Not a second later, I was leaning against the wall next to her. She was cute. She’d had my attention from the first ten seconds she walked into our building, duffle bag slung over her shoulder. I’d tried to make small talk, which didn’t amuse her at all, and when I asked to take it upstairs for her, she responded with a low growl and rushed past me toward the elevators.
It was lust at first sight. For me anyway.
“How do you like Northern so far?” I screamed over the music, and she shut her eyes tight, taking in the impact from my booming voice. “You like it here? Did you see the cafeteria? It has all the yogurts girls like.”
“Lactose intolerant,” she responded, rubbing her hands over her stomach. “You should see me after one bite of ice cream. It’s like the Fourth of July down there, only more explosive and less colorful.”
I slammed my mouth shut and looked down to where she was rubbing.
She laughed. “I’m just messing with you. Northern’s okay. I might transfer next semester. They have a good communications program.”
I relaxed and leaned back along the wall. “So you’re not in high school?”
She shook her head. “I’m at my hometown community college. Got in some trouble over the summer so I couldn’t make it out here. Had to work off my debt.”
“What happened?”
“I stole a car.” It rolled off her tongue like it was a normal everyday occurrence. “So anyway, community college for me.”
She shrugged and took a drink of Jungle Juice. “This is awful. Got anything stronger and less likely to eat a hole through my stomach lining?”
“Whiskey, but it’s in my room. My brother gave it to me. I’m only supposed to drink a shot after Northern wins a football game. It’s top shelf.”
She nodded and pulled her hair off her shoulder. A tattoo of a guitar fret board lay against the back of her neck, blending in with her fine hairs. “Okay, then. Jungle Juice it is.” She lifted the cup for a sip and started to turn away from me, but I grabbed her arm.
“One shot would be okay. Just can’t let anyone know I have it. I don’t need a three AM dorm raid.” I drew in a breath, watching her pursed ruby lips drift up to a smile.
Then she shook her head. “I shouldn’t go back to any dorm rooms.”
“What if I leave the door open?” I released her arm and nodded toward the hallway. “I promise nothing will happen. Just two comrades taking a shot together.”
“Comrades?” She shook her head but stopped, pinning me with those smooth chocolate-colored eyes. “Fine. Door open, though.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ever heard the joke about the DJ who walked into the doghouse?
No?
Well, you’re about to, and I’m sure the punch line will be spectacular.
Allison paced the sidewalk. “What if they kick us out, Sydney? Katharine’s in there.” Hitting a pothole hidden in the darkness, she tumbled forward, and I grabbed her arm to keep her steady.
“Pledges aren’t allowed in the doghouse. Her rules. What if she sees me? Oh my God.”
“I thought you were in already, Allison? Rush has been over for a week.”
Releasing her arm, I studied the house. Horrible music—for shame, Peters—oozed from the every surface of the sprawling Craftsman bachelor pad. Wicker furniture sat on the wide front porch, fenced in by sturdy white columns. It all looked inviting, but I was certain under black light that scratchy wicker would be dirtier than brothel upholstery.
“Not for me, Sydney… Katharine said I’m on probation.”
I frowned, thinking about how to get my hands on a copy of those Greek bylaws. “Allison, relax. We look like total sluts.” I pulled down my dress, which I swear was made of plastic wrap. “They would be total losers to kick us out, even if Katharine puts up a fight.”
“What if she kicks me out, Syd?” Allison started to walk up the street toward my truck. “We need to go. Let’s go.”
“Allison,” I whisper-yelled at her back. “Get your scrawny ass back here right now. What about Jack?”
After a dramatic freeze in the moonlight, Allison twisted around and walked back. She looked up at the house just as a couple girls stumbled through the doors, giggling and hanging on one another. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me up the porch steps.
We entered the living room, and it was packed. You could barely walk, which could be viewed as a blessing or a curse. You could blend in, but no speedy getaways if Peters or Katharine saw us.
“I can fit through there,” Allison whispered in my ear, pointing to a three-inch crevice between two groups of people. “You can’t.” Remind me to punch her in the throat later. “I’ll go see if I can find Jack. You stay in here in case he comes by.”
I nodded and leaned against the wall.
“Here, Syd.” She grabbed an unopened beer off the console table near the door. “Drink something or you’ll look out of place. Don’t make eye contact with anyone, especially Katharine.”
I nodded again as Allison’s bones were reduced to rubber and she easily slid through the narrow crack. This would have been resolved already if Jack were talking to me. My last message from him was about Peters’s wishes for a slow, painful death by Bieber.
It didn’t matter anymore. Tomorrow, Sunday Lane, Sydney Porter, would be front-page news. I’d have to move out of state, lose my summer dream job, and end up being the events coordinator at a local nursing home. I’d play oldies until five PM and then wheel them one by one back to their rooms, reminding them to take their meds. Finally, I’d go back to my low-rent studio apartment, eat a bowl of Top Ramen, and pet my seven cats.
Yes, I had it all planned out.
A minute later, I felt the heat from a heavy stare and looked up. Peters was opposite the room, and his stare locked on me like a laser beam slashing through the crowd. He was taking slow and steady breaths and his jaw clenched tightly on each inhale. I couldn’t read his expression, but I knew it wasn’t rage. I’d seen it once before.
Two years earlier…
“Are you a wizard? Why do you have an entire shoe box full of stones and crystals?”
Peters grabbed the lid from my hands and replaced it over the box. “My mother sends them to me. It’s kind of her thing.”
Sitting on the bed opposite his, I slipped off my shoes and lay down. “Do you have a roommate?”
“I lucked out this year,” he answered, eyes roaming over my horizontal frame. “I wasn’t assigned one, so I get both beds.”
“I’d push them together and make a full-size,” I said, flipping on my side.
I propped my elbow on the pillow and held up my head. “That way when you’re done banging chicks, you can just nudge them over to the other twin, push it across the room, and be like, ‘Thanks… but I like to sleep alone. Football players don’t cuddle. It obstructs blood flow to our extremities. We need to be in top form when our asses are getting kicked on the field.’”
He cracked a smile and reached under his bed, producing a bottle of Jameson. “Ha-ha. That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that next time.”
He stared at me for a minute, trying to get a grip on what I’d just said. What? I was just a girl helping him plot his moves with other girls.
I sat up as his trembling hand poured whiskey into two plastic cups. Handing one to me, he waited for a cheers before taking our first sip.
“To new comrades,” he announced as we clinked plastic and took a sip. “You haven’t asked for my name.”
“I know your name. It’s Gray Peters. Who doesn’t know your name… little prince?” I joked, and his flushed cheeks rose to an embarrassing smile. “I’m just joking. I read it on your dorm door, and since you’re the only one in here, I deduced you are the famous Gray Peters.”