She looked way different at the time. No sloppy flannels and ugly hats, but she did have that tattoo on her neck, and as soon as I saw it I wanted to lick it off or die trying. She complained about the music a lot. Which made sense now that she was the ever-so-picky Sinister. Jesus, that name.

Somehow we ended up in my dorm room. I made sure she was eighteen, by the way. I’m no fool. I had my college ball career and NFL hopes on the line.

We started off slow. I even played the guitar for her. That was kind of a douchebag move, but hell, I was nineteen. Then we ended up having sex. Yes, there was heavy panting, and yes, she screamed out my name. She was tight and she didn’t shave all the way like other girls, so it was smooth down there, soft. Not like grinding against sandpaper.

Her breasts were perfect, heavy at the bottom but still fell flat against her chest, enough there to peek over the side of her narrow frame. She purred, and her thighs were soft, her ass perky. Great for gripping and pushing her up against a dorm headboard, and her—

“The fuck are you doing?” Chance snickered from my open door. When the hell did the door open? “You’re sitting on your bed, phone in one hand and your dick in the other.”

Shit. I didn’t even realize I was stroking myself. I wasn’t embarrassed about getting caught. I was more horrified I was thinking about Sinister.

Grabbing my sheet, I tugged it around my waist.

“Who are you sexting with? Wasn’t Theresa just in here? I want that number if you’re willing to toss her out for phone sex.”

Before I could react, Chance swiped the phone from my hand. “Oh hell, you’re texting Jack Porter? What the fuck, man?”

I threw one of my Nikes, which Theresa had kindly chucked at my head, at Chance. “I was not, asshole. I will ruin you if you start spreading rumors.”

“You’re taking this hazing thing to a whole new level if you’ve enlisted a fluffer.” He let out a short laugh and tossed the phone back. “Get your ass up. We have practice in twenty.”

“It’s Sunday,” I murmured, ignoring his fluffer comment. “Which one of you assholes knows the most about cars?”

“Fernando. Remember, his dad’s a mechanic.”

“Good, tell him to meet me in the living room.”

I still had some major long-term planning to do for Sydney “Sinister” Porter, but I wasn’t going to miss the chance to mess with her in the meantime.

Chapter Five

“Motherfucker,” I yelled, bursting back through the club doors. All the patrons were gone, and it was just Snake, Nick, and Molly cleaning up. I sidled up to the bar and searched my bag. Before I pulled out my phone, a beer plopped down in front of me.

Nick stood behind it with a knowing smile. “Peters?” he asked, wiping out a row of bar glasses.

“Probably.” I took a sip.

No one cared I was underage. At least not while the bar was closed. I guess they were getting used to me. Even Molly warmed up a little.

“All my tires are missing.”

Nick shook his head and bit down on a laugh.

“It’s okay to laugh at me. I’d probably laugh if it happened to you.”

“That’s nice to know.”

As he turned to replace the glasses, I glanced down at his ass. It was perfect. When I raised my eyes, he was looking at me in the mirror behind the bar.

Crap, I’d been caught.

“You a lesbian, Sydney?” His tone was cool, like he asked that question all the time.

Unfortunately, I created more work for him because I spat my sip of beer all over the bar top.

“What? Why would you ask that?”

There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian. I just wasn’t expecting that question from Nick.

He chuckled under his breath. “Peters said you were.”

“Peters would say I’m a she-male if he thought it could do some damage.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

I hesitated. Is Nick a closet football fan? Is he a secret spy for Peters?

“No reason.” Rolling my finger along the rim of my glass, I expected a note to rise like it was Mom’s crystal. I made a mental note to pull a glass rim track. It would work nicely with a dull tune, kick drum, maybe over a tra—

“Good job tonight.” Nick’s voice cut through my creative process, which would have normally irritated me if he wasn’t so cute and his voice didn’t roll through my ears like velvet.

I felt a burn on my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“I especially liked the last one.” He leaned in close and looked to make sure Molly and Snake were out of earshot. “You’re too good for the SpaceRoom. I know a dozen other club owners who would claw their eyes out just for you to mix there.”

What I wanted to say was, then I couldn’t see your beautiful face. Instead, it came out like this. “SpaceRoom’s oaky.”

He furrowed his brows. “Oaky? Is that code for something?”

“Sorry, I meant okay. The SpaceRoom is just my speed right now. I’ve got a lot on my plate. You know with school and other stuff. Plus, I feel like I’m building a loyal fan base. Drunk Earl is here every Sunday. He breaks out of the nursing home just to dance.”

Earl was eighty-two and without fail, he arrived at ten and drank hot totties all night.

“Earl’s here because you’re cute.”

What? Instantly, blood rushed to my ears as I processed his words.

“Oh, you’re right. Couldn’t be the music.”

“Sorry, Sydney. I didn’t mean you weren’t talented. You are. Shit. I’m jealous. I just meant there’s other stuff people like about you. Stuff beyond Sinister.”

When I looked up, his throat was one long flame. He was embarrassed.

I did that.

Pride oozed from every pore on my body. I was about to celebrate—internally, of course—when I remembered my current sucky situation.

“Do you have that list back there? The one with the taxi information?” I glanced over to Snake. “I have to leave my truck here overnight. Don’t have it towed, okay?”

Snake grunted.

“I’ll take you home,” Nick said, wrapping plastic over a container of sliced fruit.

Alert the press. Bartender Nick just offered to take me home. Nick was willingly allowing his unofficial, yet official, stalker to ride on his Harley.

“I can’t put my gear on your bike,” I said in a crushed voice.

“Who said I rode a bike? I have the black Camry out front.”

Shit. Shit. Double-shit. I forgot the Harley only existed in Sydney’s fantasy world. A Camry was decidedly less cool. Oh God, here it came, the mystery of Bartender Nick would burn to ashes the more he told me about himself.

To keep it as enigmatic as possible, I said nothing on the car ride home. Nick also said nothing. It was perfect. I could go right on being delusional.

When we arrived at my dorm, Nick hopped out and helped me carry my gear.

My roommate Allison was pretending to read when I opened the door. I saw her blond head peek out through the window when we pulled up, and she didn’t read Groove Music: The Art and Culture of the Hip Hop DJ. That’s my book.

“Picking up a new hobby?” I asked, shaking my head at her.

Nick set down my mixer. I covered it with a towel and pushed it underneath my bed.

“Oh, just thought I’d get into the mind of Sinister,” she said, molesting Nick with her eyes. “Want to know all about my roomie, including her friends. Hi there. I’m Allison. Sydney and I are practically sisters.”

Allison was five feet nine with a willowy frame and light features. I’m five feet four with curves and wavy dark hair.

I snickered. “Yeah, can’t you see the resemblance, Nick? When I first met her, I was like, ‘Am I looking into a mirror?’ Then I had to pinch my reflection, and that’s how she got that mole on her face.”