Devious Minds

by Germaine, KF

  Then he smiled. “No. Don’t think so. I found a vibrator in her room once. It was pink. Not sure lesbians use pink vibrators.”

  “Classic,” Chance said, a hint of pride in his voice. “Snooping in your sister’s room. Anything else good in there? How do you know for sure she’s not a lesbian?”

  “She might be now,” Jack said thoughtfully. “I read her diary two years ago, so I know she’s had sex with a least one guy. She described him as ‘sloppy and arrogant.’ Couldn’t keep it up longer than two minutes…” His voice faded to a mumble. “Then after that, she turned into a bitch. Well, an even bigger bitch.”

  Jack’s eyes shifted nervously. “Shit. I shouldn’t have told you that. You guys don’t know my sister. She keeps Mace on her all the time. Even when she sleeps.” He paused to take in a dramatic breath. “And one time, she was so pissed at my mom, she stole Mom’s car and gave it to a homeless guy in exchange for his dog.” A desperate plea filled his eyes. “Seriously. She’s bad news.”

  I slapped Jack on the back, pushing him toward the front door. “Let’s go, Porter.”

  “This place is a shithole.”

  We’d just pulled up outside the SpaceRoom. A dingy cinderblock building on the outskirts of campus. Jack was quiet the whole way. Kid was afraid of his big sister, but on the field, he could plow into a guy twice his size and remain standing. There was something wrong with that.

  “Wait here,” I said, giving the bouncer a onceover.

  Jack finally opened his mouth, but I shut the door and headed toward the entrance.

  After showing my ID, I made my way into the main room. Instantly, I spotted a blond waitress in the corner and headed her way. She looked up with an easy smile.

  Shit, Jack, I got this.

  “Hey there. Here to pick up the truck,” I said as she came close. Swinging my eyes over her scrawny chest and thin arms, I could see she was very terrifying. “You don’t seem scary.”

  “I’m not,” she yelled over the music. “Can I get you a drink?”

  I recognized a popular song mixed over another track. Then every few seconds, an eerie bell would ding and a woman’s voice cut through, yelling some nonsense from the speakers.

  “No drink… Just here for the keys.”

  She threw me a confused look.

  “Porter, right?”

  Shaking her head, she pointed into the crowd of dancers. “Porter’s over there.”

  I pointed to the crowd. “She’s dancing? I thought she worked here.”

  “She does. She’s the DJ, but she goes by Sinister.”

  “Sinister,” I repeated. Unbelievable. “How do I get up there?”

  The waitress looked up at the bar clock. “She’ll take a break in three minutes. I’ve got a water to take to her. Wanna do it for me? She scares the shit out of me.”

  Nodding, I grabbed the bottle from her tray and braced myself for the frightening beast, DJ Sinister. The waitress was flagged by a table, and I leaned against the bar, studying the crowd.

  From here, I could make out a short person huddled over the DJ booth, but it was dark.

  As cool as ice, the music faded into a seventies lounge song. Guitar twangs erupted through the speakers, followed by a heavier snare drum, and like magic, it eased into an opera tenor’s voice, deep and rich, and fell in line with the snare beat. And a man’s voice with the confidence of the president blew through the speaker, yelling out some Shakespeare quote. It was all very confusing, but the crowd screamed.

  “Gray?” A deep voice came from behind me, and I whipped around.

  “Nick Sharbus? What the hell, man? You work here?”

  Avoiding my question, he turned away from the bar and grabbed a glass. Pouring a micro-draft, he slid it across the counter toward me. Stoic as always, Nick didn’t say a word. He looked off into the crowd and tapped his thumb against the bar rail, admiring the beat.

  “I wondered what happened to you. You just cut out of practice one day, and next thing we knew, you left the team. What’s up with that, asshole?”

  I sized him up. He’d added more tats over the last year, but he still worked out judging by the cords of muscles ripping through his forearms.

  “It’s complicated,” he said, grabbing a towel from behind the bar. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Having a kegger tomorrow night. Borrowing a truck to pick up the kegs. You should come by. The guys think you’re dead or some shit.”

  “SpaceRoom doesn’t have a truck,” he answered, pouring a beer for another patron. When he finished, he resumed his position at the bar rail.

