“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you up there. Too much booze I guess.” Peters raked a hand through his now drenched hair. “Shit.”

“Nothing happened, Peters.” I honed in on his eyes so he understood the plan. “As far as I’m concerned, we were passengers on a crowded subway.”

“Passengers on the subway?” He smirked and looked down at the ground. His dark hair swung across his forehead, blocking my view of his face, and I brushed it to the side.

“Yes, you’d be the homeless guy with gout, riding the rails night after night, just trying to stay warm. I’d be the five-foot-ten supermodel who just got her big break. Then the subway hits a bump in the track and it goes dark. For seven minutes.”

Peters lifted his head, sporting an incredible grin. It was infectious, and my cheeks lifted, matching his smile. Just for tonight, his beaming face was all I wanted to see.

“And because I have the body mass of a praying mantis, I fall into your lap, turn around, and slap you across the face for getting ‘handsy’ with me.” Lifting my hand, I lightly smacked him across his cheek, and his grin grew wider. “Then I stand up, shake it off, and hop out at the next stop to meet my multi-platinum musician boyfriend.”

He closed his eyes and laughed. “So what do the homeless guy and the supermodel do now?” he said, leaning a hip against a flyer-covered wall.

I reached up and playfully tugged on his ears. “They dance!”

Chapter Twenty

Contrary to popular belief, Gray Peters is not rich.

My father, Hank Peters, is a history teacher at my old high school. He enjoys football, drinks Bud Light and builds miniature model WWII airplanes in the garage of our quaint yet respectable seventies-era ranch house. My mother, Della Peters, is a librarian at the local community college. She’s a firm believer in the healing power of crystals, plays guitar in a local folk band, and refuses to eat anything with a face.

Yes, I have a Porsche, and that throws off a lot of people. It was my grandfather’s car, and he left it to me when he passed. To say it’s special to me would be a gross understatement. So when some bitch turned it into a soggy taquería four weeks ago, you can imagine the burning rage that might inspire. That fury, that sudden passion for unbridled violence, was just a tenth of what I felt at this very moment.

“Christ, Peters.” Fernando shook his head and slumped down on the bench seat in front of me. “What happened?” He stole glances at the front of the bus, where Coach sat staring me down.

Coach was practically picking his teeth with his pocketknife, ruminating over how he was going to commit the perfect crime, murdering his QB. His face was as red as Elmo’s, but not cute and fluffy, more like sweat-laden and dangerously close to a full-on stroke.

“Coach has been staring at you like that all morning.” Fernando continued. Pulling off his shoes, he leaned against the window. “I thought I was going to get that look. One of those club kids put a video of me DJing on YouTube last night.”

Fernando drew in a sad, long breath. “Nine hundred hits by eight AM.” He pulled out his phone, tapping onto the screen. “Twelve hundred,” he said with a little too much excitement. “Twelve hundred hits. I’m a fucking YouTube star.”

“You’re a fucking moron.” Chance sat in the seat across from me, slamming his hand into a bag of Cheetos. “She got you good, Fernando. She’s hilarious.” He chuckled to himself. “Cute too, right, Peters?” He winked at me while tossing a Cheeto at my face.

I took a breath as the powdered orange stick bounced off my cheek.

“Sydney Porter is the ugliest, most vile person in the entire universe,” I bellowed. “I hope she slits her wrists on a Justin Bieber CD and bleeds out all over her DJ booth while a line of grade school children walk up to her and one by one spit on her hideous face.”

Half the team, including Jack, turned their heads at my announcement.

I narrowed my eyes on Jack, and he whipped his head around, cowering next to the assistant coach. No one talked to Jack. That was my message to the entire team when Coach and I arrived fifteen minutes late for the bus this morning.

That’s right. Coach and me. My new BFF.

After my night with Sydney Porter, I was ready to bury the hatchet and inch into her life. I wanted her. Badly. So much so I had to excuse myself after we’d been dancing for another hour just to take care of business in the bathroom. I know it’s dirty, but at the time, I was ready to grovel at her Converse-clad feet to just hold her hand.

Then this happened…

 

“Son, son, wake up. What the hell are you doing out here?”

My eyes shot open, and I rubbed my face. I was covered in glitter, and a piece got in my eye (gold pixie glitter). I cursed. Still in a daze, I realized I’d fallen asleep in a cab, wearing half a dozen glow-in-the-dark necklaces and a man’s red thong on my head.

As I scrambled to pull off the thong, I’d only made it worse. The crotch portion hit me across my eyes and then slid down my face. It moved past my nose, alerting me of its recent use, and stopped against my open mouth.

“Two hundred and seventy-six.” I heard a smoky growl from the front seat.

“What?” I’d finally flung off the thong, tossing it down on the floorboard.

An old man with a paperboy cap turned his wrinkled head toward me. “The fare is two hundred and seventy-six dollars.” He’d pointed at the meter attached to the dash.

“What are you talking about?” I’d said just as a tap came from outside the window.

It was Coach Samuels in a bathrobe and slippers, eating a banana and holding the Saturday paper. When I looked up at his face, his fangs were out, and he was looking to murder someone.

“Lock the door!” I’d yelled at the cabbie right as Coach reached for the handle and pulled it open. He said nothing, which was more terrifying than him yelling or screaming or punching.

Resigned to get out of the cab, I told the driver, “I’m not paying you. What the hell are you thinking letting me sleep in a cab all night, just sitting outside my house?”

Then I’d looked past Coach, and the realization hit me. I was no longer in the city.

I was in the country.

I peeked at the mailbox off to the side of the road. There was a giant crucifix painted on its white side, and the words below it read: Samuels Family: Blessed Are Those Who Deliver Mail.

“I picked you and your girlfriend up at Nirvana at four AM,” the cabbie said, checking his watch against the meter. “You fell asleep, and she said you only really sleep well in cars, so If I didn’t have any more fares, could I drive around the city for a couple hours.”

He took a long look at my glittery face and shook his head. “An hour ago, she asked me to drop her off at her dorm, then take you to this address where your dad would hop out and wake you up. She said if it was anyone else, you’d get startled and pee your pants, and I didn’t want to risk the pleather with a urine spill.”

I remembered the back of my neck was on fire because I’d rubbed my hand down it trying to fizzle out the flames.

“I’m not paying you a goddamn cent,” I’d growled, recognizing my efforts were useless and all my cervical vertebrae were now a pile of ash against the headrest.

“Here.” The driver handed me a credit card. My dad’s “emergencies only” credit card. “She said you might get crazy when you wake because you’re an alcoholic and you black out a lot. She dug this out of your wallet for you and handed it to me. I already ran it.”