by Germaine, KF
“Passengers on the subway?” He smirked and looked down at the ground. His dark hair swung across his forehead, blocking my view of his face, and I brushed it to the side.
“Yes, you’d be the homeless guy with gout, riding the rails night after night, just trying to stay warm. I’d be the five-foot-ten supermodel who just got her big break. Then the subway hits a bump in the track and it goes dark. For seven minutes.”
Peters lifted his head, sporting an incredible grin. It was infectious, and my cheeks lifted, matching his smile. Just for tonight, his beaming face was all I wanted to see.
“And because I have the body mass of a praying mantis, I fall into your lap, turn around, and slap you across the face for getting ‘handsy’ with me.” Lifting my hand, I lightly smacked him across his cheek, and his grin grew wider. “Then I stand up, shake it off, and hop out at the next stop to meet my multi-platinum musician boyfriend.”
He closed his eyes and laughed. “So what do the homeless guy and the supermodel do now?” he said, leaning a hip against a flyer-covered wall.
I reached up and playfully tugged on his ears. “They dance!”
Chapter Twenty
Contrary to popular belief, Gray Peters is not rich.
My father, Hank Peters, is a history teacher at my old high school. He enjoys football, drinks Bud Light and builds miniature model WWII airplanes in the garage of our quaint yet respectable seventies-era ranch house. My mother, Della Peters, is a librarian at the local community college. She’s a firm believer in the healing power of crystals, plays guitar in a local folk band, and refuses to eat anything with a face.
Yes, I have a Porsche, and that throws off a lot of people. It was my grandfather’s car, and he left it to me when he passed. To say it’s special to me would be a gross understatement. So when some bitch turned it into a soggy taquería four weeks ago, you can imagine the burning rage that might inspire. That fury, that sudden passion for unbridled violence, was just a tenth of what I felt at this very moment.
“Christ, Peters.” Fernando shook his head and slumped down on the bench seat in front of me. “What happened?” He stole glances at the front of the bus, where Coach sat staring me down.
Coach was practically picking his teeth with his pocketknife, ruminating over how he was going to commit the perfect crime, murdering his QB. His face was as red as Elmo’s, but not cute and fluffy, more like sweat-laden and dangerously close to a full-on stroke.
“Coach has been staring at you like that all morning.” Fernando continued. Pulling off his shoes, he leaned against the window. “I thought I was going to get that look. One of those club kids put a video of me DJing on YouTube last night.”
Fernando drew in a sad, long breath. “Nine hundred hits by eight AM.” He pulled out his phone, tapping onto the screen. “Twelve hundred,” he said with a little too much excitement. “Twelve hundred hits. I’m a fucking YouTube star.”
“You’re a fucking moron.” Chance sat in the seat across from me, slamming his hand into a bag of Cheetos. “She got you good, Fernando. She’s hilarious.” He chuckled to himself. “Cute too, right, Peters?” He winked at me while tossing a Cheeto at my face.
I took a breath as the powdered orange stick bounced off my cheek.
“Sydney Porter is the ugliest, most vile person in the entire universe,” I bellowed. “I hope she slits her wrists on a Justin Bieber CD and bleeds out all over her DJ booth while a line of grade school children walk up to her and one by one spit on her hideous face.”
Half the team, including Jack, turned their heads at my announcement.
I narrowed my eyes on Jack, and he whipped his head around, cowering next to the assistant coach. No one talked to Jack. That was my message to the entire team when Coach and I arrived fifteen minutes late for the bus this morning.
That’s right. Coach and me. My new BFF.
After my night with Sydney Porter, I was ready to bury the hatchet and inch into her life. I wanted her. Badly. So much so I had to excuse myself after we’d been dancing for another hour just to take care of business in the bathroom. I know it’s dirty, but at the time, I was ready to grovel at her Converse-clad feet to just hold her hand.
Then this happened…
“Son, son, wake up. What the hell are you doing out here?”
