabbie right as Coach reached for the handle and pulled it open. He said nothing, which was more terrifying than him yelling or screaming or punching.
Resigned to get out of the cab, I told the driver, “I’m not paying you. What the hell are you thinking letting me sleep in a cab all night, just sitting outside my house?”
Then I’d looked past Coach, and the realization hit me. I was no longer in the city.
I was in the country.
I peeked at the mailbox off to the side of the road. There was a giant crucifix painted on its white side, and the words below it read: Samuels Family: Blessed Are Those Who Deliver Mail.
“I picked you and your girlfriend up at Nirvana at four AM,” the cabbie said, checking his watch against the meter. “You fell asleep, and she said you only really sleep well in cars, so If I didn’t have any more fares, could I drive around the city for a couple hours.”
He took a long look at my glittery face and shook his head. “An hour ago, she asked me to drop her off at her dorm, then take you to this address where your dad would hop out and wake you up. She said if it was anyone else, you’d get startled and pee your pants, and I didn’t want to risk the pleather with a urine spill.”
I remembered the back of my neck was on fire because I’d rubbed my hand down it trying to fizzle out the flames.
“I’m not paying you a goddamn cent,” I’d growled, recognizing my efforts were useless and all my cervical vertebrae were now a pile of ash against the headrest.
“Here.” The driver handed me a credit card. My dad’s “emergencies only” credit card. “She said you might get crazy when you wake because you’re an alcoholic and you black out a lot. She dug this out of your wallet for you and handed it to me. I already ran it.”
Coach was huffing next to me by now, overhearing our interaction. “Get the hell out of the cab, Peters.”
When the cab zipped down that gravel driveway, so did a piece of my dignity. Before I could run—and I had no idea where I was—Coach grabbed me by my apparently massive ear and twisted, pulling me up his driveway.
I spent the next twenty-five minutes lectured by Coach, but really, only bits and pieces made it into my head as I answered question after question. Dammit, Peters, we leave for an away game in one hour and you’re out at a club all night? Do you want to lose your scholarship and chances for the NFL? Who the hell is this girl? Porter’s sister? I don’t care if she has a nice ass, you idiot… The rest of my brain was trying to piece the night back together, figuring out where it all went south.
“Your phone,” Chance yelled, smacking me in the arm. “Your phone’s buzzing across the bus floorboards, space case.”
It was bouncing around and slid under Fernando’s seat. He stopped it from moving farther with one of his stinky-socked feet.
Bitch: Just wanted to be sure you arrived at Coach Samuels’s house in one piece. And FYI, my wrists would never be within ten centimeters of a Justin Bieber CD. XOXO… Bitch.
Chapter Twenty-One
Not one minute after I sent that text did that arrogant prick write back.
Peters: I’M TAKING REALLY DEEP BREATHS RIGHT NOW, SYDNEY, TRYING TO KEEP MYSELF FROM RUSHING UP THE BUS AISLE AND POUNDING JACK.
Syd: Leave my brother alone. This is on you, Peters.
I’m sure you’ve heard Peters’s side of the story by now. Well, here’s the real one.
We were having fun. Like pretty damn close to the best night of my life kind of fun. Peters was letting loose (FYI: he’s a terrible dancer). He would just sort of shuffle around and stomp on my feet.
We had three more drinks after the close encounter in the DJ booth: two test tubes and a shot of Fireball. Within an hour, I’d managed to collect a dozen glow necklaces and catch a red thong midair that some hairy guy with a huge package ripped off his body. Don’t fret—hands were washed in boiling water.
After an hour, Peters was getting all sensitive and awkward. Every time I bumped into him, he’d jump away, dart his eyes around like a nervous rat, and straighten his shirt over his pants.
“You look like you have to pee, Peters,” I screamed up in his face, continuing to dance around him. I pointed to a Men’s Restroom sign hung above a door in the corner. “Over there. It’s over there.”
He nodded. “Be back in five. Do not move.” He started to run through the crowd, covering his crotch.
While he was in there probably having sword fights with other guys, I ran over to the coat check. I’d left my bag up there and wanted to grab some more cash from my wallet.
“Got your number?” the zombie behind the desk croaked out.
She wasn’t an actual zombie, just looked like she was about to pass out on the pile of fake fur coats lying behind her. After all, it was past two in the morning now. I handed her the slip marked “23” and glanced back toward the bathroom doors, wondering what was taking Peters so long.
“Here,” she grunted, slamming my bag down on the chipped wooden counter. Then she walked away, grabbed a self-help book, and sat in the corner.
I checked the contents of my bag. Everything was present and accounted for, but when I grabbed another twenty from my wallet, my phone lit up, blinding my eyes.
Allison: Oh my God, Syd. Had so much fun tonight. I’ve never felt more alive. My body’s on fire still and it’s almost 2:30.
I was about to scratch my eyeballs out of my skull. Why was she telling me this?
Syd: Gross.
Allison: What? Your music was awesome. That club is fun.
Syd: Oh, okay. Sorry. Is Jack there?
Allison: No, why? Peters told him to drop Katharine and me off at Kappa Delta.
Syd: What do you mean?
I glanced over to the bathroom. No sign of Peters.
Allison: They have an away game tomorrow. Don’t you keep track of these things?
No, I couldn’t give a crap about football. I just wanted Jack’s millions.
Allison: Katharine was pissssseeddd!
Syd: Why?
Allison: She wanted Peters to take her home, but he told her he had to go get some pound cake? I didn’t even know bakeries were open at midnight. Yummm, that sounds good though. Hope you’re having fun with Nick. I’ll be home in the morning to dish about your date. Katharine’s got me sleeping on the floor of the kitchen… I think she’s warming up to me.
Then she sent a string of heart and smiley face emojis along with a selfie of her head lying on a piece of cardboard next to a gas range oven. Her blond hair spread out along the dingy tile floor, and she had a huge grin on her face.
I would have laughed if my throat hadn’t closed up and my body hadn’t tried to swallow itself whole.
“Hey!” Peters’s voice took me by surprise, and I dropped my phone. It hit the floor with a thud, and the battery ejected from the back, clattering into a dingy corner.
“Crap, sorry.” He bent down to gather it, and a vision of me snapping his neck with the ease of a professional hit man crossed my mind.