“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 tonight?

“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.”