by Germaine, KF
My first thought: I was one of those girls. The type of girl a guy didn’t want to be seen with so they took them to dirty bars. I mean, I was in a little boy’s costume. The average age of the Elbow Room patrons was mid-fifties, and the ceiling tiles were dingy and stained. Not the type of place you take a girl you want to impress.
“Umm, yeah, that’s cool,” I said, trying to keep my tone cheerful.
Nick looked me over, searching my face. “Really, I want you to meet my friends, but they went to some lame house party. You’re twenty-one, so you should at least have a drink somewhere other than the SpaceRoom.”
He scooted closer until our legs were touching, and I couldn’t help the goofy grin on my face. Nick was right. I could go to parties all I wanted, but I could drink with fifty-year-olds tonight.
“No, this is fine,” I assured him.
“That was pretty funny.” He smirked, chuckling to himself. “Poor Fernando was up on that stage for five minutes before Gray pulled him down.”
I refrained from tapping my fingertips together like an evil villain. Technically, that was all my dream-wrecker wanted to hear. Just that phrase played during the set. It didn’t say I had to be the one doing it.
“Yeah, well, Fernando should think twice before jacking tires from my truck.”
Nick laughed and stood from the booth. “I’ll go get us some drinks.”
I’d already had four drinks tonight and a buzz was crawling over my skin. Warm and subtle, the alcohol was beginning to reach my brain. My phone scuttled across the table, and at first I thought I was hallucinating until I saw Jack’s name pop on the screen.
Jack: I’m having an awesome birthday, sisssttaaa! Allison says HHHIIIIII
I wanted to stand and take a bow—mission accomplished: Jack and Allison.
Glancing at Nick, I sent him a quick wave as he stood in line. A couple girls approached him from the side, and he let them slide in front of him in line. I was mildly annoyed, but maybe he was just a gentleman.
The doors of the bar swung open, bringing in a draft of fresh air. But why does fresh air follow bad people? Okay, maybe that question makes no sense, but this time it did, because my throat swelled shut when Peters and Chance came barreling through the doors.
Peters pointed to the bar, and Chance ran up to stand behind Nick. Then, as if he were a welcomed party, he sauntered over to our table, plopping down across from me.
“What in all that is holy are you doing here?” I sneered, crossing my arms.
Peters smiled, picking at the crumbling edge of the table. “I’m going to be really straightforward with you, Sydney.” He glanced up, locking eyes with me. “I know you’re stubborn and anything I say you’ll do the opposite. So when I tell you this, it’s coming from Jack’s mouth, not mine.”
I kicked him under the table, but he didn’t flinch.
“You’re not going home with Nick Sharbus.”
A curt laugh came from me. “What the hell did you just say?”
“He’s got a reputation.” He continued. “And that’s all I’m going to say. So here’s the deal. You leave with Chance and me, say you don’t feel well, and we’ll take you back to campus.”
Smug bastard.
“Or we can just hang out on your date all night long.” He leaned back in the booth, spreading his arms over the top of the seat. “Because I promised Jack, my friend, no harm would come to his sister on her twenty-first birthday.” He pointed a finger at me. “After tonight, it’s on you. But Jack is currently getting it on with Allison in your dorm room, and he doesn’t need to be worried about you.”
The Brown-eyed Virgin is getting laid? By Allison?
“No, he’s not,” I clipped, delivering a sharp glare.
“He is. I swear. Send Allison a text if you don’t believe me.”
I looked down at my phone, tempted to text, but Jack would never forgive me if I interrupted such a momentous occasion. He was with Allison still. Damn it, why couldn’t he have taken her to his room?
Wait, I knew why—Jack’s stuffed animal and Toy Story figurine collections were enough to send Allison running for the hills.
“Jesssusss,” I drawled out, rolling my eyes. “Why won’t you just leave me alone, Peters?”
He reached out a hand, covering mine. “Because Jack is a good person, with a big heart, who loves his crazy-ass sister. It’s your birthday, but it’s his too. This is my present to him. Bring his sister home intact.”
