curb. Peters stood up, throwing his hands in the air, and started to come after the car.
“Turn around, Syd!” Jack yelped from my side. When he tried to grab the wheel, I punched him in the stomach with the side of my fist.
He hunched over, releasing a puff of air. “Syd, this isn’t your car, and it’s not Mom’s car.”
I gave him a long, withering stare and shifted the car into a higher gear. “Well, he’s so keen to drive my truck, so I thought a little swap would be okay. There’s a homeless camp down on Ninth Avenue, right?” I yanked the wheel toward downtown.
“Syd, please. You’re ruining this for me.” He cradled his head in his hands, lowering his elbows to his knees. “I’m going to throw up.”
I slammed on the breaks and pulled into a parking spot along the road. “What are you thinking, Jack? Really? Sending some asshole in to get the keys for my truck. What the hell do you need it for anyway?”
He hesitated, so I knew it was bad. “To pick up some kegs.”
I shook my head.
“He doesn’t want to put them in the Porsche because it’s raining out. It will ruin his interior. Please, please, Syd. I just want to fit in with the team. You know it’s hard for me to make friends.”
Shutting my eyes, I leaned back against the seat.
Jack Porter, star athlete and possibly the most awkward boy I’d ever known. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, which was why he didn’t know about Sunday Lane. His awkwardness only tripled when a female was within a ten-foot radius. He didn’t even have to see her. It was like his body sensed estrogen and folded in on itself. We Porter kids made quite the team.
But giving into the wants and needs of Gray Peters wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t do it—ever—not even for Jack. Besides, he needed to learn how to make friends without bartering or he’d be screwed his whole life.
“Not going to happen, Jack.”
He let out an infuriated growl. “Then how the hell are we going to get the kegs, Syd? You have a better idea?”
I smiled and hit the automatic roof button. The panels slid off, and sheets of rain dumped into the car like God was tossing buckets, drenching us both. Jack’s eyes pleaded with me, but he didn’t make a sound. I would have driven it through a car wash if I had more time, maybe dropped it in the river, but I had to be back in four minutes.
Pulling the car out, I circled the block a few times, collecting as much rain as I could. A huge puddle had pooled to one side of the uneven road, and I sped through it. An ocean of oily, dirty water crashed over Jack, hitting us both. He lifted his arms shaking off. I just laughed my ass off.
Before I turned the block to the club, I stopped in front of Rico’s, a gut rot Mexican food truck.
“Trash,” I yelled at Rico, hopping out of the car. I slapped Jack’s hand away from the ignition and pulled the keys. “Don’t move a muscle.”
Rico gave me a confused look but pointed to a large can of half-consumed bean burritos, red rice, and sticky orange soda. His mouth dropped open with sheer amazement when I rocked the can toward the back of the car.
“No, Sydney. NO,” Jack yelled from the passenger seat.
“Rico, come help.”
At five-foot-four, I couldn’t tip the can myself.
“Or you’ll be next,” I threatened.
Rico stepped out of the truck and helped me lift the can over the side of the car, dumping it all over the backseat. It covered most of it but I was still unimpressed with the damage. So I grabbed several partially drank bottles of soda and poured them over the seats.
“What are you doing?” Jack screamed.
“Stop playing follow-the-leader, Jack,” I yelled back at him just before dumping half a bottle on his head.
Rico snapped pictures from the sidewalk and laughed.
“Destroy those pictures, Rico.”
Rico immediately dropped his head and went to work punching buttons.
When we turned the corner, Peters furiously paced the sidewalk while Snake leaned