“Lots of people here,” Nick said, placing a bottle of water next to my mixer. “I think the word’s out about DJ Sinister.” He waited next to the table, and I gave him a half-hearted smile.
“What’s wrong?” Placing a hand on my back, he rubbed gently. “Trouble with Peters?”
I shook my head. “No more Peters.”
“Shit. I’m sorry,” he said, now wearing a grin. “Well, it looks like you need a drink. After your set? An old buddy of mine is having a party.”
“I don’t know, Nick.”
“Just think about it.” He hopped down from the stage. “Time to spin, Sinister.”
The crowd had nearly tripled, and I would’ve thought it was because there was no school Monday, but I genuinely think they were there for me. And like it always did, the energy around me filled my empty insides, and I spun my little heart out. I put all my rage, all my bottled-up emotion, into the set.
After an hour, I took a break and headed toward the bar.
“Shorty!” I heard a husky voice yell through the crowd. “Shorty!”
Flipping around, I slammed into a lean, sweaty chest and looked up at DJ Bently.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, leading me up to the bar. He rapped his knuckles against the counter, and soon Nick was over. “Two beers.”
“Bently, what are you doing here?” I asked, thinking over my set.
Shit, Sydney, did you mess up and embarrass yourself? God, if I knew he was here, I probably would have played my newest mix. Then I could have asked his opinion, whether the beat was too fast to be laid over a Portishead track or if I should have chosen something slower.
“Here to see you, shorty.” He took a swig of his beer and pointed to a middle-aged man wearing a green sweater and jeans, sitting at the far end of the bar. “That’s Darren Waters.” Bently nodded, and soon Darren was standing next to me. “Darren owns Nirvana. I gave him your mix, and he loved it.”
Darren reached out a hand, and even though I was totally confused, I shook it. “My mix?”
“Yeah,” Bently said, nudging my beer closer to me. “QB gave it to me the night after you came to Nirvana. Didn’t he tell you?”
I shook my head.
How did Gray get ahold of one of my mixes? Why did he give it to Bently? Was this another detail he’d overlooked when he divulged his plot to ruin me?
“Hey, Sydney.” Darren leaned against the bar and regarded the dancing crowd with a smile on his face. “I can’t believe you turned this dump around. I knew Rick had a secret weapon.”
He laughed and turned to face me. “Listen, you’re good, and this asshole”—he pointed to Bently—“has decided to take off and join some lame band tour.”
Bently laughed. “I’d be stupid to pass up a European tour, Waters.”
Darren smirked and set his drink down next to mine. “I want you at Nirvana, Sydney. Pays not much, ten percent of the door earnings. So around three hundred a night. But the crowd is huge.”
Taking a long, slow drink of my beer, I stared at myself in the bar mirror. I was looking at the new Nirvana house DJ.
“Yes,” I answered, choking down the last sip. “I’m in.”
Darren slipped me a card and patted my back. “See you next Friday, Sinister. Love the name by the way.”
Bently clinked his beer against mine. “Time to get up there and finish your set. Be sure to let Rick down nice and easy.” He smiled and headed back into the crowd with Darren. Twisting around one last time, he yelled, “Then go home and remind QB how talented his girl is!”
The excitement swirling in my stomach barely outweighed the pain when he mentioned Gray. Gray had done this for me? Because he thought my music was beautiful. I gripped the bar rail until it was slick from sweat. Gray gave me Nirvana. And it wasn’t two days ago just to cover his ass. He gave him the mix weeks ago. After I’d done awful things to him, Gray rose above it all.
So why couldn’t I?
“Oh, you’re definitely going to need to celebrate.”
I glanced up to find Nick standing behind the bar.
“And I won’t take no for an answer.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Echols’s house was buzzing, but I was the stumbling dead stuffed into Echols’s grandmother’s armchair. Tina sat on the armrest, fingering the collar of my shirt. I let her. I would have pushed her off by now, but I missed being touched. Even if the hands didn’t belong to Sydney.
“Get lost, Tina. You’re staining Grandma’s doily,” Chance said, pushing her long legs to the side. “You’ll have better luck with Fernando.” He jerked his head toward Fernando, who was surreptitiously sniffing his armpits in the corner, scoping out two brunettes in the dining room.
Tina wrapped her arm around my neck and leaned in closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Get lost, Tina,” I repeated Chance. “It’s not going to happen. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Tina released my neck and slid off the armrest. “You’re a hack, Peters. No wonder that weird bitch left you high and dry. She saw right through you.”
Chance laughed as Tina stormed out of the living room.
“Don’t listen to her.” He sank down on the couch nearest to me. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“She’s right,” I mumbled, lifting my keg cup to my lips. “She’s right about me. I’m a hack and I ruin everything.”
“Well, right now you’re shit-faced, Peters. How many drinks is that, nine or ten?”
Jerking my head toward Chance, I opened my mouth to speak.
“Shut up, asshole. I know it’s eleven,” he snapped, glancing around the crowded living room. “You and Sydney are both idiots. You’ve been sitting here for weeks, pining over her. At the same time torturing her, and you think she’s going to forgive you right away?” Propping his feet on the coffee table, he tipped his cup toward me. “You’re both stubborn. Fighting over one night two years ago? What a waste.”
Leaning my head back against the chair, I released a heavy sigh. “Fuck Nick Sharbus.”
Last night I’d spent sixty bucks buying Ashton Williams drinks. It was a well-known fact any man who drinks his weight in Cadillac margaritas would eventually tell you his life story. In this case, the story of Nick and Ashton getting the boot from the Northern football team. They were forced out after a series of underage hookups and unproven drug accusations.
“Penelope Sharbus is one hell of an attorney,” Chance said. “Nick’s just lucky he didn’t get kicked out of school.”
Pounding my beer, I tossed the cup across the room. “He’s lucky he’s not in jail right now. Fuck Nick Sharbus.” I stood up and immediately fell back down in my seat.
“Ever notice how the walls in here are crooked? Would never happen with Union drywall work.” Lifting my arm behind me, I smashed my fist against the wall. “This is what happens when you choose the cheapest construction bid.”
“You’re drunk, Peters.” Chance jerked his head, signaling Fernando. “We gotta get you out of here. Gotta meet the Steelers rep tomorrow.”
“Fuck Pittsburgh,” I slurred, trying to stand up again. As I began a slow-motion descent into the glass coffee table, Chance grabbed my arm. “Fuck football.”
Chance laughed. “Fernando, let’s go, asshole!”
Fernando slung me around like two-year-old girl toting a rag doll, until eventually we arrived on Echols’s empty front porch. When we turned around, Chance was gone.
“Wait here,” Fernando said, leaning me against the railing and wrapping my arms around the column. “Interlock your fingers.” When I didn’t, Fernando carefully wove my fingers together. “I’ll be right back.”
The night is my friend, I thought, gazing up at the cloudless sky. Its coal-black soul engulfs me like something wide and coal black and engulfing. Yeah, that was good. I’d write that down later.