I narrowed my eyes. “Under your thumb? Why don’t you just blackmail her directly?”

“Her daddy pays for our national Panhellenic conventions, and I like my yearly trips to Hawaii. If this gets out, she’s not only out of Kappa Delta; she’s out of the Greek system. We just want to give her a scare. But it doesn’t mean we want to do it nicely. Tuesday night, you’ll call this number at eight o’clock.” Lily handed me a slip of paper. “That’s our quarterly Panhellenic meeting, and we want to watch her squirm.”

Teasing me, Lily waved the recorder in front of my face. “Eight o’clock sharp, Sydney. All we’ll ask for is a favor once in a while. Sunday Lane has a following that could be useful to the council.”

Well, shit.

Chapter Forty-Four

Bitch is not the word I would use to describe Margot Porter.

Why?

Because bitch would be a compliment.

Margot Porter was a spoiled lapdog. Her raven-black eyes were cold and cruel. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d just picked a man’s carcass clean before stepping into Northern’s banquet hall. Her ruby hair was pulled so tightly in a bun her olive skin stretched against her skull. It looked as if she’d run head on into a strip of saran wrap. And that permanent snarl on her thin lips, well, it would rival a rabid bulldog’s.

Those disturbing superficial observations aside, her insides were what terrified me.

Inside, I would bet my life, lay a charred and hollow shell where somewhere deep down an innocent soul encased in brick was scratching with broken, bloodied nails to break free.

“Where is your sister?” she snapped at Jack, adjusting her expensive navy blazer. Her eyes fell on my mother’s cruelty-free hemp purse, and she smirked with a half eye roll.

“Doesn’t surprise me she’s late. Sydney can barely tell time when she’s listening to that goddamn music of hers. Communications major. What a waste of money. She’s repaying me every cent for this education, and I’ll be collecting interest from the grave, seeing as her future’s so bright. Radio talent? She’s such a fool. Always has been.” Leaning over to Jack, she adjusted his tie. “Unlike you. You’ll go far. I just know it.”

Northern’s banquet hall was swarming with mothers and football players. Coach was making his rounds in his best suit, trying to pretend he didn’t beat our asses on the field six days a week.

The seating was assigned, and Mom and I were (un)fortunate enough to be placed with Jack’s family, Chance, and Chance’s twenty-eight-year-old stepmom Maxi.

Maxi was Chance’s dad’s latest wife. Number four, I think. I don’t know. What I did know was Maxi had a huge rack and a pair of lips the size of Texas, which I think was where Chance’s dad found her—doing flips on the Dallas cheerleading squad.

“Hi there, I’m Maxi.” Maxi extended a manicured hand to Mom.

Mom shook her hand and stared at her ample breasts. “Della Peters.” Being the polite librarian she is, Mom gave her a genuine smile and extended her hand to Margot. “Hi, Mrs. Porter, it’s great to meet you. You must be so proud of Jack there, and I just adore your daughter Sydney.”

“Ms. Porter,” Margot corrected. Ignoring Mom’s hand, she turned back to Jack. “If your sister isn’t here within the next ten seconds, I’m going to revisit those grand theft charges. I can’t believe she’d even want to show her face here to support you. What’s she ever done for you, or me, besides make our lives miserable?”

Jack looked down at his hands and wiped his palms over his slacks. “Well, actually, she’s alw—”

“Shh, Jack,” Margot cut in, giving my Mom another disapproving glance. “We don’t need to rehash family business in front of strangers.” Her eyes jumped to the banquet hall entrance just as Sydney walked inside.

Pulling my napkin down in my lap, I twisted it over and over in my hands, pretending it was Margot’s neck. I couldn’t imagine living twenty years under that woman’s roof. It’s no wonder Jack acted like a pussy and Sydney… Well, Sydney… was beautiful.

Sydney’s hair was straightened and lying across her shoulders. She was wearing a wool pea coat and a tight black pencil skirt with red heels reminiscent of a sexy librarian. Which is gross, considering my mother’s a librarian, but I’d overlook that gut-wrenching detail for now.

If she meant to torture me, Sinister’s plan was working.

Spotting our table, she gave Jack a smile, but it collapsed to a scowl when she noticed the only empty spot was next to me. Strutting over with confidence, but a bit wobbly in those heels, she stopped next to Jack. When she lifted an eyebrow, Jack jumped up, taking the seat next to me.

Dammit.

“Morning, Mrs. Peters,” Sydney said, settling into her seat. “I just love those earrings. Amethyst, right?”

Mom touched her ear and smiled. “Yes, dear.”

“Sydney, you are ten minutes late.” Margot gave her a nasty glare. “You have zero respect, young lady. We’re going to have a lon—”

“Hi there.” Sydney extended an arm across the table to Maxi and smirked at Chance. “Chance, did you finally win one of those Playboy dream dates?”

Chance rolled his eyes but snickered under his breath.

“I saw the short story competition on the back of one your bathroom magazines. Fifteen hundred words on creative uses for French baguettes and Nutella, you poet you.”

Margot’s jaw couldn’t be lower than if it unhinged and sank to the core of the earth.

Maxi blushed and leaned back in her seat, jiggling every part of her. “Oh my gosh! I was a centerfold in December 2010. Did you see that?” she asked, completely serious.

Sydney shook her head, still holding a fake smile. “No, must have missed that one.” Her eyes flashed to mine for a half second as she pulled off her coat, revealing a sheer polka-dot blouse with a tight black tank underneath. Who is this woman? And goddammit, put your coat back on!

Pulling my lips into a tight line, I closed my eyes and ran my fingertips over my eyelids. What the hell is Sydney trying to prove? That she’s gorgeous and she’s not mine—message received.

Mom chuckled at my reaction and pinched my leg.

She’d been talking my ear off about Sydney all morning. How pretty she was. How funny she was. Telling me to invite Jack and Sydney for Thanksgiving. Asking me if she likes Tofurky. No matter how hard I’d tried, I couldn’t get it through to her that Sydney wanted to see me die a fiery death, not sit at our dining room table, eating turkey leg-shaped bean curd.

As we picked at our overcooked eggs and pancakes, Coach gave his usual half-assed speech on how well the team was performing. Then, my favorite part of Mom’s brunch started: embarrassing newbie stories.

A microphone was passed from table to table as Moms told hilarious tales about their sons. This only happened to the new players. Freshman year, Mom told everyone I was a bed wetter until I was ten, and all the upper grads chastised me until I was a sophomore. By sophomore year, there was fresh meat, and the cycle continued.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Chance jotting down notes. Good thinking.

Soon, the microphone was passed to our table and to Jack’s mom. I cringed just thinking about what this beast would say. Picking up the microphone, Margot stood and said, “Jack’s perfect,” and handed the mic back to Coach.

What? Jack’s perfect? Glancing around the room, I saw the incensed scowls of all the upper grads. She’d practically placed a target on Jack’s back. Everyone knew this was what happened on Mom’s Weekend. Sometimes the players begged their mothers to tell stories. The worse, the better. Jack was warned this was a rite of passage.