“Intact?” I cringed at his words. “You of all people should know I’m no longer intact, Peters.”
I slid my hand from his and glanced over at Nick, who was watching us with intense curiosity.
“Shit, you mean… ” Peters whispered, his face paling at my revelation.
“Shut up.” I locked eyes with him again. “I was never going to go home with Nick tonight. I barely know the guy. You think I want another one-night stand where I overhear a guy bragging about, and I quote, taking some dirty bitch to Pound Town?’”
Peters turned green as a tremendous scowl formed on his face. Asshole had his words thrown back at him. Slowly, he turned his head toward Nick.
I kicked him under the table again, and his eyes shot back to mine. He grabbed my wrist and pulled my arm across the table, sending me flying forward. Luckily, the Iron Man suit was excellent for impact.
“I never said that, Sydney,” he said through gritted teeth. “I would never say that about you.”
He looked down at his hand and released my wrist. “I would never say that about any woman.”
I rubbed my wrist just as Nick walked back, plopping the drinks on the table. “What was that all about?” Nick glared at Peters, then looked at me. “Syd, everything okay?”
“I don’t feel well.” Giving Nick a grim look, I pulled my bag into my lap. “I called a cab. It’s going to meet me outside.” I clutched my stomach for effect. “I think I had too many drinks earlier. I’m not a big drinker.”
Nick let out an annoyed sigh and looked between Peters and me. “Don’t worry about a cab. I’ll take you home.”
I held up a palm. “You just bought a round, Nick. Please, stay here and drink with these assholes. I’ll be fine.” And flashing Peters a death look, Tony Stark left the building.
Chapter Sixteen
“Fifteenth and Main,” I shouted at the cabbie, slamming down next to Sydney in the backseat. Her eyes grew wide, as if Satan had just plopped down beside her. Well, I guess in her mind, I was the closest thing.
She shook her head and hit me with her bag. “No,” she screamed at the poor man. “Bellerman Hall, Northern Campus.”
“You gonna interrupt Allison and Jack?” I countered, and she bared her teeth. “Fifteenth and Main,” I repeated, and the cab pulled onto the road.
When Sydney took off from Elbow Room, I ran up to the bar, handed Chance my keys, told him not a scratch on my baby or I’d cave his head in, and ran outside. Nick was watching me from the table the whole time but didn’t make an effort to stop me. Coward.
Sydney had already managed to hail a cab. They were out in full force on Halloween, and Iron Man always gets her way.
“What’s Fifteenth and Main?” she asked, crossing her arms and focusing on the passenger window. “Is that the infamous doghouse Jack’s been blowing my head up about? Because I’m telling you right now”—she pointed between herself and me—“this is not going to happen.” Then she shot her repulsor ray at me.
“I know,” I said, matching her disdain. “Can you take those ridiculous things off now? Jesus.” I almost laughed because I forgot I was the one who’d made her wear them.
She looked down at her hands. “I can’t,” she whispered to herself.
I almost felt bad. Making this girl strut around in a superhero costume on her birthday.
“Don’t worry. You’ll fit right in were we’re going.” I smiled and pulled out my phone, sending my buddy Nate a quick text.
Peters: You working toni
ght?
“Where’s your truck, Sydney?”
She growled and exhaled a breath onto the window. It fogged up, and she scrawled “F U Peters” with her finger in the condensation. Then she angled her body toward the door like a grumpy child who didn’t get her way.
“Jack has it,” she finally answered, letting out a long sigh. “I told him to take my gear and Allison back home because I was out with Nick. He probably didn’t put my shit away correctly.”
She turned to face me. “If I find anything resembling sex, any cream-colored liquid-like substance on my mixer, you’ll be looking for a new running back, because dumbass will be paralyzed from the neck down.”
I laughed, and she scowled.
“How would you do it?” I asked, curious if she’d continue to talk. I couldn’t help but admire her creative, if depraved mind.
