Allison had a microscopic birthmark on her face. It wasn’t noticeable at all, but she complained and called attention to it all the time. Her face went red as she stroked her cheek.

“Could’ve fooled me. You’re both beautiful.”

Okay, now both Allison and I looked like we’d been in a tanning booth too long.

“See you Sunday?” He raised an eyebrow, then added, “DJ Sinister.”

I nodded as he gave me a borderline sexy smile and left the room.

Not two seconds passed before Allison attacked me like a tigress. “Who was that? And, oh my God, you’re such a slut bringing up my mole.” She examined her tiny mark in the mirror.

“Nick. He’s a bartender at SpaceRoom.” I flopped down on my twin bed and cursed under my breath. My truck has no tires. Whipping out my phone, I sent Jack a text.

Syd: Where are they, Dimebag?

Jack: What are you talking about?

Syd: My f’n tires.

Jack: I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can go to hell. As far as I’m concerned, I have no sister. I’m changing my phone number. Stay out of my life.

I had to laugh. Peters’s influence had reached a breaking point with Jack. No doubt Peters had been ranting about me all week, and now he’d turned Jack against me.

Syd: No can do, asshole. Like it or not, we’re in this together. Love you… Sweet dreams.

“So,” Allison said with an unnerving swagger in her tone. “As you know, I’m in the middle of rush.”

I groaned. Who didn’t know Allison was in the middle of rush? She’d announced it to everyone on the floor, in the cafeteria, and I’m pretty sure I heard her on a megaphone outside.

Pink and what I referred to as white, quickly corrected by Allison as cream, had invaded every inch of our living quarters for the past two weeks.

“So part of my ‘Kappa Delta Challenge’”—Yes, people, she did air quotes and squealed—“is the entertainment portion for an upcoming mixer.”

I waited for her to finish, but the word entertainment left a boulder in my chest.

She flipped on her stomach, dropped my book, and batted her freakishly long eyelashes.

“That move only works on boys,” I said, lying to face the ceiling. “Stupid boys.”

She laughed. It was supposed to come across as a smooth butter-her-up laugh, but it rang in my ears as a let’s-go-meet-Satan-down-the-hall laugh.

“Stop.” I held out a palm before she could ruin my Nick-related elation. “No.”

“Sydney,” she wailed. It came out long and groaning. “Please, please, please.”

“No.” I kicked off my shoes and turned on my side.

“Six hundred,” she said softly, like a seductress, into my ear. “Would six hundred Benjamins pique your interest?”

I faced her. “Yes, Allison, sixty thousand dollars would pique my interest. Sign me up.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she grabbed her wallet. Pulling out a one-dollar bill, she stared down at the face. “Oh,” she said thoughtfully, “I meant would six hundred Washingtons do the trick?”

I closed my eyes and laughed. “No more hip-hop DJ books for you, sweetheart.”

“Come on, please. I know you’re good. I’ve heard those mixes you play while you’re getting dressed.” She sank down to her knees. It was a pathetic scene really. I wish you could’ve seen it. “I really want to be a Kappa Delta, and they are bitches… forcing my hand with this one. They want me to fail.”

I sat upright and stared down at this mess of a woman. “So you want to be a part of a group of bitches whose end goal is to see you fail?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

I thought back on my friends. I’d left them all behind to find jobs after community college. I didn’t really know anyone here yet, with the exception of Allison and Brian. Friends did favors, right?

“Just buy me a new set of tires and we’re even,” I said, promising to kick my own ass later.

Allison squealed, jumped up, and threw her stick-figure arms around me. “You’re the best. Can you play Jack Johnson? Because the girls really love that song about bananas and pancakes.”

I closed my eyes. “You want me to work Jack Johnson into a remix?”

“Even better, you can do that mix thing. It will be awesome.”

Chapter Six

“What should I do with those tires?”

I slammed my locker shut and tore the towel from around my waist. We’d just had a rough practice, and everyone’s spirits were on edge. Coach double-drilled us, surprising us with a five o’clock practice in the morning.

Leaning against the cool metal locker, I let the wave of soreness take root in my muscles. “Toss them off a bridge,” I near-whispered, looking around for Jack. “I don’t know. Just get rid of them.”

Fernando frowned. When an offensive lineman comes at you with anything less than a smile, that’s trouble with a capital T.

“They’re good tires, Peters.” His voice was grave, as if we were discussing a major business transaction we could both lose our shirts on. “I mean, plenty of tread left in them. Winter ready.”

“You’re saying this like I should give a shit.” I slumped down on the wooden bench and yanked on my boxers. Fernando sank down beside me.

“They’re expensive. Almost a thousand bucks to replace them.”

“So sell them if you want.” I pulled on my shoes, delivering a pointed glare. “I don’t care.”

“I just feel bad,” he said quietly, lightly fingering the crucifix hanging from his neck.

Great. I forgot he was Catholic. Catholics always felt guilty.

“Don’t,” I snapped, irritated with this whole conversation. “She’s a bitch and she deserved it.”

“Why?”

He knew I wouldn’t answer that question.

I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, put them in the doghouse garage. Cover them up with a blanket, though.” I didn’t need Jack running into them when I sent him to the garage for beer.

Grabbing my phone from my duffel, I noticed I’d missed a very important text.

Bitch: Thanks for the message, Ms. Douglas. I placed my schedule in the folder outside your office.

A wide smile spread across my face. Phase one of Operation Ruin Sinister had been accomplished.

I’d sent her a text earlier under the guise of our flighty campus counselor, Delores Douglas. Everyone knew she constantly screwed up students’ schedules, so I’d hoped Sydney was privy to that information. The anonymous bait text said:

Unknown: Good Morning. This is Ms. Delores Douglas. I apologize in advance for this inconvenience. There has been a glitch in the campus server, and if you have received this message, I would appreciate you supplying me a copy of your current semester schedule. Please leave it in the yellow folder in front of my office with your name clearly printed at the top. Thank you.

Hey, I thought that sounded legit. Just to stack the deck against her, I sent the message to a couple cheerleaders and four of my random buddies from campus (non-football related). Someone had mentioned Ms. Douglas was at a seminar this week, so I knew no one would grab the schedules. No one but me.

Hightailing across campus, I made my way to the administration building and peeled off down one of the lesser-used hallways. Ms. Douglas’s office was in an isolated part of the building. Other professors wanted to avoid run-ins with their students, so they forced the guidance counselor to a vacant wing.

Before turning the corner, I heard Sydney’s voice. What is she still doing here?

“No, Allison, I refuse to DJ on a pink tablecloth. What is this, a baby shower? Should I play Yo Gabba Gabba for your sorority sisters?”

Peering around the corner, I could see Sydney on her cell, pacing in front of Ms. Douglas’s door. She walked to the folder I’d set out earlier today and flipped through the other envelopes.