Darren reached out a hand, and even though I was totally confused, I shook it. “My mix?”

“Yeah,” Bently said, nudging my beer closer to me. “QB gave it to me the night after you came to Nirvana. Didn’t he tell you?”

I shook my head.

How did Gray get ahold of one of my mixes? Why did he give it to Bently? Was this another detail he’d overlooked when he divulged his plot to ruin me?

“Hey, Sydney.” Darren leaned against the bar and regarded the dancing crowd with a smile on his face. “I can’t believe you turned this dump around. I knew Rick had a secret weapon.”

He laughed and turned to face me. “Listen, you’re good, and this asshole”—he pointed to Bently—“has decided to take off and join some lame band tour.”

Bently laughed. “I’d be stupid to pass up a European tour, Waters.”

Darren smirked and set his drink down next to mine. “I want you at Nirvana, Sydney. Pays not much, ten percent of the door earnings. So around three hundred a night. But the crowd is huge.”

Taking a long, slow drink of my beer, I stared at myself in the bar mirror. I was looking at the new Nirvana house DJ.

“Yes,” I answered, choking down the last sip. “I’m in.”

Darren slipped me a card and patted my back. “See you next Friday, Sinister. Love the name by the way.”

Bently clinked his beer against mine. “Time to get up there and finish your set. Be sure to let Rick down nice and easy.” He smiled and headed back into the crowd with Darren. Twisting around one last time, he yelled, “Then go home and remind QB how talented his girl is!”

The excitement swirling in my stomach barely outweighed the pain when he mentioned Gray. Gray had done this for me? Because he thought my music was beautiful. I gripped the bar rail until it was slick from sweat. Gray gave me Nirvana. And it wasn’t two days ago just to cover his ass. He gave him the mix weeks ago. After I’d done awful things to him, Gray rose above it all.

So why couldn’t I?

“Oh, you’re definitely going to need to celebrate.”

I glanced up to find Nick standing behind the bar.

“And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Echols’s house was buzzing, but I was the stumbling dead stuffed into Echols’s grandmother’s armchair. Tina sat on the armrest, fingering the collar of my shirt. I let her. I would have pushed her off by now, but I missed being touched. Even if the hands didn’t belong to Sydney.

“Get lost, Tina. You’re staining Grandma’s doily,” Chance said, pushing her long legs to the side. “You’ll have better luck with Fernando.” He jerked his head toward Fernando, who was surreptitiously sniffing his armpits in the corner, scoping out two brunettes in the dining room.

Tina wrapped her arm around my neck and leaned in closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Get lost, Tina,” I repeated Chance. “It’s not going to happen. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Tina released my neck and slid off the armrest. “You’re a hack, Peters. No wonder that weird bitch left you high and dry. She saw right through you.”

Chance laughed as Tina stormed out of the living room.

“Don’t listen to her.” He sank down on the couch nearest to me. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“She’s right,” I mumbled, lifting my keg cup to my lips. “She’s right about me. I’m a hack and I ruin everything.”

“Well, right now you’re shit-faced, Peters. How many drinks is that, nine or ten?”

Jerking my head toward Chance, I opened my mouth to speak.

“Shut up, asshole. I know it’s eleven,” he snapped, glancing around the crowded living room. “You and Sydney are both idiots. You’ve been sitting here for weeks, pining over her. At the same time torturing her, and you think she’s going to forgive you right away?” Propping his feet on the coffee table, he tipped his cup toward me. “You’re both stubborn. Fighting over one night two years ago? What a waste.”

Leaning my head back against the chair, I released a heavy sigh. “Fuck Nick Sharbus.”

Last night I’d spent sixty bucks buying Ashton Williams drinks. It was a well-known fact any man who drinks his weight in Cadillac margaritas would eventually tell you his life story. In this case, the story of Nick and Ashton getting the boot from the Northern football team. They were forced out after a series of underage hookups and unproven drug accusations.

“Penelope Sharbus is one hell of an attorney,” Chance said. “Nick’s just lucky he didn’t get kicked out of school.”

Pounding my beer, I tossed the cup across the room. “He’s lucky he’s not in jail right now. Fuck Nick Sharbus.” I stood up and immediately fell back down in my seat.

“Ever notice how the walls in here are crooked? Would never happen with Union drywall work.” Lifting my arm behind me, I smashed my fist against the wall. “This is what happens when you choose the cheapest construction bid.”

“You’re drunk, Peters.” Chance jerked his head, signaling Fernando. “We gotta get you out of here. Gotta meet the Steelers rep tomorrow.”

“Fuck Pittsburgh,” I slurred, trying to stand up again. As I began a slow-motion descent into the glass coffee table, Chance grabbed my arm. “Fuck football.”

Chance laughed. “Fernando, let’s go, asshole!”

Fernando slung me around like two-year-old girl toting a rag doll, until eventually we arrived on Echols’s empty front porch. When we turned around, Chance was gone.

“Wait here,” Fernando said, leaning me against the railing and wrapping my arms around the column. “Interlock your fingers.” When I didn’t, Fernando carefully wove my fingers together. “I’ll be right back.”

The night is my friend, I thought, gazing up at the cloudless sky. Its coal-black soul engulfs me like something wide and coal black and engulfing. Yeah, that was good. I’d write that down later.

Not long after my prize-winning epiphany, a black car pulled up the street and stopped in front of the house. Who parks their car outside the party house? Amateurs. The passenger door opened, and I did a double-take, watching at least four Sydneys jump out of the seat.

“Sydneys?” I mumbled, and on the third try, I let go of the post. All the Sydney’s stopped in their tracks and stared up to the porch.

“Peters?”

“Sydneys!”

Warm and fuzzies washed over me as I stumbled down the porch steps. “Sydneys, you look like an exotic Greek goddess-eses.” Opening my arms, I walked over to her and slammed into the back door of the car.

“Crap.” I moaned, clutching my shoulder. “Why’d you move, baby?”

“I’ve been standing by the hood the whole time,” she said, crossing all eight of her arms. “Peters, you’re plowed. Where’s Chance and Fernando?”

Moving toward her voice, I hit the curb and fell backward, smacking my head on the concrete sidewalk. As the Sydneys knelt down beside me, I heard another door close.

“Peters, what the hell are you doing out here?” She rolled my head to the side, and I felt her tiny hand touch my hair. “Shit, you’re bleeding.”

“I love you, Sydney, but you don’t love me.” I grabbed her arm, pulling her in close. “I have to tell you something. I wrote that letter, but I meant every word. You’re so talented, and when I’m in the NFL, I’ll buy you a radio station.”

I thought I saw a smile on her face, but it could’ve also been the scowl of a hellhound.

“And you’re so short, Sydney. I’ll have all the radio station sinks and water fountains lowered five inches. Just for you.”

“Run inside and get Chance,” Sydneys said, and I followed her eyes to a tall, dark predator who deserved nothing short of Satan’s wrath.

“Sharbus?” I sat up and jerked my head from the Sydneys’ hands. “You’ve got some fucking nerve showing up here.” I turned toward the Sydneys. “Get behind me, baby.”