Size 12 and Ready to Rock (Heather Wells 4)

“I understand,” he says, raising his voice so he can be heard over the siren—so ubiquitous in this neighborhood that he doesn’t even pause to ask what it is or wonder if it might have anything to do with our current situation—“but if this is a programming activity, what’s with this report Protection received about an unauthorized party with an unconscious student?”

“That’s a good question,” I say. Though it’s one I completely understand now that I recognize the tall, lanky frame and handsome features of the person speaking with the EMTs in the bright security lights that flood the front entrance. “Maybe it has something to do with the basketball team?”

Simon goes pale behind his neatly trimmed mustache. “You mean . . . the Pansies?” His voice falls into a hushed whisper. Since the siren has been abruptly shut off, his next words sound absurdly loud. “You think they’re involved?”

“I can’t think who else it could be.” I keep my gaze averted from Cooper’s as he crosses the room to stand beside me, even when I see him glancing curiously out the window. “The paintball war is student desk staff against the student paint staff . . . the basketball team. I thought I mentioned that before—”

“You didn’t,” Simon interrupts, tersely. “Where are they?”

“The Pansies are in the cafeteria.” Gavin is suddenly being very helpful . . . not because he thinks any of the basketball players are in trouble, but because he’s seen a way for his paintball game to continue. “Want us to show you?”

“Yes, of course,” Simon replies, spinning toward the door. “It’s nice that someone around here knows what’s going on. . . .”

Gavin throws me a mischievous smile; then he and Jamie follow Simon toward the door. Since Simon’s back is to Gavin, he doesn’t see the paintball rifle in Gavin’s hand.

But Pete does. He snatches the guns from both Gavin’s and Jamie’s hands, giving them each a baleful look as he does so. They slink out, looking disappointed. As soon as they’re safely out of earshot, Pete glares at me.

“Really?” he asks. “I’m supposed to follow those knuckleheads down there and let myself get sprayed a second time?”

“Well,” Cooper says, “you’re armed now. Just spray them back.”

“The ballplayers are good guys,” I say quickly, seeing the look Pete throws my boyfriend. “They’ll put down their weapons if they hear you say you’re with campus police.”

Pete tosses the paint guns onto the couch, not seeming very reassured. “Who they loading into the meat wagon?” he asks, nodding toward the windows.

I’m not surprised he’s figured out that the siren belonged to an ambulance and that the ambulance has stopped in front of Fischer Hall. Pete’s worked for New York College a long time. His intention is to stay until he can collect his benefits package and retire to his family’s casita in Puerto Rico.

“Someone from the penthouse,” I say.

Pete looks even more displeased. “What’re they doing here? I thought they spend summers at their place in the Hamptons. That way she can get soused on Long Island iced teas without everyone on campus knowing about it.”

Pete’s right: Mrs. Allington, President Allington’s wife, is a woman who has been known to over-imbibe. This has made living in the penthouse of a building in which they have to take the same elevator as seven hundred undergraduates an occasional challenge.

Mrs. Allington is also a woman who keeps a cool head in emergencies . . . enough so that she once saved my life. Not that she’s recognized me ever since. Still, there are few things I wouldn’t do in order to preserve her privacy and reputation.

This, however, is one occasion when she has no need of my discretion.

“I don’t think it’s Mrs. Allington this time,” I say.

Pete looks puzzled. “The president came into the city without her? That’s not like him.”

“No,” I say. “I’m pretty sure the Allingtons aren’t the ones having the unauthorized party.”

“Then who is?” Cooper asks.

“Their son.”

Chapter 3

Bank Card Lover

In the club, bodies tight

Think I may, think I might

See your face across the floor

That’s when you tell me the score

Late at night, lobby light

Press my code, away we go

Hours pass, you make it last,

Just so long as I’ve got the cash

He’s a bank card lover

Girls warned me about him

Just a bank card lover

Don’t let him under your skin

Club is closed, money’s tight

I’m going home alone tonight

I don’t even know his name

But I’m not feeling any shame

I know he’s just a bank card lover

The other girls were right

Just a bank card lover

Gave me the ride of my life

(Dance break, repeat)

“Bank Card Lover”

Performed by Tania Trace

Written by Larson/Sohn

So Sue Me album

Cartwright Records

Three consecutive weeks

in the Top 10 Billboard Hot 100

“Why are we doing this again?” Cooper asks.

We’re alone in one of Fischer Hall’s ancient elevators as it wheezes its way to the penthouse. Pete’s left us to go make sure Simon doesn’t get completely soaked under a hail of paintballs.

“Because Christopher Allington hasn’t exercised the best judgment in the past,” I explain. “I want to make sure he’s not up to his old tricks. That ambulance better be for his mom and not some young girl he roofied.”

Cooper shakes his head. “You always think the best about people, don’t you? That’s what I love most about you, your boundless optimism and faith in the goodness of mankind.”

I narrow my eyes at him . . . but I can’t deny it. There are few people I’ve met since coming to work at Fischer Hall—a job I lucked into after getting kicked off the Cartwright Records label, and then out of my former boyfriend’s bed—whom I haven’t suspected of murder. It’s surprising how often I’ve been right.

Possibly this is an instinct I honed during the years I spent working in the entertainment business. Not that a lot of musicians are murderers, but many of them are damaged in one way or another. Maybe this is what draws them to the profession in the first place. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll are all ways to exorcise your inner demons . . .