Devious Minds

by Germaine, KF

  Pants still down, I grabbed my phone and sent Jack a text.

  Peters: What’s Sydney’s phone number?

  Two minutes later, because I’d kick his ass if it were three, Jack replied.

  Porter: Why? You don’t want to go there, man. She has no limits. None. Zero.

  Peters: Just give me the number.

  Jack sent back a series of numbers with a sad face emoji after.

  Peters: Stop acting like a pussy, Porter. No one respects weakness.

  No text back. He got the point.

  My first inclination was to send her a nasty message. A death threat or tell her she’s ugly, something like that, but that would be Gray Peters in the third grade. Twenty-one-year-old Gray Peters, I’d like to think, was more calculating. He could play the long game to prolong the pain.

  I thought briefly about asking Jack to do some recon, but if she caught him, he’d cave. He couldn’t be trusted. Not in his fragile state. Guy snooped in her room and only came out with a vibrator and her diary. I would’ve had major dirt if I had a sister. Serious where-the-dead-bodies-are-buried kind of dirt.

  I smiled thinking about that little pansy roaming around her room, cracking open her diary. It was probably pink with a heart locket, all innocent on the outside but revealed her dark secrets on the inside. I actually chuckled out loud when I remembered her diary passage was about the guy she had sex with two years ago.

  Probably me.

  What did Jack say? I was messy… no, sloppy. Sloppy and arrogant in bed. What a liar. Oh yeah, couldn’t keep it up for longer than two minutes. I’d never been accused of that.

  Two years ago, she’d shown up with her friends. They were staying in the guest rooms at the athletic dorm. She had this little dress on—blue, like a dark blue. It clung to her hips, bringing every guy’s dick to attention. I remember that much. Our floor had a party and there was drinking. Lots of Jungle Juice, because I remember suffering through some serious heartburn at practice the next day.

  She looked way different at the time. No sloppy flannels and ugly hats, but she did have that tattoo on her neck, and as soon as I saw it I wanted to lick it off or die trying. She complained about the music a lot. Which made sense now that she was the ever-so-picky Sinister. Jesus, that name.

  Somehow we ended up in my dorm room. I made sure she was eighteen, by the way. I’m no fool. I had my college ball career and NFL hopes on the line.

  We started off slow. I even played the guitar for her. That was kind of a douchebag move, but hell, I was nineteen. Then we ended up having sex. Yes, there was heavy panting, and yes, she screamed out my name. She was tight and she didn’t shave all the way like other girls, so it was smooth down there, soft. Not like grinding against sandpaper.

  Her breasts were perfect, heavy at the bottom but still fell flat against her chest, enough there to peek over the side of her narrow frame. She purred, and her thighs were soft, her ass perky. Great for gripping and pushing her up against a dorm headboard, and her—

  “The fuck are you doing?” Chance snickered from my open door. When the hell did the door open? “You’re sitting on your bed, phone in one hand and your dick in the other.”

  Shit. I didn’t even realize I was stroking myself. I wasn’t embarrassed about getting caught. I was more horrified I was thinking about Sinister.

  Grabbing my sheet, I tugged it around my waist.

  “Who are you sexting with? Wasn’t Theresa just in here? I want that number if you’re willing to toss her out for phone sex.”

  Before I could react, Chance swiped the phone from my hand. “Oh hell, you’re texting Jack Porter? What the fuck, man?”

  I threw one of my Nikes, which Theresa had kindly chucked at my head, at Chance. “I was not, asshole. I will ruin you if you start spreading rumors.”

  “You’re taking this hazing thing to a whole new level if you’ve enlisted a fluffer.” He let out a short laugh and tossed the phone back. “Get your ass up. We have practice in twenty.”

  “It’s Sunday,” I murmured, ignoring his fluffer comment. “Which one of you assholes knows the most about cars?”

  “Fernando. Remember, his dad’s a mechanic.”

  “Good, tell him to meet me in the living room.”

  I still had some major long-term planning to do for Sydney “Sinister” Porter, but I wasn’t going to miss the chance to mess with her in the meantime.