  I was about to mess with him some more when a small voice clipped through the speakers, “Taking a fiver.” Then a premixed beat started.

  “That’s my cue.” I glanced over at Nick, and he eyed the water bottle in my hands. “It’s for DJ Sinister,” I said, making air quotations for effect. Such a ridiculous name. “She’s the one with the truck.”

  Nick frowned. “You dating her?”

  “No, her little brother’s on the team—took your position by the way. Plus, I hear she’s into girls.”

  His eyes widened. “She is?”

  I wagged my eyebrows suggestively and headed across the dance floor.

  Sweat practically leapt off the bodies in the crowd, and I carefully wove past them to avoid contact. When I reached the booth, her head was low and she was flipping through a milk crate of vinyl records.

  A large trucker hat, the kind with a solid front and meshed back, hid her face, but I could see she wasn’t blond and tall. She was brunette and petite.

  A tattoo of a piano keyboard ran down the underside of her forearm. It was an electronic piano, like the kind you learn on when you’re a kid, and she had on a bulky flannel rolled up her arms.

  With her head still low, she whipped the flannel off, exposing a body-hugging white tank. It was a damn shame she played for the other team, because her stomach was tight, leading up to at least a C-cup, and her neck was long and fragile. She took a second to whip her hair back into a ponytail, showing off a guitar fret board tattoo on the back of her neck.

  Instantly, I felt sick. The sight of that tattoo made my insides twist. It was too familiar, and I stood there staring at it, trying to place it in my mind.

  When she found the record she was looking for, she stood up straight, and I plopped the bottle of water on the table. That’s when she jerked her head up, and my heart pounded harder than the kick drum coming out of the speaker.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped. Her scowl could have crumbled the Empire State Building—an earthquake of fury like I’d never seen. Pulling up her hat, she gave me a better view of her dark glare, and just for a second, I shut my eyes.

  Holy shit.

  I’d slept with Jack Porter’s sister.

  Chapter Three

  Piece of shit closed his eyes.

  What was he doing here? Panic set in, thinking my Sunday Lane character was breached. Maybe he’d heard my quips about his small prick and he was out for revenge.

  Then he opened his eyes. “I know you.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said, searching the room for more testosterone-laden Neanderthals. “What do you want?”

  “Sydney,” he said, starting to hop up onto the stage. When he saw my expression, he backed down.

  God, he remembers my name.

  My eyes locked with Snake’s, and he started a slow, steady walk toward the stage. When he reached me, he kept his eyes on my face but pulled Peters back by his shoulder. “Don’t touch the stage.”

  “I got this, Snake. He’s just leaving.”

  Snake took a few steps back, just out of earshot, but waited in case I needed him.

  “Sydney, you do know me, remember? You came up here for a college visit, and w—”

  “And that was two years ago,” I interrupted.

  His eyes strayed to my chest, and I crossed my arms, blocking his view. Peters turned in a circle, as if to c
ollect his thoughts. Then he faced me again with a soft look. “I’m here with your brother, Jack. He needs to borrow your truck.”

  My eyes shot up, scanning the room for Jack. “He’s eighteen, and you brought him to a bar? You meatheads are already trying to mess up his NFL chances. Is that your play, Peters? Let him get busted in a club?”

  He shook his head and was about to take a step forward but thought better of it when Snake cleared his throat.

  “No. Of course not. He’s outside. Coach paired us as team buddies, so I’m showing him the ropes. We just need to borrow your truck for an hour and we’ll bring it right back. I promise.”

  “Showing him the ropes?” I drew in a sharp breath. “You mean showing him how to use girls like brainless objects and laugh about it the next day, while you think they’re sleeping in your room you call the sex palace?”

  His mouth turned up like he was about to laugh, but it shot back down, reading the death look on my face.

  “What? Sydney, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous?” I repeated, gripping the record so tightly it was about to crack. “I remember it very clearly, Peters. I’m surprised you remembered my name after being scored so low on the pussy scale.”

  He bunched his eyebrows, thinking it over.

  “Remember it now, you micro-dick nobody?”

  Peters’s face fell to a frown. “Micro-dick? That’s not what I remember. I remember someone panting over my shoulder for hours, screaming out my name.”

