by Germaine, KF
Okay, enough with the internal battle waging inside my head. I’m sorry to subject you to that, but you can all see where I’m coming from, right? Everyone has someone in their life they want to throttle one minute and make out with the next, and for me that was a petite, dark-haired, snot mouth with an incredible capacity for evil.
“That’s for me, dumbass.” I held out my hand.
Fernando jerked back his hand, protecting the cash. “Your parents ain’t poor. My parents are poor,” he replied, coveting the money against his chest.
“So you’re admitting to being Micro-dick?” I tapped my foot against the couch leg and rubbed my open palm. “Hand it over.”
His big mouth twisted into a frown, but he held out the cash. As soon as I went for it, he ripped his arm back and smiled. “Who’s Bitch?”
“Give it, tubby,” I snarled. I wasn’t about to admit Sydney Porter had cheated me for six hundred dollars. “It’s none of your business.”
“Sydney Porter,” Chance spoke up and cocked to the side before I could deliver a slap to the back of his head. “I know she is. You’re obsessed, Peters. And I know who she is… I figured it out the night DJ Moron over there outed himself on the internet. She’s the girl from freshman year.”
Fernando sat up and let out a ridiculous howl of laughter. “Sydney Fu? Oh my God. She was adopted by Jack’s parents? Holy shit.”
I snatched the money from his hands and shook my head at him. “What are you talking about? She’s not adopted.”
“Yes, she is. I remember that party freshman year.” Fernando’s voice was confident, and he looked up at the popcorn ceiling, pulling a memory from somewhere deep. “You guys sent me up to the guest floor of the dorm to get info on those girls staying the night.”
He paused, and I could see the wheels turning in his small brain. “I had them give me their names to add them to our made-up guest list for the floor’s party: Brittany Saunders, Megan Litchner, and Sydney Fu. They spelled out their names for me and everything, and I clearly remember Sydney saying, ‘My last name is F-U.’”
Chance started laughing and shook his head. “I can’t believe you have a nearly perfect GPA, Fernando. You’re such a sucker. F-U… Come on, man. Think about it.”
I tucked the money back in the envelope and smiled. That’s right, Sydney Fu.
Two years earlier…
“Okay, I got the information. Chance, cue up your laptop.” Fernando rushed breathlessly into Chance’s dorm room, closing the door behind him. “Let’s do this thing.”
He settled next to Chance at the desk.
Without another word, Chance entered FBI analyst mode. You’d think he was hot on the heels of a wanted drug lord the way he flipped his laptop open, fired up the screen, and broke through a line of streaming HTML code. He was huddled in the darkness of the room, the glow of the screen spilling soft green over his face and reflecting off his reading glasses.
“Okay, first one,” he barked at Fernando.
“Brittany Saunders,” Fernando reported, pushing his head next to Chance’s to get a better view. Fernando wore a tight black T-shirt rolled halfway up his protruding gut. His hairy belly button hung over the crunched waistband of his jeans. Chance and I could get away with our tight shirts, but when an offensive lineman tried to wear one, people started accusing him of eating a small boy and stealing his clothes.
“High school?” Chance whispered.
“Dorothy Fox High School,” Fernando said, equaling his quietness.
“You do realize the music is blasting from the recreation room and Chance’s door is shut?” I lay on my back on Chance’s dorm mate’s bed, tossing a football up in the air. “I’m fairly certain this room hasn’t been bugged by the CIA.”
“You never know, Peters,” Fernando snapped, darting glances to the corners of the room. He lifted the potted cactus on Chance’s desk, inspecting it for a wiretap. “Can’t take any risks.”
“Here we go,” Chance belted out, rubbing his palms together. His face lit up as he scanned a Facebook profile. “Brittany Saunders loves horses. She has a dog named Arthur. She likes the movies The Notebook and Ten Things I Hate About You. Her grandma had her eighty-second birthday last week.”
He twisted the screen so I could look at the picture of an old lady lighting a cigarette with her birthday cake candles.
