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felt like I was in Vegas and had just hit the jackpot. That was my ticket. Today was Tuesday and it was already five. So she’d be in her mystery elective.
    Crossing campus, I tried to keep a low profile, but I was stopped twice by teammates and three times by chicks wondering where I was going. I never understood why people asked that when you’re obviously in a hurry. It’s nosy. Sometimes, I want to tell them I just ate a bean burrito and had a gambler coming on (side note: gambler is a sudden urge to use the restroom for an unsavory purpose. It’s a gamble because the odds aren’t great you’re going to make it in time).
    In the communications building, I stood in front of the map, scoping out the layout. Classes didn’t usually extend after five at night, so the odds of roaming the halls and finding it were probably good. Unfortunately, when it comes to the suffocating walls of campus, I have little patience, so maybe staring at it some more would help.
    “Can I help you?” A sweet voice came from behind me, and I whipped around. A full-figured girl with mousy brown hair and glasses approached my side. Hey, I wasn’t going to judge. I like a little meat in my hands.
    “Yes, sugar.” Suddenly, I had a southern accent. Too many Matthew McConaughey movies. I almost started with, “All right, all right, all right.” She blushed, so my confidence in my southern drawl grew. “I know there’s a class here from five to nine, but I don’t have the actual room number. Can you help me out?”
    She peered up at the building layout as if she were analyzing a murder scene. Closing one eye, she dragged her finger over the glass-encased map. Next, she swung her eyes to the building’s wall-mounted clock. Then she nodded, a knowing nod, as if the killer had been in front of us the entire time.
    “No classes right now,” she said, eyes scanning my body while deep in thought. “But the radio station is at the top level. It runs twenty-four hours.”
    “What station?”
    “Duh, the campus radio station, KRUZ 97.4.” She said it like I was the last person on earth to hear this news. “It’s a pretty good station. Right now is the Sunday Lane segment. She’s hilarious.”
    “Sunday Lane?”
    “Yeah. Didn’t you notice half of the girls on campus were braless on Monday? She had a convincing hour-long segment on how bras were created by sadistic men. Men from the same genetic line who pressured Chinese women to bind their feet.”
    Now that she mentioned it, I did notice that. Chance did too. He’d managed to turn the air-conditioning up in the Chemistry building just so he could find out who had the best nipples. Bailey Jenkins won ‘hands down’ he’d said.
    Giving her a wide smile, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She trembled under the weight of my bicep, and I couldn’t help but let out an evil cackle. “Thank you. Thank you so very much. You’ve just made my day, darlin’.”

Chapter Seven

     
     
    Mirrors are cruel inventions, aren’t they?
    When I was younger, my mother would take me shopping, and I’d try on clothes in the stall with the most flattering mirror and the least amount of light. No one should look at you under fluorescent lights. Let me repeat myself: NO ONE. But every so often, you’d find that magic mirror, like it belonged in a fun house or something. It wasn’t the one that made you look like your head was about explode. It wasn’t the one showing hips that could cross continents. It was the one that made you look perfect. Or what you thought was as perfect as you can get.
    “You look awesome!” Allison squealed, standing behind me in the mirror.
    Yes, I pretty much qualified as a prostitute at this point—pimping out my soul for budget tires. At least that extra hundred and fifty ensured they wouldn’t blow up in the next three weeks, but by that time, I would have my old ones back.
    During my official investigation, I determined my tire thief had less than three