  A dull burn flooded my throat, seeping into my veins. I grabbed the mic and yelled, “Five more minutes,” to which the crowd groaned. Setting another three tracks to play, I jumped off the stage.

  “Hold him back,” I yelled at Snake, and he stepped to the side, grabbing Peters by his arm.

  I could feel every eye on me, even the eyes I never got (Nick’s), as I charged through the crowd and threw open the club door.

  Idiot left his car idling at the curb. When I jumped in the driver’s seat, Jack glanced up from his phone with a smile, then did a double-take.

  All the blood drained from his face.

  “Thought it was Peters?” I threw the car into drive and adjusted the rearview just as Snake dropped Peters roughly on the 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 against the club door. Peters’s phone was up to his ear, and he looked ready to detonate.

  His hand dropped along with his jaw when he saw us coming.

  “What the fuck!” he screamed.

  Snake still sported those aviators, and I caught a small smile on his face. Jack just sat there like rigor mortis had already set in. He knew he was dead meat.

  I hopped out of the car and threw a speechless Peters the keys. “Not a scratch on her, Peters, and look.” I waved my hands over the now open top. “I solved your keg transportation dilemma, and you have a midnight snack.”

  Flipping him the bird, I brushed past Snake and toward the club door.

  “Now you can scream my name, asshole!” I yelled without turning back.

  Stepping into the club, I was dripping through to my bones, and it was awesome.

  “Hi, Nick,” I said, passing the bar.

  He looked up, surprised, but slow and steady, he said, “Hey.”

  The shock of me speaking to Nick would sink in later, but for now, I felt victorious taking that stage.

  “I’m fucking back,” I yelled into the mic, and the crowd cheered as I faded into an adrenaline-infused track.

  Chapter Four

  I put Jack through hell for a week. He detailed my car. He cleaned up the puke after our kegger. He went on unwarranted runs for ice. Every time, I’d tell him we only needed one bag, and he’d come back with one bag. Then I’d tell him we needed one more bag, but just one. This got old after fifty times.

  I know what his sister did wasn’t his fault, but he was spineless around her. He needed to grow a pair of balls. I was more upset about that than the fact the bitch ruined my leather.

  The guys thought it was a simple haz
ing. They didn’t question my methods or the why, and I didn’t tell them about Sydney. Jack was smart enough and didn’t say a thing either. He knew I would have been harassed for weeks, and shit rolls downhill.

  I lay back on my mattress, plotting my revenge.

  If Sydney Porter thought this would be swept under the rug, she had another thing coming. I wanted to slap that sassy look off her face when she threw those keys at me. Of course, I was in shock, and Snake (could a bouncer’s name be any more cliché) was right behind me, out for blood. And she was wet, her tank like a second skin, showing off two teardrop-shaped breasts, nipples erect, so naturally, my body betrayed me with wood.

  Letting out an infuriated sigh, I leaned back into the mattress. A smaller whimper came from my waistband, where Tina—or Tiffany… or who the fuck cares—was sucking me dry.

  “Baby, you taste good,” she murmured, taking a break to stroke me.

  I didn’t feel a thing. Sex had been replaced with rage.

  “Get up,” I said softly, pushing her shoulders. She looked at me like I’d just told her to jump off a building. “I’m too tired tonight, Tin—”

  “Theresa,” she snapped, wiping a hand across her mouth. “It’s Theresa, you ass, and it didn’t taste good. It never does. Sunday Lane was right. You boys are all the same! Just a hoard of disease-riddled amoebas slithering around campus trying to get your next fix!”

  Sunday who? Must be a new cheerleader.

  “Slithering amoebas? Never listen to girls named after weekdays, Theresa,” I teased. Theresa slapped me on the thigh and scowled. Before she could continue her rant I broke in, “Us boys are all the same yet you continue to give blowjobs, Theresa. Maybe you should take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and ask, ‘Why do I continue to give head?’ and maybe you’ll figure out, like all the rest of the cheerleading squad, you were born to do it, and that’s your fate in life. To suck a quarterback’s dick.”

  She threw my Nikes at me and huffed out of the room.

  Okay, I guess that was a little mean, but Sydney Porter was invading my thoughts to the point I couldn’t even enjoy Theresa.