“But September is Safe Sex Month… Please wrap it up. And, number twenty-four, a Ziploc bag and rubber band won’t suffice. Please stop by Professor Grange’s office. Second drawer down, you’ll find condoms for elves. Should fit perfectly.”

Flipping off the microphone, I grabbed my bag and rushed past Brian to avoid a second lecture. “Later, Bri! Hittin’ da club!”

I arrived fifteen minutes early to the SpaceRoom, a local off-the-beaten-path dance club. It was dirty and disgusting, and they didn’t pay me, but the manager let me DJ for tips.

Really, I didn’t care about the money. I was able to experiment, play my music in front of a real people for the first time. There’s nothing like watching a crowd enjoy your creation, or rather reinterpretation, of pedestrian pop music combined in beautiful waves—matching beats, listening for the kick drum, the snare on the eighth—then dumping something unexpected into the mix.

“Anything else?” Snake muttered, setting down my vinyl record crate and scooting it under the booth.

“Thanks, Snake, I’m good,” I said slowly, staring at his mouth. He speaks?

Snake, the club bouncer, was built like a brick house and never took off his aviators. I wasn’t convinced he had eyes. But if he were blind, he sure as hell knew his way around here. Sometimes I made faces at him just to check, but his lips were always formed in a thin, solemn line, offering no hint he’d seen them. And he never spoke. He grunted. Despite his menacing size and caveman verbal skills, I thought he liked me… or pitied me. Whatever it was, I’d take it because he was always ready to help carry my gear.

Raising my headphones, I checked the sound connection between the laptop and amplifier. Good to go. I placed my turntables carefully in front of me at three and nine o’clock, laptop at twelve. Interface was set between, and there was even enough room to lay down my hat once I got sweaty, which would be in two minutes considering halogens that could rival the sun faced my back.

My neon-green bracelet, showing the world I was underage, caught on the crossfade. I pulled a roll of duct tape from my bag and taped the bracelet tightly against my skin. It was going to hurt like a bitch later when I pulled it off, but the embarrassment of fucking up right now would be considerably more painful. Just to be sure, I swiped a few more times until I was satisfied it wouldn’t snag.

Grabbing my rag from the crate of records, I wiped the sides of my four-channel controller—my newest toy. It took a summer of slave wages to purchase. An endless summer of spinning at five-year-old birthday parties (think Wiggles on crack) and gigs at our local nursing home (think Sinatra on spiked prune juice).

Before I laid down the first track, my phone buzzed.

Jack: Syd, need your truck for the night.

Jack’s my little brother and also attended Northern. Mom wanted us here together, so after my two years at the local community college and Jack graduating high school, the Porters arrived.

Unlike me, Jack had a full-ride scholarship. He was a running back on the football team and my complete opposite. Jack was preppy, primped, and polite. A major contrast to his trucker-mouthed, tattooed big sister.

Syd: Tough luck, Dimebag. At work.

Jack earned the nickname Dimebag after he was caught with a bag of weed in his room. Mom found it, but I took the blame. Why? Because deep down, I’m a good sister. It’s way deep, though, like Grand Canyon deep. It just seemed natural considering I was, in Mom’s words, a tattooed mess that won’t amount to anything.

Jack: PLEASE… I WILL NEVER ASK YOU FOR A FAVOR AGAIN

Syd: No. Borrow one of the meathead’s trucks.

Flipping off my phone, I stretched my fingers and flexed my wrists. Already feeling the trickling sweat from the stage lights, I pulled off my trucker hat and placed it in its designated spot. It was my dad’s. It had a perfect butcher’s diagram of a cow, which prompted a twisted scowl from every vegetarian/vegan on campus. I loved it and it stayed with me always.

An icy bottle of water plopped down in front of me, and I jerked up my head. Nick, the bartender, gave me an acknowledging nod. I opened my mouth to say thanks, but it suddenly felt desert dry. He stared for a second, then turned back to the bar.

Nick didn’t talk much, but he always sent over a couple bottles of water throughout the night. Gotta keep the free help hydrated. I’d seen him on campus over the last two weeks but was never brave enough to approach him.

By my definition, Nick was hot (a term I would never say aloud). That is, he was tatted, built, and close-lipped. There’s something about those strong, silent types that spike my interest.

The week before, I saw him walk into the art building, and I followed him, but he disappeared behind the rows of mediocre pottery and paper-mâché theatre masks. I imagined him modeling for a nude drawing class, perched against a white slab of marble, arm curled up, resting his chin on his hand. A fine specimen of the human form… Hmm, I might have to sign up for that class. For the love of art, of course! Get your mind out of the gutter!

The enigma that was Bartender Nick was a side hobby of mine, not that I was a stalker. Although, I’d been tempted to cut up some magazines and glue together a love letter like a demented serial killer. Maybe leave it taped to his Harley. Yeah, he probably rode a Harley. Stop, Syd. You sound crazy. But for now, our interaction was limited to a subtle nod and two bottles of water every Sunday.

Focusing back on my gear, I pulled up the first track.

Time to blow some minds!

I raised my head to greet my adoring fans … Shit, adoring fan.

Chapter Two

“Come on, Porter.” I held Jack’s head under my arm as I rubbed my knuckles into his thick hair. “You’re not going to get far with the team if you don’t deliver.”

“My sister’s at work, and I can’t go in there. It’s a club,” Jack answered in a defeated voice. He’d been pacing back and forth in the kitchen, sweating over his phone for the last ten minutes.

“No shit.” I set my beer down on the counter and began ripping the label. “You’ve been holding out, Jack. Is she a stripper? Hell, never mind. You will go far with the team.”

I’d been instructed by Coach to take Jack Porter under my wing. Whatever the fuck that meant. I took it as don’t let him die. I didn’t have time to babysit an eighteen-year-old all day, but when Coach orders, we obey, no questions asked.

“Well, we need a truck. Chance’s is in the shop and we can’t fit the kegs in the Porsche. It’s raining out and I don’t want to lower the top. Just tell her we’ll only use it for an hour and get it right back.” I grabbed my keys off the counter. “Which club?”

I’d invited Jack over to the doghouse, our shared Northern football house on the edge of campus. Yes, I knew doghouse spoke volumes of the pretentious douchebags who had resided in its bedrooms over the past ten years. Our landlord was ex-NFL, straight from Northern, and he felt it important to keep the star players together under one roof. He said it encouraged teamwork. Personally, I could have cared less. The rent was cheap, and I was able to live with my best friends, Chance and Fernando.

I feel the need to clarify. I wasn’t your typical jock. I didn’t pound fists or towel-slap my teammates, and I wasn’t going to wear my goddamn number around to remind everyone who I was.

That wasn’t Gray Peters.