“Shit, she’s seventeen.”
Both Chance and Fernando let out a disappointed groan.
“You guys are idiots.” I smiled to myself. “What about the brunette?” Flipping over on my side, I watched Chance type with the meticulous speed of a bomb expert trying to beat the clock. Three… two… one…
“Zero,” he said, slamming a fist on the corner of his desk. “Let me look on Google.”
Like a pro, he clicked two keys and opened a new browser page.
“Bingo.” He flipped the screen to me again and clicked on a link to Sydney Fu. An Asian girl holding a cello with her parents standing behind her popped on the page.
“She’s not Asian,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Are you sure her last name is Fu, Fernando?”
He nodded. “I even had her spell it out, and she clearly said F-U.”
Chance gave me a look and cracked up over his computer screen. I grinned at Fernando, who responded with a smile. Idiot didn’t know he was being messed with.
After discovering Megan Litchner sang in her church choir, had an unhealthy obsession with porcelain dolls, and took pictures of nearly every plate of food she ate, we headed for the recreation room.
All three of them were tucked away in the corner of the room, next to the vat of Jungle Juice. Megan and Brittany looked like mice in a snake’s den. They clenched their fists anxiously every time one of the players walked by, and their faces went beet red if they so much as got a, “Hey.”
Guests didn’t normally stay in the male athletic hall, especially females. Those rooms were set aside for visiting parents, but the college had overbooked, and luckily, we became their hosts.
A confident Sydney leaned along a wall next to them, casually sipping her drink and surveying the scene. Out of all three girls, Sydney was the most interesting to all of us. Her self-assurance was a magnet pulling in every guy on my floor, but she was scary. She sneered and her eyes were cold, so naturally, we all wanted to get beyond that rough exterior… with our bodies.
Caleb Hammill, second-string QB, approached her and whispered something into her ear. She smiled and whispered something back. Immediately, he turned as pale as a sheet and ran back to us in the corner.
“Stay away from that one,” Hammill warned, taking in an audible swallow. “I asked her if she wanted a tour of the dorm floor, and she told she had to stop by the men’s restroom to drain her snake first.” He shot a wary glance back at her, cupped his hands over his mouth like a megaphone, and hissed out, “She’s a tranny.”
I dropped my eyes to her crotch. Her blue dress lay flat and smooth. No package down there. On the way back up her body, she caught my eye, gave me a sexy smile, and summoned me with her pointer finger.
Not a second later, I was leaning against the wall next to her. She was cute. She’d had my attention from the first ten seconds she walked into our building, duffle bag slung over her shoulder. I’d tried to make small talk, which didn’t amuse her at all, and when I asked to take it upstairs for her, she responded with a low growl and rushed past me toward the elevators.
It was lust at first sight. For me anyway.
“How do you like Northern so far?” I screamed over the music, and she shut her eyes tight, taking in the impact from my booming voice. “You like it here? Did you see the cafeteria? It has all the yogurts girls like.”
“Lactose intolerant,” she responded, rubbing her hands over her stomach. “You should see me after one bite of ice cream. It’s like the Fourth of July down there, only more explosive and less colorful.”
I slammed my mouth shut and looked down to where she was rubbing.
She laughed. “I’m just messing with you. Northern’s okay. I might transfer next semester. They have a good communications program.”
I relaxed and leaned back along the wall. “So you’re not in high school?”
She shook her head. “I’m at my hometown community college. Got in some trouble over the summer so I couldn’t make it out here. Had to work off my debt.”
“What happened?”
“I stole a car.” It rolled off her tongue like it was a normal everyday occurrence. “So anyway, community college for me.”
She shrugged and took a drink of Jungle Juice. “This is awful. Got anything stronger and less likely to eat a hole through my stomach lining?”
“Whiskey, but it’s in my room. My brother gave it to me. I’m only supposed to drink a shot after Northern wins a football game. It’s top shelf.”
