After one final ogle of my barely contained boobs, he spins around and pushes past the guys -- Drax stares daggers and machine guns at him as he oozes by -- slamming the door behind him.

Once I'm sure he's out of earshot, I stuff my fists on my hips in my most 'angry mama' way. "Can someone please tell me why we just had a visit from the mafia?"

Drax is still super pissed. "Why don't you ask that fuckhead," he gruffs, jerking his head toward Frank.

Only now do I realize that Frank has been sitting quietly on the couch during this whole scene, his head hanging low. When he looks up, tears drip off his chin. His wet eyes plead for forgiveness. My stomach churns at the thought of what could cause such a surly buttmunch to bawl like a pre-teen girl.

"I fucked up, Lauren. I fucked up bad."

"You lost how much?!"

I can't believe my ears. Hey, I've bought my fair share of dollar scratch-offs but I can't really believe someone would bet $10,000 on a football game. Well, maybe a billionaire, but a starving musician?

Frank drops his head in his hands and starts sobbing again. I want to break his kneecaps myself, and I'm almost tempted to suggest letting Marco have his way with the guy but Jake beats me to it. Now I'm ashamed for even thinking it.

"It's not our problem," Jake rants. "We're not the ones who made the bet so why should we have to suffer?"

"Dude," Savory replies, "that wiseguy is going to get paid. He doesn't give two shits who owes him the money. He'll get it, one way or another."

"But I don't have it!" Frank wails. "He's gonna kill meeeee!"

As much as I want to yell at Frank and beat him over the head with a frying pan, it's not going to solve our problem. I take a deep breath and switch gears.

"How much do you have, Frank?"

He can't even meet my eyes. "Four."

"Okay, four grand. That's well on the way to the full amount. Maybe if we all--"

Frank mumbles something I don't catch.

"What?"

"Not four grand. Four hundred."

The blood drains out of my face -- which might happen soon if we don't come up with Marco's money. I'm at a loss and look over at Drax. He's as shocked as the rest of us.

"How about you guys?" I ask, my voice catching in my throat.

I only have to look at their faces to know the answer.

They're working musicians, on the cusp of breaking out. And just last night, they not only canceled a very lucrative concert but they also lost their big-time manager. They don't have it.

"Drax," Frank says, casting a pleading look at him. "Maybe you could..."

"Don't even go there, Frank. You got yourself into this mess. We'll help you figure it out, but it ain't gonna be easy."

"So what are our options?" I ask.

Jake pipes up as he cracks his first beer of the morning. "We either pay up by noon tomorrow or he'll take the bus."

I gape. "But this bus has to be worth more than $50,000! That's not fair!"

The only sound is Frank sniffling. I know better anyway. The mob doesn't really take fairness into consideration when they come to collect.

"Okay, so we need to find the money. We could sell the bus. I'm sure there's someone in Vegas who will give us at least twenty for it, right?"

Drax shakes his head. I hate seeing him look so defeated. "That asshole has already put the word out to the dealers in town to not buy it. No way is anyone going to go against him. We might as well book our bus tickets back to the bay right now."

I want to cry. I was so proud of myself for getting their concert fee, but that check is a drop in the bucket of what Frank owes. This fun, spontaneous adventure is quickly turning into an ordeal. Drax is right; it's time to go home. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

Before I buy the tickets, I check my email, more out of habit than anything. What I see there depresses me even more. Five more replies from venues, all rejections. I'm about to send an email from some college to spam when I catch the subject line: Urgent reply to your query.

I wrack my brain as the email loads, trying to remember if I reached out to any colleges. Last night was a frenzy of contacting any and every venue in town I ran across. This must have been one.

I'm midway through the email when I realize I've been holding my breath. I scan the rest and let out gust of air. I want to cry again but this time from hope.

"You guys, we might not have to go home just yet." I read the email.

Ms. Raines,

Thank you for reaching out to us. As it happens, today is our annual Founders' Day Festival. The activities occur in the quad throughout the day, ending with a live concert. Unfortunately, the lead singer had to be rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night for an emergency appendectomy. He's expected to make a full recovery, but that leaves us without a band for our grand finale. 

It's serendipitous that I was informed of the cancelation only moments before reading your timely email. I've researched Roadkill and believe our students will enjoy a concert by them. I'm afraid we will not be able to pay a fee, but you are welcome to sell as much merchandise as you can and keep all the profits. 

Hopefully your team will see this as a win-win for both parties. Please contact me to coordinate as soon as possible.

Sincerely,

Alicia Woodward

Student Activity Liaison

Drax is standing next to me, trying to read over my shoulder. Normally I hate it when people do that but I'm too excited to care. "Can we make enough on merch to pay off Marco?"

He sits down next to me and takes over the laptop, checking out the school's population. He turns a lecherous grin on me.

"Depends. Did you happen to pack a corset?"

The school grounds are bustling when the band and I arrive to firm up the details and check out the set-up. There are tables with credit card companies offering free T-shirts and Frisbees, non-profits handing out STD pamphlets and colorful condoms, a raucous game of Frolf, and about 10,000 drunk college kids running around.

After signing a bare-bones contract and being vigorously informed that the students were off-limits for extracurricular activities, Mrs. Woodward leads us out of her office for a tour of campus.

"As you can see, our students enjoy blowing off steam during these types of events."

I spot a girl leaning into a fountain to 'blow off' her lunch and about a gallon of booze, her bestie holding back her hair. I was that girl in school, the hair holder. I catch her eye as we pass and give her a supportive 'I know your pain' smile. She shrugs and goes back to tending to her friend.

The stage is a simple three-foot riser, barely big enough to hold the band's instruments. I'm betting the guys haven't played such a low-tech concert for years.

"Old school," Drax says, nodding approvingly. "We got this. We'll just go bare bones."

"I'm pleased it will suit your needs," Mrs. Woodward says. She's an efficient middle-aged woman, dressed in a smart pantsuit. She's pleasant enough but has barely cracked a smile since we arrived. "I'll be leaving here in about an hour. You can set up whenever suits you, but the closer to eight the better. Goodness only knows what these animals will do to your equipment if you set up early."

I almost laugh at her joke but the expression on her face tells me that she's not joking at all. Her pert little nose wrinkles in disgust at a young couple drunkenly grinding on each other nearby. She really doesn't like these kids much.