  Chapter Five

  “Motherfucker,” I yelled, bursting back through the club doors. All the patrons were gone, and it was just Snake, Nick, and Molly cleaning up. I sidled up to the bar and searched my bag. Before I pulled out my phone, a beer plopped down in front of me.

  Nick stood behind it with a knowing smile. “Peters?” he asked, wiping out a row of bar glasses.

  “Probably.” I took a sip.

  No one cared I was underage. At least not while the bar was closed. I guess they were getting used to me. Even Molly warmed up a little.

  “All my tires are missing.”

  Nick shook his head and bit down on a laugh.

  “It’s okay to laugh at me. I’d probably laugh if it happened to you.”

  “That’s nice to know.”

  As he turned to replace the glasses, I glanced down at his ass. It was perfect. When I raised my eyes, he was looking at me in the mirror behind the bar.

  Crap, I’d been caught.

  “You a lesbian, Sydney?” His tone was cool, like he asked that question all the time.

  Unfortunately, I created more work for him because I spat my sip of beer all over the bar top.

  “What? Why would you ask that?”

  There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian. I just wasn’t expecting that question from Nick.

  He chuckled under his breath. “Peters said you were.”

  “Peters would say I’m a she-male if he thought it could do some damage.”

  “Why do you hate him so much?”

  I hesitated. Is Nick a closet football fan? Is he a secret spy for Peters?

  “No reason.” Rolling my finger along the rim of my glass, I expected a note to rise like it was Mom’s crystal. I made a mental note to pull a glass rim track. It would work nicely with a dull tune, kick drum, maybe over a tra—

  “Good job tonight.” Nick’s voice cut through my creative process, which would have normally irritated me if he wasn’t so cute and his voice didn’t roll through my ears like velvet.

  I felt a burn on my cheeks. “Thanks.”

  “I especially liked the last one.” He leaned in close and looked to make sure Molly and Snake were out of earshot. “You’re too good for the SpaceRoom. I know a dozen other club owners who would claw their eyes out just for you to mix there.”

  What I wanted to say was, then I couldn’t see your beautiful face. Instead, it came out like this. “SpaceRoom’s oaky.”

  He furrowed his brows. “Oaky? Is that code for something?”

  “Sorry, I meant okay. The SpaceRoom is just my speed right now. I’ve got a lot on my plate. You know with school and other stuff. Plus, I feel like I’m building a loyal fan base. Drunk Earl is here every Sunday. He breaks out of the nursing home just to dance.”

  Earl was eighty-two and without fail, he arrived at ten and drank hot totties all night.

  “Earl’s here because you’re cute.”

  What? Instantly, blood rushed to my ears as I processed his words.

  “Oh, you’re right. Couldn’t be the music.”

  “Sorry, Sydney. I didn’t mean you weren’t talented. You are. Shit. I’m jealous. I just meant there’s other stuff people like about you. Stuff beyond Sinister.”

  When I looked up, his throat was one long flame. He was embarrassed.

  I did that.

  Pride oozed from every pore on my body. I was about to celebrate—internally, of course—when I remembered my current sucky situation.

  “Do you have that list back there? The one with the taxi information?” I glanced
over to Snake. “I have to leave my truck here overnight. Don’t have it towed, okay?”

  Snake grunted.

  “I’ll take you home,” Nick said, wrapping plastic over a container of sliced fruit.

  Alert the press. Bartender Nick just offered to take me home. Nick was willingly allowing his unofficial, yet official, stalker to ride on his Harley.

  “I can’t put my gear on your bike,” I said in a crushed voice.

  “Who said I rode a bike? I have the black Camry out front.”

  Shit. Shit. Double-shit. I forgot the Harley only existed in Sydney’s fantasy world. A Camry was decidedly less cool. Oh God, here it came, the mystery of Bartender Nick would burn to ashes the more he told me about himself.

  To keep it as enigmatic as possible, I said nothing on the car ride home. Nick also said nothing. It was perfect. I could go right on being delusional.

  When we arrived at my dorm, Nick hopped out and helped me carry my gear.