She nodded and pulled her hair off her shoulder. A tattoo of a guitar fret board lay against the back of her neck, blending in with her fine hairs. “Okay, then. Jungle Juice it is.” She lifted the cup for a sip and started to turn away from me, but I grabbed her arm.
“One shot would be okay. Just can’t let anyone know I have it. I don’t need a three AM dorm raid.” I drew in a breath, watching her pursed ruby lips drift up to a smile.
Then she shook her head. “I shouldn’t go back to any dorm rooms.”
“What if I leave the door open?” I released her arm and nodded toward the hallway. “I promise nothing will happen. Just two comrades taking a shot together.”
“Comrades?” She shook her head but stopped, pinning me with those smooth chocolate-colored eyes. “Fine. Door open, though.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ever heard the joke about the DJ who walked into the doghouse?
No?
Well, you’re about to, and I’m sure the punch line will be spectacular.
Allison paced the sidewalk. “What if they kick us out, Sydney? Katharine’s in there.” Hitting a pothole hidden in the darkness, she tumbled forward, and I grabbed her arm to keep her steady.
“Pledges aren’t allowed in the doghouse. Her rules. What if she sees me? Oh my God.”
“I thought you were in already, Allison? Rush has been over for a week.”
Releasing her arm, I studied the house. Horrible music—for shame, Peters—oozed from the every surface of the sprawling Craftsman bachelor pad. Wicker furniture sat on the wide front porch, fenced in by sturdy white columns. It all looked inviting, but I was certain under black light that scratchy wicker would be dirtier than brothel upholstery.
“Not for me, Sydney… Katharine said I’m on probation.”
I frowned, thinking about how to get my hands on a copy of those Greek bylaws. “Allison, relax. We look like total sluts.” I pulled down my dress, which I swear was made of plastic wrap. “They would be total losers to kick us out, even if Katharine puts up a fight.”
“What if she kicks me out, Syd?” Allison started to walk up the street toward my truck. “We need to go. Let’s go.”
“Allison,” I whisper-yelled at her back. “Get your scrawny ass back here right now. What about Jack?”
After a dramatic freeze in the moonlight, Allison twisted around and walked back. She looked up at the house just as a couple girls stumbled through the doors, giggling and hanging on one another. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me up the porch steps.
We entered the living room, and it was packed. You could barely walk, which could be viewed as a blessing or a curse. You could blend in, but no speedy getaways if Peters or Katharine saw us.
“I can fit through there,” Allison whispered in my ear, pointing to a three-inch crevice between two groups of people. “You can’t.” Remind me to punch her in the throat later. “I’ll go see if I can find Jack. You stay in here in case he comes by.”
I nodded and leaned against the wall.
“Here, Syd.” She grabbed an unopened beer off the console table near the door. “Drink something or you’ll look out of place. Don’t make eye contact with anyone, especially Katharine.”
I nodded again as Allison’s bones were reduced to rubber and she easily slid through the narrow crack. This would have been resolved already if Jack were talking to me. My last message from him was about Peters’s wishes for a slow, painful death by Bieber.
It didn’t matter anymore. Tomorrow, Sunday Lane, Sydney Porter, would be front-page news. I’d have to move out of state, lose my summer dream job, and end up being the events coordinator at a local nursing home. I’d play oldies until five PM and then wheel them one by one back to their rooms, reminding them to take their meds. Finally, I’d go back to my low-rent studio apartment, eat a bowl of Top Ramen, and pet my seven cats.
Yes, I had it all planned out.
A minute later, I felt the heat from a heavy stare and looked up. Peters was opposite the room, and his stare locked on me like a laser beam slashing through the crowd. He was taking slow and steady breaths and his jaw clenched tightly on each inhale. I couldn’t read his expression, but I knew it wasn’t rage. I’d seen it once before.
Two years earlier…
“Are you a wizard? Why do you have an entire shoe box full of stones and crystals?”
Peters grabbed the lid from my hands and replaced it over the box. “My mother sends them to me. It’s kind of her thing.”
Sitting on the bed opposite his, I slipped off my shoes and lay down. “Do you have a roommate?”
