“Read it out loud,” Brian said, eyelashes batting like I was about to start a romantic confession for his ears only.

“Yes, sir… Ahem.” Throat cleared for dramatic effect.

Starnose Entertainment, Ltd.

Austin, Texas

Mr. Brian Bayhouse,

It has come to our attention you employ a personality by the name of Sunday Lane.

Our subsidiary station, 98.7 KRUG, located in Portland, Oregon, is interested in offering Ms. Lane a summer temp-to-perm position. Final determination for the open position will be made in January. Until that time, we will continue to listen and contact you directly if Ms. Lane is chosen to move to the interview process.

We hope Ms. Lane will continue to deliver stellar and entertaining shows.

Amber DeFargo, JD, MBA

Vice President, Talent and Entertainment

Starnose Entertainment, Ltd.

“Aaaaaaahhhhh,” I moaned, and Brian wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Don’t look at me like that. That is what an orgasm sounds like.”

I sank back against the wall, fanning myself with the pearlescent ivory letterhead. It felt so heavy in my hand. It had to be destiny.

“Jesus, good thing I’m into men,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Well, you heard them. Get your ass in there and continue to deliver stellar and entertaining shows.”

Snake was ready to tote my gear when I pulled up outside the club. It was just my regular Sunday gig with the added bonus of ten dollars an hour (high roller).

I stole a glance at Nick as I walked inside, and he lifted his head, sporting a bright smile. “Hey, Gorgeous,” he whispered as I walked past.

Molly’s ears perked up and she laughed to herself.

It took me five minutes to realize he’d said gorgeous.

At first, I thought he’d called me George, so I’d spent the last three minutes racking my brain about why I was George. Which George was I? Like a cool George? I even grabbed my cell, looking up George on Urban Dictionary.

Here’s what came up: A guy with a very big (usually huge) penis. No shit. Stop reading and look it up right now.

Then I rewound my entry into the club and played it back in slo-mo: “Heeeeeeyyy, goooorrrrggggeeeooouussss” (insert hair slowly feathering across his forehead, exposing his brown eyes and a cocky slow rise of his strong square jaw).

I was still on fire as I set up my equipment. After the sorority gig, Nick and I parted ways in the parking lot. He’d given me a brief hug, and my face slammed against his T-shirt. He smelled like a cross between ammonia and cigarettes, which actually was disappointing and another crushing blow the strong, silent Bartender Nick I’d built up in my mind.

But there was still hope, and since I’m an optimist (yeah right) I imagined he was a drug dealer forced into a life of dirty work to pay for his grandmother’s hospital bills. After beating himself up about his poor life choices, he rushed out of his meth lab to be with object of his heart’s desire, DJ Lesbos. I would change him. Nick and I, we’d get through this together. His grandmother would be just fine.

“Hey.” Nick’s voice hit me from the side, and I dropped my mic on the stage. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Taking in a deep breath, I casually picked up the mic and placed it on the table. “No problema.” (I was already hating I started off in Spanish). “I was just thinking about—”

“About me?” he teased.

I was pretty sure my vagina dropped through the stage and into the club cellar. Nope, I see it now. It’s running down the street, screaming, “Danger” in Mystikal’s voice. A feeling akin to death washed over me, and Nick frowned.

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?” He lifted a hand to my forehead, pressing it against my skin. “No fever.”

Snap out of it, Sydney.

“Oh, sorry, I’m fine. Trying to think up a costume for next week. Rick threatened to call Child Protective Services if I showed up looking like a prepubescent boy.”

Oh God, now he’s going to agree with Rick and forever see me as a George.

He laughed. “Don’t worry about Rick. He’s been singing your praises for the last week. He doesn’t care what you wear. So you’re working on Halloween?”

I nodded and slipped on my headset, pulling up the first track.

“Okay, cool. Well, I’m working until ten. Then I’m going out to some bars with friends. Too bad I can’t take you along.”

I cleared my throat. “That’s my birthday,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “I’ll be twenty-one.”

Nick’s lips curled up in a faint smile. “No, shit. When’s your set over?”

“Not ‘til eleven. I told Rick I wanted a few hours to celebrate the end of my sobriety. So I arranged pre-mixes for the rest of the night.”

“Awesome. I’ll wait for you to get off.”

My head was spinning on the mega-load wash cycle, just churning and churning. Nick just stood next to me, staring, and I was staring back. After a few seconds, he glanced over to the bar where the first patron was waiting on a drink.

“Okay, or maybe another time?” He jumped off the stage and walked across to the bar.

What the hell am I thinking? I must have looked like a moron.

Grabbing the mic, I belted, “Yes,” through the speakers.

Nick did a nice fist pump in the air, telling me he got the message. It reminded me of Judd Nelson on the Breakfast Club—when he’s walking across the field and he’s like Yes, Molly Ringwald wants me, and F-you high school.

God, I wish I had that song right now.

Chapter Twelve

“Coach? You wanted to see me?” I sank down in the leather club chair in his office.

A man of few words, it was never a good sign when Coach asked you in for a chat. With a quick nod, he left his desk and closed the office door. He closed the office door! Okay, now this was a terrible sign.

Instead of sitting behind the desk, he perched on the edge and picked up a worn-out football, twirling it distractedly from hand to hand. “You know I want to see you succeed, right, Peters?” he said grimly.

“Of course, Coach.” Just get to the point. I was sweating over my sweat.

A disapproving frown slipped onto his face. “I overheard the other boys saying they ran into Nick Sharbus the other day. That you saw him first at some club. Are you two hanging out?”

“No.”

“Good.” He dropped the ball and picked up our playbook, heading for his desk chair. “You can go now.”

Didn’t have to tell me twice. I shot up out of the chair and headed for the door.

“Peters.”

Before I could turn the handle, I swung back around.

“Nobody hangs out with Nick Sharbus. Ever. Do you understand me, son?”

I nodded and opened the door, but something made me turn around. “Why?”

“Legally, I can’t say.” He propped his feet on the desk. “You got a sister, Peters?”

“No. Two older brothers, Jason and Elliott.” I searched his wrinkled face for an answer to my question, but in Coach fashion, his face was as calm as a puddle of water—unless you messed up a play. Then it was lava.

“That’s good.” Coach opened his playbook and waved me out the door.

Coach’s vague answer was impossible to knock from my mind. Asking if I had a sister. What was he getting at? Coach had a sister. I saw her once, not cute, and she was old. Had Sharbus hit on Coach’s sister?

Still deep in thought, I made my way across the locker room and grabbed my bag. My cell read seven PM. I still had one more thing to do tonight. My new favorite hobby—mess with Sinister.