  My roommate Allison was pretending to read when I opened the door. I saw her blond head peek out through the window when we pulled up, and she didn’t read Groove Music: The Art and Culture of the Hip Hop DJ. That’s my book.

  “Picking up a new hobby?” I asked, shaking my head at her.

  Nick set down my mixer. I covered it with a towel and pushed it underneath my bed.

  “Oh, just thought I’d get into the mind of Sinister,” she said, molesting Nick with her eyes. “Want to know all about my roomie, including her friends. Hi there. I’m Allison. Sydney and I are practically sisters.”

  Allison was five feet nine with a willowy frame and light features. I’m five feet four with curves and wavy dark hair.

  I snickered. “Yeah, can’t you see the resemblance, Nick? When I first met her, I was like, ‘Am I looking into a mirror?’ Then I had to pinch my reflection, and that’s how she got that mole on her face.”

  Allison had a microscopic birthmark on her face. It wasn’t noticeable at all, but she complained and called attention to it all the time. Her face went red as she stroked her cheek.

  “Could’ve fooled me. You’re both beautiful.”

  Okay, now both Allison and I looked like we’d been in a tanning booth too long.

  “See you Sunday?” He raised an eyebrow, then added, “DJ Sinister.”

  I nodded as he gave me a borderline sexy smile and left the room.

  Not two seconds passed before Allison attacked me like a tigress. “Who was that? And, oh my God, you’re such a slut bringing up my mole.” She examined her tiny mark in the mirror.

  “Nick. He’s a bartender at SpaceRoom.” I flopped down on my twin bed and cursed under my breath. My truck has no tires. Whipping out my phone, I sent Jack a text.

  Syd: Where are they, Dimebag?

  Jack: What are you talking about?

  Syd: My f’n tires.

  Jack: I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can go to hell. As far as I’m concerned, I have no sister. I’m changing my phone number. Stay out of my life.

  I had to laugh. Peters’s influence had reached a breaking point with Jack. No doubt Peters had been ranting about me all week, and now he’d turned Jack against me.

  Syd: No can do, asshole. Like it or not, we’re in this together. Love you… Sweet dreams.

  “So,” Allison said with an unnerving swagger in her tone. “As you know, I’m in the middle of rush.”

  I groaned. Who didn’t know Allison was in the middle of rush? She’d announced it to everyone on the floor, in the cafeteria, and I’m pretty sure I heard her on a megaphone outside.

  Pink and what I referred to as white, quickly corrected by Allison as cream, had invaded every inch of our living quarters for the past two weeks.

  “So part of my ‘Kappa Delta Challenge’”—Yes, people, she did air quotes and squealed—“is the entertainment portion for an upcoming mixer.”

  I waited for her to finish, but the word entertainment left a boulder in my chest.

  She flipped on her stomach, dropped my book, and batted her freakishly long eyelashes.

  “That move only works on boys,” I said, lying to face the ceiling. “Stupid boys.”

  She laughed. It was supposed to come across as a smooth butter-her-up laugh, but it rang in my ears as a let’s-go-meet-Satan-down-the-hall laugh.

  “Stop.” I held out a palm before she could ruin my Nick-related elation. “No.”

  “Sydney,” she wailed. It came out long and groaning. “Please, please, please.”

  “No.” I kicked off my shoes and turned on my side.

  “Six hundred,” she said softly, like a seductress, into my ear. “Would six hundred Benjamins pique your interest?”

  I faced her. “Yes, Allison, sixty thousand dollars would pique my interest. Sign me up.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed and she grabbed her wallet. Pulling out a one-dollar bill, she stared down at the face. “Oh,” she said thoughtfully, “I meant would six hundred Washingtons do the trick?”

  I closed my eyes and laughed. “No more hip-hop DJ books for you, sweetheart.”

  “Come on, please. I know you’re good. I’ve heard those mixes you play while you’re getting dressed.” She sank down to her knees. It was a pathetic scene really. I wish you could’ve seen it. “I really want to be a Kappa Delta, and they are bitches… forcing my hand with this one. They want me to fail.”