My eyes shot open, and I rubbed my face. I was covered in glitter, and a piece got in my eye (gold pixie glitter). I cursed. Still in a daze, I realized I’d fallen asleep in a cab, wearing half a dozen glow-in-the-dark necklaces and a man’s red thong on my head.
As I scrambled to pull off the thong, I’d only made it worse. The crotch portion hit me across my eyes and then slid down my face. It moved past my nose, alerting me of its recent use, and stopped against my open mouth.
“Two hundred and seventy-six.” I heard a smoky growl from the front seat.
“What?” I’d finally flung off the thong, tossing it down on the floorboard.
An old man with a paperboy cap turned his wrinkled head toward me. “The fare is two hundred and seventy-six dollars.” He’d pointed at the meter attached to the dash.
“What are you talking about?” I’d said just as a tap came from outside the window.
It was Coach Samuels in a bathrobe and slippers, eating a banana and holding the Saturday paper. When I looked up at his face, his fangs were out, and he was looking to murder someone.
“Lock the door!” I’d yelled at the cabbie right as Coach reached for the handle and pulled it open. He said nothing, which was more terrifying than him yelling or screaming or punching.
Resigned to get out of the cab, I told the driver, “I’m not paying you. What the hell are you thinking letting me sleep in a cab all night, just sitting outside my house?”
Then I’d looked past Coach, and the realization hit me. I was no longer in the city.
I was in the country.
I peeked at the mailbox off to the side of the road. There was a giant crucifix painted on its white side, and the words below it read: Samuels Family: Blessed Are Those Who Deliver Mail.
“I picked you and your girlfriend up at Nirvana at four AM,” the cabbie said, checking his watch against the meter. “You fell asleep, and she said you only really sleep well in cars, so If I didn’t have any more fares, could I drive around the city for a couple hours.”
He took a long look at my glittery face and shook his head. “An hour ago, she asked me to drop her off at her dorm, then take you to this address where your dad would hop out and wake you up. She said if it was anyone else, you’d get startled and pee your pants, and I didn’t want to risk the pleather with a urine spill.”
I remembered the back of my neck was on fire because I’d rubbed my hand down it trying to fizzle out the flames.
“I’m not paying you a goddamn cent,” I’d growled, recognizing my efforts were useless and all my cervical vertebrae were now a pile of ash against the headrest.
“Here.” The driver handed me a credit card. My dad’s “emergencies only” credit card. “She said you might get crazy when you wake because you’re an alcoholic and you black out a lot. She dug this out of your wallet for you and handed it to me. I already ran it.”
Coach was huffing next to me by now, overhearing our interaction. “Get the hell out of the cab, Peters.”
When the cab zipped down that gravel driveway, so did a piece of my dignity. Before I could run—and I had no idea where I was—Coach grabbed me by my apparently massive ear and twisted, pulling me up his driveway.
I spent the next twenty-five minutes lectured by Coach, but really, only bits and pieces made it into my head as I answered question after question. Dammit, Peters, we leave for an away game in one hour and you’re out at a club all night? Do you want to lose your scholarship and chances for the NFL? Who the hell is this girl? Porter’s sister? I don’t care if she has a nice ass, you idiot… The rest of my brain was trying to piece the night back together, figuring out where it all went south.
“Your phone,” Chance yelled, smacking me in the arm. “Your phone’s buzzing across the bus floorboards, space case.”
It was bouncing around and slid under Fernando’s seat. He stopped it from moving farther with one of his stinky-socked feet.
Bitch: Just wanted to be sure you arrived at Coach Samuels’s house in one piece. And FYI, my wrists would never be within ten centimeters of a Justin Bieber CD. XOXO… Bitch.
Chapter Twenty-One
Not one minute after I sent that text did that arrogant prick write back.
Peters: I’M TAKING REALLY DEEP BREATHS RIGHT NOW, SYDNEY, TRYING TO KEEP MYSELF FROM RUSHING UP THE BUS AISLE AND POUNDING JACK.
Syd: Leave my brother alone. This is on you, Peters.
I’m sure you’ve heard Peters’s side of the story by now. Well, here’s the real one.
