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.”

I nodded, distracted again by his whiskey-colored eyes and sweet breath.

God, what am I doing?

Peters was an ass, and he just made a very lame joke (which I could appreciate), but still, I was standing outside a club at one in the morning, on my twenty-first birthday, with the first boy I’d ever slept with.

“But with you, Porter…” He started laughing, breaking the spell he’d cast over me. “I want to take you to Nirvana.”

I rolled my eyes, and we made our way across the parking lot.

It took us ten minutes to get inside. We waited behind the entire cast of Sex in the City, and I pitied the woman dressed as Miranda Hobbes (the redhead). She probably got the short end of the stick when picking out costumes. All her friends wore tight or short fashionable dresses, and she was in a wool business suit.

A lady dressed as a peacock walked the line, asking for IDs, then offered Jell-O shots for three bucks a pop. I bought four, and Peters gave me a slow, disapproving headshake.

“Live a little, QB,” I said, popping a cup up to his face. He slammed his lips shut, and I jabbed him in the gut until he opened his mouth. Then I squeezed gelatinous blue down his throat. He swallowed and started to cough, and I took the other three.

Once inside, I had to lean against the brick wall immediately inside the door. I felt like I was in a movie. Like the crowd was going to open up to a rap battle followed by a dance off between two talented yet bitter rival break-dancers. One would whip his back around the concrete floor while his homeboys stood beside him, puffing and glaring. Then the other would step up and grab the girl—there’s always a girl they’re fighting over—and he’d twist her in the sky, catching her dainty body on top of his sneakers before the real fight broke out.

Yes, that could totally happen here.

Nirvana was huge. At least ten thousand square feet. Black lights hovered from chains overhead, and a series of long bars along the side offered everything from Pabst Blue Ribbon to green liquid in test tubes.