She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, in a disturbingly matter-of-fact tone, “I’d take him to the top of a steep set of stairs. Then I’d toss a vagina to the bottom landing. Naturally, Jack’s bones would turn to porridge, and he’d just tumble down, one step a time, screaming, ‘Why, vagina? Why have you forsaken me?’ And from the top step, I’d bellow out, ‘‘Cause you got pre-cum on your sister’s mixer.’ Then, from the landing, with his back twisted into pretzel form, he’d stare at me with the one eye still in its socket.”
She looked over and shrugged. “Because, you know, the other would have popped out on the third step down. And a small tear would peel down his face, sliding across his shattered jaw, hitting the linoleum floor, mixing with the puddle of blood now pooling around his head.”
I nodded, swallowed over a dry ball of fear lodged in my throat, and focused on the cabbie’s head. What I once took as creative was now evidence of certifiable insanity.
“Holy shit,” the cab driver commented, adjusting his mirror away from Sydney’s face. He’d overheard everything.
Sydney doubled over laughing, while the cabbie and I sat stiff as statues. But I had to admit she looked eerily cute clutching her evil little stomach and cackling, quite pleased with herself.
“I don’t know about that,” I said, finally biting down on my own laugh. “Jack’s pretty graceful on the field. Boy can run and catch.”
She shrugged. “I know. I’ve been chasing him with a butcher knife since I was seven.” She smiled to herself. “When he was thirteen, and we knew he had a good chance at the NFL, I made him sign a contract entitling me half of any future earnings. After all, I was his first coach.”
“Unfortunately, I think you’re telling the truth.”
Rummaging through her bag, she pulled out a piece of paper and handed to me.
November 2, 2009
I, Jack Cornelius Porter, by signing this document, do authorize Sydney Sinister Porter to collect fifty percent of any future NFL earnings. In the event of my premature demise, my entire estate is to be bequeathed to Sydney Sinister Porter despite my trophy wife’s claim to my fortune. Please refer to the ironclad prenuptial agreement left in safety box 437 at the River Edge Community Bank.
Jack Cornelius Porter
Jack Cornelius Porter
Sydney Sinister Porter
Sydney Sinister Porter
Tears hit the page, and it took me a second to realize I was laughing so hard I was crying. Christ, Sydney Porter, despite her being a satanic fly buzzing around my head, was a funny-ass woman.
She smiled and nudged me in the arm. “Hey, you’re getting it all wet.”
I had to shake my head with admiration. “You do know this was signed when he was thirteen, right? I’m pretty sure you don’t have any real legal claim to Jack’s proposed millions.”
I gave her a snarky smile and looked back at the letter. Jack’s middle name was Cornelius. Put that one in the bank for later.
“Turn it over,” she said coolly, lifting an eyebrow.
When I flipped it over, it was the same letter but signed a month ago by Jack. This time it was notarized.
“Holy shit, Sydney Sinister Porter. You are a cruel beast.” My chest was starting to ache, rumbling toward another boisterous laugh.
“Quiet back there,” the cab driver snapped, locking eyes with me in the mirror. “Can’t concentrate on the road.”
She snatched the letter from my hands, folded it carefully, and tucked it back in her bag.
Leaning back, I lifted my arm and laid it over the seat above her head. She shook her head and leaned forward so we couldn’t make actual physical contact, but I left it there.
“Sinister isn’t seriously your middle name, is it?”
“Yes, nosy, it is. My father gave me that name, and my mother gave Jack his name. Probably why they divorced.” She hesitated, then, with a sigh, added, “I didn’t have a middle name until I was three. Then one day, Dad noticed I used my left hand more than my right. Sinister means left.”
She let out a groan and finally slammed her head back against my arm.
“Could have fooled me. I thought it meant evil. Like you were trying to be a badass or something, DJ Sinister.”
“Left is like the fourth meaning down in the dictionary,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Her hair covered my forearm in a thick dark wave. It felt good. I had the sudden urge to wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her close.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t push down the memory of Sydney from two years ago. My junior year self was fighting with my freshman year self. Every time she said something witty or I smelled her, or right now when I could feel the softness of her hair against my arm, my idiot body wanted to react without asking my brain’s permission.
