“Gray?” A deep voice came from behind me, and I whipped around.
“Nick Sharbus? What the hell, man? You work here?”
Avoiding my question, he turned away from the bar and grabbed a glass. Pouring a micro-draft, he slid it across the counter toward me. Stoic as always, Nick didn’t say a word. He looked off into the crowd and tapped his thumb against the bar rail, admiring the beat.
“I wondered what happened to you. You just cut out of practice one day, and next thing we knew, you left the team. What’s up with that, asshole?”
I sized him up. He’d added more tats over the last year, but he still worked out judging by the cords of muscles ripping through his forearms.
“It’s complicated,” he said, grabbing a towel from behind the bar. “What are you doing in here?”
“Having a kegger tomorrow night. Borrowing a truck to pick up the kegs. You should come by. The guys think you’re dead or some shit.”
“SpaceRoom doesn’t have a truck,” he answered, pouring a beer for another patron. When he finished, he resumed his position at the bar rail.
I was about to mess with him some more when a small voice clipped through the speakers, “Taking a fiver.” Then a premixed beat started.
“That’s my cue.” I glanced over at Nick, and he eyed the water bottle in my hands. “It’s for DJ Sinister,” I said, making air quotations for effect. Such a ridiculous name. “She’s the one with the truck.”
Nick frowned. “You dating her?”
“No, her little brother’s on the team—took your position by the way. Plus, I hear she’s into girls.”
His eyes widened. “She is?”
I wagged my eyebrows suggestively and headed across the dance floor.
Sweat practically leapt off the bodies in the crowd, and I carefully wove past them to avoid contact. When I reached the booth, her head was low and she was flipping through a milk crate of vinyl records.
A large trucker hat, the kind with a solid front and meshed back, hid her face, but I could see she wasn’t blond and tall. She was brunette and petite.
A tattoo of a piano keyboard ran down the underside of her forearm. It was an electronic piano, like the kind you learn on when you’re a kid, and she had on a bulky flannel rolled up her arms.
With her head still low, she whipped the flannel off, exposing a body-hugging white tank. It was a damn shame she played for the other team, because her stomach was tight, leading up to at least a C-cup, and her neck was long and fragile. She took a second to whip her hair back into a ponytail, showing off a guitar fret board tattoo on the back of her neck.
Instantly, I felt sick. The sight of that tattoo made my insides twist. It was too familiar, and I stood there staring at it, trying to place it in my mind.
When she found the record she was looking for, she stood up straight, and I plopped the bottle of water on the table. That’s when she jerked her head up, and my heart pounded harder than the kick drum coming out of the speaker.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped. Her scowl could have crumbled the Empire State Building—an earthquake of fury like I’d never seen. Pulling up her hat, she gave me a better view of her dark glare, and just for a second, I shut my eyes.
Holy shit.
I’d slept with Jack Porter’s sister.
Chapter Three
Piece of shit closed his eyes.
What was he doing here? Panic set in, thinking my Sunday Lane character was breached. Maybe he’d heard my quips about his small prick and he was out for revenge.
Then he opened his eyes. “I know you.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, searching the room for more testosterone-laden Neanderthals. “What do you want?”
“Sydney,” he said, starting to hop up onto the stage. When he saw my expression, he backed down.
God, he remembers my name.
My eyes locked with Snake’s, and he started a slow, steady walk toward the stage. When he reached me, he kept his eyes on my face but pulled Peters back by his shoulder. “Don’t touch the stage.”
“I got this, Snake. He’s just leaving.”
Snake took a few steps back, just out of earshot, but waited in case I needed him.
“Sydney, you do know me, remember? You came up here for a college visit, and w—”
“And that was two years ago,” I interrupted.
His eyes strayed to my chest, and I crossed my arms, blocking his view. Peters turned in a circle, as if to collect his thoughts. Then he faced me again with a soft look. “I’m here with your brother, Jack. He needs to borrow your truck.”
My eyes shot up, scanning the room for Jack. “He’s eighteen, and you brought him to a bar? You meatheads are already trying to mess up his NFL chances. Is that your play, Peters? Let him get busted in a club?”
He shook his head and was about to take a step forward but thought better of it when Snake cleared his throat.
“No. Of course not. He’s outside. Coach paired us as team buddies, so I’m showing him the ropes. We just need to borrow your truck for an hour and we’ll bring it right back. I promise.”
“Showing him the ropes?” I drew in a sharp breath. “You mean showing him how to use girls like brainless objects and laugh about it the next day, while you think they’re sleeping in your room you call the sex palace?”
His mouth turned up like he was about to laugh, but it shot back down, reading the death look on my face.
“What? Sydney, that’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” I repeated, gripping the record so tightly it was about to crack. “I remember it very clearly, Peters. I’m surprised you remembered my name after being scored so low on the pussy scale.”
He bunched his eyebrows, thinking it over.
“Remember it now, you micro-dick nobody?”
Peters’s face fell to a frown. “Micro-dick? That’s not what I remember. I remember someone panting over my shoulder for hours, screaming out my name.”
A dull burn flooded my throat, seeping into my veins. I grabbed the mic and yelled, “Five more minutes,” to which the crowd groaned. Setting another three tracks to play, I jumped off the stage.
“Hold him back,” I yelled at Snake, and he stepped to the side, grabbing Peters by his arm.
I could feel every eye on me, even the eyes I never got (Nick’s), as I charged through the crowd and threw open the club door.
Idiot left his car idling at the curb. When I jumped in the driver’s seat, Jack glanced up from his phone with a smile, then did a double-take.
All the blood drained from his face.
“Thought it was Peters?” I threw the car into drive and adjusted the rearview just as Snake dropped Peters roughly on the curb. Peters stood up, throwing his hands in the air, and started to come after the car.
“Turn around, Syd!” Jack yelped from my side. When he tried to grab the wheel, I punched him in the stomach with the side of my fist.
He hunched over, releasing a puff of air. “Syd, this isn’t your car, and it’s not Mom’s car.”
I gave him a long, withering stare and shifted the car into a higher gear. “Well, he’s so keen to drive my truck, so I thought a little swap would be okay. There’s a homeless camp down on Ninth Avenue, right?” I yanked the wheel toward downtown.
“Syd, please. You’re ruining this for me.” He cradled his head in his hands, lowering his elbows to his knees. “I’m going to throw up.”
I slammed on the breaks and pulled into a parking spot along the road. “What are you thinking, Jack? Really? Sending some asshole in to get the keys for my truck. What the hell do you need it for anyway?”