All the amiability has vanished from Steve’s face. “Soooo,” he says, not without some satisfaction. “Friend from class, huh?” This is directed at Gavin. And not in a friendly way.

I instantly regret the whole thing. Not the fact that I’m not home on my bed, strumming my guitar, with Lucy curled at my side. But the fact that I’ve gotten Gavin involved. Granted, he volunteered. But I should never have taken him up on his offer. I know that the minute I see the glint in Steve’s eyes. It’s as cold and hard as the frozen metal statues of George Washington in the park below us.

I don’t know if this is the guy who killed Lindsay. But I do know we’re in trouble. Big trouble.

Gavin doesn’t appear to be as convinced as I am that we’re in for it. At least if the calm way he’s going, “What’re you talkin’ about, man?” is any indication. “Heather’s my friend, man. She was just hoping to score some blow.”

Wait.What? I was what?

“Bullshit,” scoffs Doug. “She was with that guy who came to my room and asked me all those questions about Lindsay. She’s a fuckin’ cop.”

Since Gavin genuinely has no idea what Doug is talking about, his indignation is quite believable. “Hey, man,” he says, turning to glare at the smaller Winer. “You been samplin’ a little too much of your own wares? Crack is whack, ya know.”

Steve Winer folds his arms across his chest. In contrast to his black sweater, his forearms look darkly tanned. Steve has obviously been in a warm climate recently. “I don’t deal crack, nimrod.”

“It’s an expression,” Gavin says with a sneer. I watch him in admiration. He may be in film school because he wants to direct, but as an actor, he’s not half bad. “Listen, if you’re gonna go ape-shit on me, I’m outta here.”

Steve’s upper lip curls. “You know what you are, McGoren?”

Gavin doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “No. What am I, man?”

“A narc.” As Steve speaks, two bodies disengage themselves from a couple of black leather couches, where, previously unnoticed by me, they’d apparently been sitting for some time, staring at a basketball game on the wide-screen TV. The girls who’d run off to get Jordan’s autograph are trickling back, but have stopped giggling, and now stand gaping at the drama unfolding before them, as if it were an episode of Real World, or something.

“We don’t like narcs,” one of the Tau Phis says. A little younger than Steve, this one has considerably large biceps.

“Yeah,” says his twin. Well, bicep-size-wise.

I glance from one to the other. They aren’t related, probably, and yet they look exactly alike, same cashmere-sweater-and-jeans combo Steve favors. And same blue eyes without a hint of warmth—or intelligence—in them.

“Jesus, Steve-O,” Gavin says, scornfully enough to sound like he really does resent the implication. He jerks a thumb in my direction. He hasn’t let go of my arm. “She’s just a friend of mine, lookin’ to score. But if you’re gonna act like assholes about it, forget it. We’re outta here. C’mon, Heather.”

But Gavin’s attempt at a retreat is cut short by Doug Winer himself, who steps directly into our path.

“Nobody threatens a Winer and gets away with it,” Doug says to me. “Whoever you are… you’re gonna be sorry.”

“Yeah?” I don’t know what comes over me. Gavin is trying to drag me away, but I just plant my high heels on the parquet and refuse to budge. To make matters worse, I actually hear myself ask, “The way somebody made Lindsay sorry?”

Something happens to Doug then. His face goes as red as the lights on the aerial towers I can see blinking in the dark windows behind him.

“Fuck you,” he yells.

I probably shouldn’t have been too surprised when, a second later, Doug Winer’s head met my midriff. After all, I had been asking for it. Well, kind of.

Having two hundred pounds of frat boy hit you in the gut is a special feeling, one that’s hard to describe. To tell you the truth, it’s actually a good thing I’m as big a girl as I am. I might not actually have survived if I’d been a size 2.

But since (truth be known) Doug doesn’t actually outweigh me by all that much—plus, I saw him coming, and so had time to reflexively clench—I just lie on the floor with the breath knocked out of me. I haven’t sustained any internal injury. That I can detect, anyway.

Gavin, on the other hand, doesn’t do as well. Oh, he’d have been fine if he’d just stood there. But he has to make the mistake of trying to pry Doug off me.

Because Doug—no surprise, really—fights dirty. No sooner has Gavin grabbed him by the shoulders than Doug’s whipped around and is trying to gnaw one of Gavin’s fingers off.

Since I can’t allow one of my residents to be eaten, I pull back one of my legs and—still clenching my coat and purse in one hand—land a heel in an area of Doug’s body where most guys really would rather not have a heel. Hey, I may not do yoga—or much of any exercise at all. But like all girls who’ve lived in New York City for any period of time, I know how to inflict serious bodily harm with my footwear.

After Doug crumples to the floor clutching his private parts, all hell seems to break loose, with objects and bodies being thrown around the loft as if it has suddenly transformed into a mosh pit. The mirrors behind the shelves above the bar are smashed by a flying billiard ball. Gavin manages to hurl a frat boy into the wide-screen TV, knocking it over with a crash and a burst of sparks. The size 2s are squealing and fleeing out into the hallway past the FAT CHICKS GO HOME sign, just as one of the pinball machines collapses under Jordan’s weight (I don’t ask what he was doing on top of it… or why his pants are halfway around his ankles).

Fortunately there’s so much chaos that I’m able to grab Gavin and shriek, “Let’s go!” Then the two of us each throw one of Jordan’s arms around our neck (he is in no condition to walk on his own) and drag him from the loft and down the hall…

… just as the sprinkler system goes off due to the fire started by the knocked-over television.

As the size 2s in the hallway shriek because their blow-outs are starting to curl, we duck through an exit marked STAIRS, and don’t stop running—and dragging a semiconscious ex—boy band member—until we burst out onto the street.

“Holy crap,” Gavin yells, as the cold air sucks at our lungs. “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” I say, staggering a bit in the snow. Jordan isn’t exactly dead weight, but he’s not light, either. “That was not cool.”

“Not cool? Not cool?” Gavin is shaking his head happily as we slip and slide along Washington Square North, trying to make our way west. “I wish I’d had my video camera! None of those girls was wearing a bra. When the water hit them—”

“Gavin,” I say, cutting him off quickly, “look for a cab. We need to get Jordan back to the Upper East Side, where he lives.”

“There are no cabs,” Gavin says scornfully. “There’s no one even out on the street. Except for us.”

He’s right. The park is a dead zone. The streets around it have barely been plowed at all. There isn’t a car to be seen, except way over on Eighth Street. None of the cabdrivers there can see us, however, no matter how frantically I wave.

I’m flummoxed. I don’t know what to do with Jordan. I believe his claim that none of the car services are able to make it over the bridges. And no way am I calling his dad—the man who told me nobody wants to listen to my “angry-rocker-chick shit”—to see if he can swing by in the family limo.

Jordan himself is happy as a clam, stumbling along between us, but he’s definitely the worse for wear. I can’t just leave him on someone’s doorstep—tempting as the idea seems. He’ll freeze to death. And it’s blocks—long blocks, not short ones—to the subway, and in the opposite direction—we’d have to go past Waverly Hall to get to Astor Place.