crowd, and I noticed a concession stand off to the side.
“Snake,” I yelled, and Peters’s eyes shot to mine. “I’m just walking over to that booth to look around. Will you go get us drinks? I’ll meet you right here in five minutes.”
He shook his head. “No more drinks.”
I scowled and walked over to a group of guys, asking one for a sip of his beer. The guy agreed, and I turned just as Peters grabbed it out of my hand.
“No,” he said like an angry father swatting a toddler’s hand from a hot stovetop.
Then he handed the guy his beer and turned to face me. “Fine. I’ll go get drinks. You better be here in five minutes or I’m calling the five-fucking-O,” he said, throwing my Kappa Delta threat back at me.
“Fine.” I offered him a fifty-dollar bill, and he shook his head. “Your birthday, Sinister. It’s on me.” He slammed a thumb in his chest and turned into crowd. As I watched him walk away, something indescribable wedged in my throat. Peters liked fucking with me, but I liked it more.
Chapter Eighteen
I ’m in hell. Freaks everywhere.
Jumping in my face, wearing Dr. Seuss hats and goggles, men lapping glow-in-the-dark liquid off one another’s chests, and women dressed as men kissing other women dressed as men (that one I didn’t mind so much).
As I made it up to the bar, my pocket buzzed.
Nate : Yeah, working. What’s up?
Peters : Heard of DJ Sinister?
Nate : Chick DJ from SpaceRoom?
Peters : She’s in here right now.
“What can I get you?” A man wearing a Victorian-era outfit with a top hat and watch gears all over his face leaned over the bar toward me. “We got some Jungle Juice back here.”
Jungle Juice. Better stay away from that or Sydney will think I’m trying to recreate my experience in “Pound Town.” Speaking of, I know it was that douche Nick. He was on the same floor our freshman year.
“You gonna stare at me all day, muttering Pound Town? Or are you going to drink?” He threw a wheel cog over his left eye like a monocle. “Don’t have all night, kid.”
Hmmm, what do girls like? Something fruity, right? Wait, this was Sydney we were talking about.
“Two double whiskeys, no ice, top shelf.”
The man turned around, grabbed a bottle of Jameson off a glass shelf, and gave two nice long pulls into plastic highball glasses. Glancing over the bar top, I noticed he had a fake shotgun attached like a peg leg.
“You dressed up in steam punk, right?” I said, half proud and half annoyed I recognized the trend.
“I wear this every day.” He released a low growl, like a cagey badger, and slammed the drinks down on the bar. “That’ll be twenty-five bucks.”
See what I mean? Freaks.
After making my way back the concession booth, I noticed Sydney was nowhere to be found.
Of course.
I was about to make good on my promise and call in the pigs, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Whipping around, I found Sydney, not in an Iron Man costume, but in a long white tank top with a pterodactyl on the front. It fell mid-thigh and was wide enough to fit her ten times over.
“Where the hell did that come from?” I handed her a drink, and she pointed across the room to an enormous man squeezed halfway into an Iron Man costume.
“We traded,” she said nonchalantly, taking a sip. “But I kept the mask.” She flipped the ridiculous mask over her head and scooted from side to side.
Where the fuck did she change?
“Where did you change?” I yelled into her plastic mask.
She twirled around in a circle.
“On the dance floor,” she yelled back, running full speed into the crowd.
Fuck .
Pushing my way through the crowd, I found her hopping around, drinking whiskey, her mask flipped up. She looked crazy. People were bumping into me, so I quickly slammed my drink, knowing I’d pay for it later. Sydney did the same and set our glasses down against a concrete wall.
I stood completely still amongst a crowd of people who’d just broken out of
“Snake,” I yelled, and Peters’s eyes shot to mine. “I’m just walking over to that booth to look around. Will you go get us drinks? I’ll meet you right here in five minutes.”
He shook his head. “No more drinks.”
I scowled and walked over to a group of guys, asking one for a sip of his beer. The guy agreed, and I turned just as Peters grabbed it out of my hand.
“No,” he said like an angry father swatting a toddler’s hand from a hot stovetop.
Then he handed the guy his beer and turned to face me. “Fine. I’ll go get drinks. You better be here in five minutes or I’m calling the five-fucking-O,” he said, throwing my Kappa Delta threat back at me.
“Fine.” I offered him a fifty-dollar bill, and he shook his head. “Your birthday, Sinister. It’s on me.” He slammed a thumb in his chest and turned into crowd. As I watched him walk away, something indescribable wedged in my throat. Peters liked fucking with me, but I liked it more.
Chapter Eighteen
I ’m in hell. Freaks everywhere.
Jumping in my face, wearing Dr. Seuss hats and goggles, men lapping glow-in-the-dark liquid off one another’s chests, and women dressed as men kissing other women dressed as men (that one I didn’t mind so much).
As I made it up to the bar, my pocket buzzed.
Nate : Yeah, working. What’s up?
Peters : Heard of DJ Sinister?
Nate : Chick DJ from SpaceRoom?
Peters : She’s in here right now.
“What can I get you?” A man wearing a Victorian-era outfit with a top hat and watch gears all over his face leaned over the bar toward me. “We got some Jungle Juice back here.”
Jungle Juice. Better stay away from that or Sydney will think I’m trying to recreate my experience in “Pound Town.” Speaking of, I know it was that douche Nick. He was on the same floor our freshman year.
“You gonna stare at me all day, muttering Pound Town? Or are you going to drink?” He threw a wheel cog over his left eye like a monocle. “Don’t have all night, kid.”
Hmmm, what do girls like? Something fruity, right? Wait, this was Sydney we were talking about.
“Two double whiskeys, no ice, top shelf.”
The man turned around, grabbed a bottle of Jameson off a glass shelf, and gave two nice long pulls into plastic highball glasses. Glancing over the bar top, I noticed he had a fake shotgun attached like a peg leg.
“You dressed up in steam punk, right?” I said, half proud and half annoyed I recognized the trend.
“I wear this every day.” He released a low growl, like a cagey badger, and slammed the drinks down on the bar. “That’ll be twenty-five bucks.”
See what I mean? Freaks.
After making my way back the concession booth, I noticed Sydney was nowhere to be found.
Of course.
I was about to make good on my promise and call in the pigs, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Whipping around, I found Sydney, not in an Iron Man costume, but in a long white tank top with a pterodactyl on the front. It fell mid-thigh and was wide enough to fit her ten times over.
“Where the hell did that come from?” I handed her a drink, and she pointed across the room to an enormous man squeezed halfway into an Iron Man costume.
“We traded,” she said nonchalantly, taking a sip. “But I kept the mask.” She flipped the ridiculous mask over her head and scooted from side to side.
Where the fuck did she change?
“Where did you change?” I yelled into her plastic mask.
She twirled around in a circle.
“On the dance floor,” she yelled back, running full speed into the crowd.
Fuck .
Pushing my way through the crowd, I found her hopping around, drinking whiskey, her mask flipped up. She looked crazy. People were bumping into me, so I quickly slammed my drink, knowing I’d pay for it later. Sydney did the same and set our glasses down against a concrete wall.
I stood completely still amongst a crowd of people who’d just broken out of
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