“I lucked out this year,” he answered, eyes roaming over my horizontal frame. “I wasn’t assigned one, so I get both beds.”
“I’d push them together and make a full-size,” I said, flipping on my side.
I propped my elbow on the pillow and held up my head. “That way when you’re done banging chicks, you can just nudge them over to the other twin, push it across the room, and be like, ‘Thanks… but I like to sleep alone. Football players don’t cuddle. It obstructs blood flow to our extremities. We need to be in top form when our asses are getting kicked on the field.’”
He cracked a smile and reached under his bed, producing a bottle of Jameson. “Ha-ha. That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that next time.”
He stared at me for a minute, trying to get a grip on what I’d just said. What? I was just a girl helping him plot his moves with other girls.
I sat up as his trembling hand poured whiskey into two plastic cups. Handing one to me, he waited for a cheers before taking our first sip.
“To new comrades,” he announced as we clinked plastic and took a sip. “You haven’t asked for my name.”
“I know your name. It’s Gray Peters. Who doesn’t know your name… little prince?” I joked, and his flushed cheeks rose to an embarrassing smile. “I’m just joking. I read it on your dorm door, and since you’re the only one in here, I deduced you are the famous Gray Peters.”
Gray was cute. Scratch that. He was gorgeous. The moment I walked into the athletic dorm, he’d caught my eye. He wasn’t swaggering around the hall like the other males, puffing out their chests, delivering smiles they thought would leave Brittany, Megan, and me in a wet, hot puddle on the floor.
While all his buddies stood there checking out my ass, famed QB Gray Peters’s eyes never fell below my chin, which had me both flustered and surprised.
“I like Tool,” he’d said, noticing the Tool patch sewn onto my duffle bag. “Did you see them play this summer at the Arlene Schnitzler Concert Hall? My brother and I went. What’s your favorite song? Mine’s ‘Schism.’”
I paused for a minute, trying to relearn English, but my tongue instantly thickened, and I couldn’t make it budge.
“Well, I guess everyone likes Schism,” he went on after releasing a nervous, ragged breath. “That was a stupid question. I’m an idiot.”
Yes, but a cute idiot with strong arms and a broad, firm chest. Man, I was as bad as the swaggering meatheads—objectifying this poor schmuck.
“That looks heavy,
” he’d commented, motioning to my duffle bag. “May I offer my assistance carrying it to the guest quarters, madam?” he’d said in a BBC-worthy rendition of an old British butler. Then he chuckled at his own cheesy comment, slammed his hands into his jean pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels like a little boy.
Finally, I got my thick tongue to work. I meant to say yes, but what came out was the low growl of a wolf ready to pounce on its prey. Stupid, Sydney. Instead of recovering gracefully, I ran for the open elevator doors and repeatedly pushed the up button. Once in the safety of the metal box, I slid down against the wall and let out a true cheerleader-worthy squeal. Gray Peters had talked to me. Holy shit.
And now I was sitting in his dorm room drinking whiskey. Unreal.
“Famous?” Gray smiled and moved back on this bed. “Wow.”
“Yeah, the famous football team statistician Gray Peters. You just sit on the bench and crunch numbers, calculate the odds, you know.”
He laughed and took another sip. “You’re funny, Sydney Fu.”
We both started laughing, and I spotted a guitar in the corner. “You play?” I grabbed the guitar off its stand and handed it to Peters. He nodded, took it out of my hand, and began strumming.
It was a song I recognized, and he botched one of the notes. “That’s an E not an F, Peters.” I crossed over to his bed and sat leaning against the wall next to him.
Peters allowed me to move his fingers across the fret board, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was searing my face off with a heavy, heated stare. At that moment, I felt brave. I had him in a corner, and I could leave now or take this a step further. Should I take this a step further? It was now or never with Gray Peters. I knew that much.
“Tell me three things that are true about you, Sydney Fu, car thief and jokester. Just three things.” His voice was low and husky in my ear, and I dropped my hand from the guitar, resting it on his lap.