We were having fun. Like pretty damn close to the best night of my life kind of fun. Peters was letting loose (FYI: he’s a terrible dancer). He would just sort of shuffle around and stomp on my feet.
We had three more drinks after the close encounter in the DJ booth: two test tubes and a shot of Fireball. Within an hour, I’d managed to collect a dozen glow necklaces and catch a red thong midair that some hairy guy with a huge package ripped off his body. Don’t fret—hands were washed in boiling water.
After an hour, Peters was getting all sensitive and awkward. Every time I bumped into him, he’d jump away, dart his eyes around like a nervous rat, and straighten his shirt over his pants.
“You look like you have to pee, Peters,” I screamed up in his face, continuing to dance around him. I pointed to a Men’s Restroom sign hung above a door in the corner. “Over there. It’s over there.”
He nodded. “Be back in five. Do not move.” He started to run through the crowd, covering his crotch.
While he was in there probably having sword fights with other guys, I ran over to the coat check. I’d left my bag up there and wanted to grab some more cash from my wallet.
“Got your number?” the zombie behind the desk croaked out.
She wasn’t an actual zombie, just looked like she was about to pass out on the pile of fake fur coats lying behind her. After all, it was past two in the morning now. I handed her the slip marked “23” and glanced back toward the bathroom doors, wondering what was taking Peters so long.
“Here,” she grunted, slamming my bag down on the chipped wooden counter. Then she walked away, grabbed a self-help book, and sat in the corner.
I checked the contents of my bag. Everything was present and accounted for, but when I grabbed another twenty from my wallet, my phone lit up, blinding my eyes.
Allison: Oh my God, Syd. Had so much fun tonight. I’ve never felt more alive. My body’s on fire still and it’s almost 2:30.
I was about to scratch my eyeballs out of my skull. Why was she telling me this?
Syd: Gross.
Allison: What? Your music was awesome. That club is fun.
Syd: Oh, okay. Sorry. Is Jack there?
Allison: No, why? Peters told him to drop Katharine and me off at Kappa Delta.
Syd: What do you mean?
I glanced over to the bathroom. No sign of Peters.
Allison: They have an away game tomorrow. Don’t you keep track of these things?
No, I couldn’t give a crap about football. I just wanted Jack’s millions.
Allison: Katharine was pissssseeddd!
Syd: Why?
Allison: She wanted Peters to take her home, but he told her he had to go get some pound cake? I didn’t even know bakeries were open at midnight. Yummm, that sounds good though. Hope you’re having fun with Nick. I’ll be home in the morning to dish about your date. Katharine’s got me sleeping on the floor of the kitchen… I think she’s warming up to me.
Then she sent a string of heart and smiley face emojis along with a selfie of her head lying on a piece of cardboard next to a gas range oven. Her blond hair spread out along the dingy tile floor, and she had a huge grin on her face.
I would have laughed if my throat hadn’t closed up and my body hadn’t tried to swallow itself whole.
“Hey!” Peters’s voice took me by surprise, and I dropped my phone. It hit the floor with a thud, and the battery ejected from the back, clattering into a dingy corner.
“Crap, sorry.” He bent down to gather it, and a vision of me snapping his neck with the ease of a professional hit man crossed my mind.
“Here you go.” Peters grinned and looked over at my bag. “Do you want to go? We can go. Let me call a cab.” He pulled out his phone.
“No. Jack and Allison are probably doing the deed still. I really want to give him his space.”
He’d looked up at me with a cracked smile, which I now recognized as Gray Peters’s liar face.
“I’m good here. Let’s dance some more.” I grabbed his phone from his sweating hands. “Here, let me keep your phone in my bag. Lots of kleptomaniacs roaming around here. A girl just ran out of here crying about her diamond earring being ripped off her ear while she was dancing. That’s a gusty thief. Don’t want to take any chances.”
He hopped around looking back in the dancing mob and then glanced back at me. “Are you sure you want to stay? It’s really getting late.”
“You have something to do tomorrow?” I ran my hand down his chest, and he trembled under my touch. “‘Cause you can leave if you want, but I want to stay.”