I should have just let the cab take her back to campus. That would have been the right thing to do, but I had to admit a part of me felt bad for ruining her twenty-first birthday.
Eventually, we pulled up to a row of warehouses in the sketchy industrial part of the town.
“Did you bring me here to murder me?” she asked, her tone flat and cautious.
“Fifteen bucks and get the hell out,” the cabbie snapped, jerking the car to a halt.
I slipped him a twenty, and we stepped into the parking lot. As soon as we shut the door, Sydney’s face lit up and she grabbed my hand.
“Oh my God,” she screamed, jumping up and down like she was riding a pogo stick.
Techno music filled the sky as hundreds of people filed into Nirvana.
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as I noticed I’d slipped and grabbed Peters’s hand, I let go, wiping my palm across my leg.
I’m not sure what came over me. Maybe I was momentarily abducted by aliens, zapped up into space, ass-probed for a minute, and the green guys shrugged their lime gelatin shoulders and said, “Send her back down. Nothing good here.” But deep down, I knew why. I had to ground myself for the beautiful sight in front of my face.
“What is this magical place?” I mumbled in awe.
We were out in front of a massive warehouse with a glass atrium ceiling. Spotlights shot all the colors of the rainbow from inside through the glass and crisscrossed like a light saber attack. Music I recognized blasted through the doors every time someone walked in or out, and there were people—not the fifty or so that had started to frequent the SpaceRoom—hundreds of people.
“This”— Peters gave me a wide smile and waved a hand at the warehouse door—“is Nirvana.”
“Yes,” I replied, still in a stupor. “This looks like heaven to me.”
Peters reached down and grabbed my hand again. “We’re not going in there unless you stick close. There’s a lot of people.” He ripped off my repulsor rays and tucked them inside my messenger bag. “There are some ground rules, Sydney.”
I shot him a dirty look and tried to wiggle from his grip, but he latched on tighter.
“I mean it.” He turned to block my view of the building.
I jumped up to look over his shoulder, and he laughed.
“I know you want in there. I’
m sure it’s written all over your mask-indented face, but you have to be smart. Rule one, no drinks from strangers.”
“Duh,” I bit out, peering around his shoulder at the growing crowd.
“Rule two, do not, and I repeat, do not leave my side. Think of me as a bodyguard of sorts. You don’t have to acknowledge me, but you must be within a five-foot radius at all times. No exceptions.”
“Should I call you Snake?” I teased, tapping my feet to the music. Talk about a fat kid outside a candy store. “Stop prolonging my agony, Peters. I—want—in.”
Bastard shook his head. “Call me whatever you want.”
I shot him a wicked smile.
“Just call me Peters,” he said, quickly correcting himself. “Rule three, do not talk to any men in there. If they’re not gay they’re probably creeps or pedophiles. Either way, you’re too enticing in this little boy outfit.” He smiled, and I swung my fist into his gut.
Grabbing my hand, he pulled me to his chest and leaned down to my ear. “Rule four.” His breathy whisper stroked across my earlobe. “Don’t disobey the other three rules, or Jack will die of a broken heart because his sister will have been murdered by some sociopath street kid.”
Gently, he pulled up my chin until our eyes met. “That would make him sad, terribly sad, and he’d drop out of school. And because he’s so coordinated, he’ll be destined to work as a street mime and never marry his future trophy wife.”
He took in a deep breath next to my head, and for a second, I was frozen against him. My body betrayed me with a flood of warmth and now my polyester-muscled chest was rising and falling against his distracting, hard one.
Then he added, “And I’d be sad, too. What would I do with my life if you weren’t here to fuck with?”
I took a step back and looked into his eyes. “I don’t know, Peters. Maybe find another chick to take to Pound Town?”
He shook his head and took a step toward me, closing the distance. “I would never say the words ‘Pound Town.’ That is so cheesy, Porter. I might say Fuckville or Vagina Hole, Wyoming… Get it? Jackson Hole, Wyoming.”
