He hesitated, so I knew it was bad. “To pick up some kegs.”
I shook my head.
“He doesn’t want to put them in the Porsche because it’s raining out. It will ruin his interior. Please, please, Syd. I just want to fit in with the team. You know it’s hard for me to make friends.”
Shutting my eyes, I leaned back against the seat.
Jack Porter, star athlete and possibly the most awkward boy I’d ever known. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, which was why he didn’t know about Sunday Lane. His awkwardness only tripled when a female was within a ten-foot radius. He didn’t even have to see her. It was like his body sensed estrogen and folded in on itself. We Porter kids made quite the team.
But giving into the wants and needs of Gray Peters wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t do it—ever—not even for Jack. Besides, he needed to learn how to make friends without bartering or he’d be screwed his whole life.
“Not going to happen, Jack.”
He let out an infuriated growl. “Then how the hell are we going to get the kegs, Syd? You have a better idea?”
I smiled and hit the automatic roof button. The panels slid off, and sheets of rain dumped into the car like God was tossing buckets, drenching us both. Jack’s eyes pleaded with me, but he didn’t make a sound. I would have driven it through a car wash if I had more time, maybe dropped it in the river, but I had to be back in four minutes.
Pulling the car out, I circled the block a few times, collecting as much rain as I could. A huge puddle had pooled to one side of the uneven road, and I sped through it. An ocean of oily, dirty water crashed over Jack, hitting us both. He lifted his arms shaking off. I just laughed my ass off.
Before I turned the block to the club, I stopped in front of Rico’s, a gut rot Mexican food truck.
“Trash,” I yelled at Rico, hopping out of the car. I slapped Jack’s hand away from the ignition and pulled the keys. “Don’t move a muscle.”
Rico gave me a confused look but pointed to a large can of half-consumed bean burritos, red rice, and sticky orange soda. His mouth dropped open with sheer amazement when I rocked the can toward the back of the car.
“No, Sydney. NO,” Jack yelled from the passenger seat.
“Rico, come help.”
At five-foot-four, I couldn’t tip the can myself.
“Or you’ll be next,” I threatened.
Rico stepped out of the truck and helped me lift the can over the side of the car, dumping it all over the backseat. It covered most of it but I was still unimpressed with the damage. So I grabbed several partially drank bottles of soda and poured them over the seats.
“What are you doing?” Jack screamed.
“Stop playing follow-the-leader, Jack,” I yelled back at him just before dumping half a bottle on his head.
Rico snapped pictures from the sidewalk and laughed.
“Destroy those pictures, Rico.”
Rico immediately dropped his head and went to work punching buttons.
When we turned the corner, Peters furiously paced the sidewalk while Snake leaned against the club door. Peters’s phone was up to his ear, and he looked ready to detonate.
His hand dropped along with his jaw when he saw us coming.
“What the fuck!” he screamed.
Snake still sported those aviators, and I caught a small smile on his face. Jack just sat there like rigor mortis had already set in. He knew he was dead meat.
I hopped out of the car and threw a speechless Peters the keys. “Not a scratch on her, Peters, and look.” I waved my hands over the now open top. “I solved your keg transportation dilemma, and you have a midnight snack.”
Flipping him the bird, I brushed past Snake and toward the club door.
“Now you can scream my name, asshole!” I yelled without turning back.
Stepping into the club, I was dripping through to my bones, and it was awesome.
“Hi, Nick,” I said, passing the bar.
He looked up, surprised, but slow and steady, he said, “Hey.”
The shock of me speaking to Nick would sink in later, but for now, I felt victorious taking that stage.
“I’m fucking back,” I yelled into the mic, and the crowd cheered as I faded into an adrenaline-infused track.
Chapter Four
I put Jack through hell for a week. He detailed my car. He cleaned up the puke after our kegger. He went on unwarranted runs for ice. Every time, I’d tell him we only needed one bag, and he’d come back with one bag. Then I’d tell him we needed one more bag, but just one. This got old after fifty times.
I know what his sister did wasn’t his fault, but he was spineless around her. He needed to grow a pair of balls. I was more upset about that than the fact the bitch ruined my leather.
The guys thought it was a simple hazing. They didn’t question my methods or the why, and I didn’t tell them about Sydney. Jack was smart enough and didn’t say a thing either. He knew I would have been harassed for weeks, and shit rolls downhill.
I lay back on my mattress, plotting my revenge.
If Sydney Porter thought this would be swept under the rug, she had another thing coming. I wanted to slap that sassy look off her face when she threw those keys at me. Of course, I was in shock, and Snake (could a bouncer’s name be any more cliché) was right behind me, out for blood. And she was wet, her tank like a second skin, showing off two teardrop-shaped breasts, nipples erect, so naturally, my body betrayed me with wood.
Letting out an infuriated sigh, I leaned back into the mattress. A smaller whimper came from my waistband, where Tina—or Tiffany… or who the fuck cares—was sucking me dry.
“Baby, you taste good,” she murmured, taking a break to stroke me.
I didn’t feel a thing. Sex had been replaced with rage.
“Get up,” I said softly, pushing her shoulders. She looked at me like I’d just told her to jump off a building. “I’m too tired tonight, Tin—”
“Theresa,” she snapped, wiping a hand across her mouth. “It’s Theresa, you ass, and it didn’t taste good. It never does. Sunday Lane was right. You boys are all the same! Just a hoard of disease-riddled amoebas slithering around campus trying to get your next fix!”
Sunday who? Must be a new cheerleader.
“Slithering amoebas? Never listen to girls named after weekdays, Theresa,” I teased. Theresa slapped me on the thigh and scowled. Before she could continue her rant I broke in, “Us boys are all the same yet you continue to give blowjobs, Theresa. Maybe you should take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and ask, ‘Why do I continue to give head?’ and maybe you’ll figure out, like all the rest of the cheerleading squad, you were born to do it, and that’s your fate in life. To suck a quarterback’s dick.”
She threw my Nikes at me and huffed out of the room.
Okay, I guess that was a little mean, but Sydney Porter was invading my thoughts to the point I couldn’t even enjoy Theresa.
Pants still down, I grabbed my phone and sent Jack a text.
Peters: What’s Sydney’s phone number?
Two minutes later, because I’d kick his ass if it were three, Jack replied.
Porter: Why? You don’t want to go there, man. She has no limits. None. Zero.
Peters: Just give me the number.
Jack sent back a series of numbers with a sad face emoji after.
Peters: Stop acting like a pussy, Porter. No one respects weakness.
No text back. He got the point.
My first inclination was to send her a nasty message. A death threat or tell her she’s ugly, something like that, but that would be Gray Peters in the third grade. Twenty-one-year-old Gray Peters, I’d like to think, was more calculating. He could play the long game to prolong the pain.