Amazing.

But what got me wet—yes, wet—was the balcony above. A long DJ booth was set up, and I noticed you could only see the head of the DJ poking over the edge. He was good, and the crowd was on fire.

I pointed up to him and yelled at Peters, “He’s good.”

Peters nodded, and I noticed him swaying to the beat. He never did that with my mixing. I tried to knock off the wave of insecurity crashing over me. It didn’t matter that Peters didn’t like my music. Maybe I should’ve thought twice about liking this DJ if Peters appreciated him so much.

Peters kept a steady stare on the crowd, and I noticed a concession stand off to the side.

“Snake,” I yelled, and Peters’s eyes shot to mine. “I’m just walking over to that booth to look around. Will you go get us drinks? I’ll meet you right here in five minutes.”

He shook his head. “No more drinks.”

I scowled and walked over to a group of guys, asking one for a sip of his beer. The guy agreed, and I turned just as Peters grabbed it out of my hand.

“No,” he said like an angry father swatting a toddler’s hand from a hot stovetop.

Then he handed the guy his beer and turned to face me. “Fine. I’ll go get drinks. You better be here in five minutes or I’m calling the five-fucking-O,” he said, throwing my Kappa Delta threat back at me.

“Fine.” I offered him a fifty-dollar bill, and he shook his head. “Your birthday, Sinister. It’s on me.” He slammed a thumb in his chest and turned into crowd. As I watched him walk away, something indescribable wedged in my throat. Peters liked fucking with me, but I liked it more.

Chapter Eighteen

 

 

I ’m in hell. Freaks everywhere.

Jumping in my face, wearing Dr. Seuss hats and goggles, men lapping glow-in-the-dark liquid off one another’s chests, and women dressed as men kissing other women dressed as men (that one I didn’t mind so much).

As I made it up to the bar, my pocket buzzed.

Nate: Yeah, working. What’s up?

Peters: Heard of DJ Sinister?

Nate: Chick DJ from SpaceRoom?

Peters: She’s in here right now.

“What can I get you?” A man wearing a Victorian-era outfit with a top hat and watch gears all over his face leaned over the bar toward me. “We got some Jungle Juice back here.”

Jungle Juice. Better stay away from that or Sydney will think I’m trying to recreate my experience in “Pound Town.” Speaking of, I know it was that douche Nick. He was on the same floor our freshman year.

“You gonna stare at me all day, muttering Pound Town? Or are you going to drink?” He threw a wheel cog over his left eye like a monocle. “Don’t have all night, kid.”

Hmmm, what do girls like? Something fruity, right? Wait, this was Sydney we were talking about.

“Two double whiskeys, no ice, top shelf.”

The man turned around, grabbed a bottle of Jameson off a glass shelf, and gave two nice long pulls into plastic highball glasses. Glancing over the bar top, I noticed he had a fake shotgun attached like a peg leg.

“You dressed up in steam punk, right?” I said, half proud and half annoyed I recognized the trend.

“I wear this every day.” He released a low growl, like a cagey badger, and slammed the drinks down on the bar. “That’ll be twenty-five bucks.”

See what I mean? Freaks.

After making my way back the concession booth, I noticed Sydney was nowhere to be found.

Of course.

I was about to make good on my promise and call in the pigs, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Whipping around, I found Sydney, not in an Iron Man costume, but in a long white tank top with a pterodactyl on the front. It fell mid-thigh and was wide enough to fit her ten times over.

“Where the hell did that come from?” I handed her a drink, and she pointed across the room to an enormous man squeezed halfway into an Iron Man costume.

“We traded,” she said nonchalantly, taking a sip. “But I kept the mask.” She flipped the ridiculous mask over her head and scooted from side to side.

Where the fuck did she change?

“Where did you change?” I yelled into her plastic mask.

She twirled around in a circle.

“On the dance floor,” she yelled back, running full speed into the crowd.

Fuck.

Pushing my way through the crowd, I found her hopping around, drinking whiskey, her mask flipped up. She looked crazy. People were bumping into me, so I quickly slammed my drink, knowing I’d pay for it later. Sydney did the same and set our glasses down against a concrete wall.

I stood completely still amongst a crowd of people who’d just broken out of an insane asylum, including Sydney Porter.

Sydney grabbed my ears and pulled my face down to hers. “You have big ears. Why do you hate this music?” She was inches from my face, and she stared down at the ground, shuffling her feet.

Big ears? I’d jerk my head back, but I was sure she’d rip them off my head.

Why do you hate this music?

Clever, Sinister. She veiled her question with a petty insult, hoping to throw me off. What she was trying to say was Why do you hate my music? I saw the way she looked at me at Kappa Delta, pissed off I wouldn’t dance to her “sweet beats.”

When I didn’t answer right away, she tugged on my earlobe again. “Seriously, they’re huge. Like flying saucers blocking the sun from a large metropolitan area.”

“This music’s okay,” I blurted out, fully knowing I’d regret that later, too. I just wanted her to shut up about my ears. “Just don’t want to be razzed by the guys.”

She gave me a radiant smile. “Dance for once in your life, asshole.” She released my head. “No football players around here to give you crap.”

No, just Sydney Porter, and she’d certainly throw this back at me the next chance she got.

“No. I’ll just stand over here.” I took a step away, bumping into a giant termite. A man dressed as a termite, that is.

Raising her arms, she slid them behind my neck, pressing her chest against mine, and I froze. Was this the double whiskey? The three Jell-O shots she pounded outside? The four drinks I saw her throw back at the SpaceRoom?

“Sydney, you don’t want to do this,” I warned in her ear. “You don’t want to go here, remember?”

I pulled her hips back to look her in the eyes. “Peters and Porter… this can’t happen.”

She gave me a sly smile and ran her tongue subtly, yet not so subtly, over her bottom lip. “It will happen if I say so, Peters.”

She slid a hand up my stomach, and I sucked in under her touch. “Rule five, do whatever I want, just for tonight. We can go back to throwing hand grenades at one another tomorrow, but be my bitch tonight.”

I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to slam her against the nearest wall and make her come so hard the roof shattered. My resolve to fuck with Sydney was morphing into a need to fuck Sydney.

“Open your eyes, Peters.”

I did, and she looked up with the greediest, most lust-filled expression I’d ever seen. This was game over for me—Sinister won. I leaned down to her face, and my mouth stopped just above her plump lips.

“DJ Sinister in the house. Get your ass up here, shorty,” DJ Bently (Nate) screamed into the microphone. Hearing her name, she broke from my arms and shot her eyes to the balcony.

Fucking Nate.

Nate graduated from Northern two years ago, and we were from two very different worlds. In middle school, he’d be the bullied kid and I’d be the jock pushing worms down his throat. We were partnered in a lab class, and after feeling me out, he approached me about a private poker game held on Tuesday nights. And since I love robbing my teammates blind at parties, I wanted the practice (that’s how I could afford twenty-five-dollar whiskeys).