I couldn’t have timed this better, but a creepy man walked by and mumbled, “Hey, sugar,” sending me a wink through his Mexican wrestler mask.
Peters paused, watching the man walk by. “Ummm… nothing. I have nothing tomorrow, or I guess this morning now.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Here put this in there too.”
I handed him my twenty. “Here. Go get us another drink.”
I pointed to the zombie in the corner, nodding off into her book. “I have to get her attention so she can put away my bag. I’ll meet you right here in five.”
“Promise?” He pushed his chest into my hand. “You’re not going to cut and run on me, are you?”
I shook my head. “I would have been long gone by now, Peters. You know that.”
He laughed and headed back to the bar.
Peters: You owe me $276, you talentless pickpocket.
Ouch. Ha-ha. Little did Peters know I didn’t swipe his credit card in the cab. I did it right there when he turned his back to get us drinks. And I managed to scroll through his phone, and something caught my eye. My phone number was in his contact list under “Bitch.”
Syd: Is that all? By my calculation it’s $574.
Yup, $574. I was a celebrity when I waltzed back from the bar after getting us another round of drinks. Peters had waved at me from across the dance floor, where he was stumbling around like a baby trying to walk for the first time. I’d just walked up to the gear-faced bartender and slapped his card down, yelling, “A round of drinks for the next fifty customers.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Get up, Peters.” Coach’s voice came from the shadows of the pit. “Punishment’s over.”
“I have another three minutes, and I’m not sure I can move.” I sent him a glare but wiped it clean when he sat on the bench across from me. “You might have to play Hammill this weekend because you’ve destroyed your starting QB.”
I was in the physical therapy room, also known as the pit, soaking in an ice bath in just my shorts. It was a worthless attempt to pull the soreness from my traumatized muscles. Coach had been attached to my hip like a Siamese twin all week—double-drills, morning workouts, piss tests, coffee runs—yes, he enjoyed the occasional non-fat soy latte.
“You’re playing this weekend,” he said coolly.
He was sitting under the lone light bulb in the room. Despite zero airflow in the pit, it swung above his head on its chain. Probably the ghosts. No one came down to the pit, even Coach. Rumor had it this was where athletes came to die, an
d I think there was some truth to that.
I studied Coach, looking for an axe or a pistol, or maybe he’d hired someone to come behind me in the tub and pull a wire over my throat so he could watch the life flee from my gorgeous eyes.
Instead, he laid his hands on his lap and pulled his elbows to his knees, cradling his head in his palms. “That girl sure has a mouth on her.” Coach laughed into his palms, shaking his head.
I’d never heard Coach laugh. It was like seeing Bigfoot cross your path. Strange and eerie, and you spend the entirety of your life searching for it again because you can’t believe your eyes.
“Girl?”
“Sydney Porter,” he snapped back as if I should’ve known all along. “She requested a formal meeting with me earlier this week.”
Shifting in the water, I dumped ice over the edge of the tub and shook my head. “What? I didn’t even know you could do that.”
Part of me was irritated she’d approached Coach, but I had to admit I would have loved to have seen this. She probably stomped in there, paced his office, and made several unrealistic demands. Coach probably laughed and told her to piss off.
“Me neither.” Coach chuckled under his breath, and it ended in a long, drawn-out sigh. It was a sigh I was all too familiar with by now. She was exhausting. “When she came in today, I told her to get lost, and she slapped the Northern faculty guide down on my desk, pointing to something called Subsection G.”
He hesitated like he didn’t want to tell me the rest, but then he said, “And then, in her words, she said, ‘Subsection G, Student Rights and Faculty Responsibilities, shit for brains. Don’t any of you mongrels in the athletic department know how to read?’”
He laughed again, and my head was about to explode.
“She said what?”
“Yes, she called me shit for brains, Peters. Repeat that and I’ll end your career.” His tone fell back to serious. “She’s worried about her brother. Porter’s been acting weird. The team is shunning him, which I know is your fault.”