  I sat upright and stared down at this mess of a woman. “So you want to be a part of a group of bitches whose end goal is to see you fail?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  I thought back on my friends. I’d left them all behind to find jobs after community college. I didn’t really know anyone here yet, with the exception of Allison and Brian. Friends did favors, right?

  “Just buy me a new set of tires and we’re even,” I said, promising to kick my own ass later.

  Allison squealed, jumped up, and threw her stick-figure arms around me. “You’re the best. Can you play Jack Johnson? Because the girls really love that song about bananas and pancakes.”

  I closed my eyes. “You want me to work Jack Johnson into a remix?”

  “Even better, you can do that mix thing. It will be awesome.”

  Chapter Six

  “What should I do with those tires?”

  I slammed my locker shut and tore the towel from around my waist. We’d just had a rough practice, and everyone’s spirits were on edge. Coach double-drilled us, surprising us with a five o’clock practice in the morning.

  Leaning against the cool metal locker, I let the wave of soreness take root in my muscles. “Toss them off a bridge,” I near-whispered, looking around for Jack. “I don’t know. Just get rid of them.”

  Fernando frowned. When an offensive lineman comes at you with anything less than a smile, that’s trouble with a capital T.

  “They’re good tires, Peters.” His voice was grave, as if we were discussing a major business transaction we could both lose our shirts on. “I mean, plenty of tread left in them. Winter ready.”

  “You’re saying this like I should give a shit.” I slumped down on the wooden bench and yanked on my boxers. Fernando sank down beside me.

  “They’re expensive. Almost a thousand bucks to replace them.”

  “So sell them if you want.” I pulled on my shoes, delivering a pointed glare. “I don’t care.”

  “I just feel bad,” he said quietly, lightly fingering the crucifix hanging from his neck.

  Great. I forgot he was Catholic. Catholics always felt guilty.

  “Don’t,” I snapped, irritated with this whole conversation. “She’s a bitch and she deserved it.”

  “Why?”

  He knew I wouldn’t answer that question.

  I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, put them in the doghouse garage. Cover them up with a blanket, though.” I didn’t need Jack running into them when I sent him to the garage for beer.

  Grabbing my phone from my duffel, I noticed I’d misse
d a very important text.

  Bitch: Thanks for the message, Ms. Douglas. I placed my schedule in the folder outside your office.

  A wide smile spread across my face. Phase one of Operation Ruin Sinister had been accomplished.

  I’d sent her a text earlier under the guise of our flighty campus counselor, Delores Douglas. Everyone knew she constantly screwed up students’ schedules, so I’d hoped Sydney was privy to that information. The anonymous bait text said:

  Unknown: Good Morning. This is Ms. Delores Douglas. I apologize in advance for this inconvenience. There has been a glitch in the campus server, and if you have received this message, I would appreciate you supplying me a copy of your current semester schedule. Please leave it in the yellow folder in front of my office with your name clearly printed at the top. Thank you.

  Hey, I thought that sounded legit. Just to stack the deck against her, I sent the message to a couple cheerleaders and four of my random buddies from campus (non-football related). Someone had mentioned Ms. Douglas was at a seminar this week, so I knew no one would grab the schedules. No one but me.

  Hightailing across campus, I made my way to the administration building and peeled off down one of the lesser-used hallways. Ms. Douglas’s office was in an isolated part of the building. Other professors wanted to avoid run-ins with their students, so they forced the guidance counselor to a vacant wing.

  Before turning the corner, I heard Sydney’s voice. What is she still doing here?

  “No, Allison, I refuse to DJ on a pink tablecloth. What is this, a baby shower? Should I play Yo Gabba Gabba for your sorority sisters?”

  Peering around the corner, I could see Sydney on her cell, pacing in front of Ms. Douglas’s door. She walked to the folder I’d set out earlier today and flipped through the other envelopes.

  Nosy, Sinister.

  “What? And a big hell no, Allison. I will not wear pink and cream. You don’t dictate my clothing. … I don’t dress like a boy. …. Who cares if I wear makeup? Isn’t the point for you to get laid, not me? …. I don’t care if you add an extra hundred. I won’t be bought out like some hooker. … Hundred and fifty? Okay, fine, we have a deal.”