Devious Minds

by Germaine, KF

  “I’d flip the pages of paperback books just to listen to the fluttering sound. I’d fill glasses at varying levels and hit the sides with spoons. I’d force Jack to jump on different floorboards in my dad’s ancient apartment just to hear the sounds while I strummed utensils along the metal spines of notebooks. Well, one day while Dad was at work, Jack and I came up with a whole routine.”

  I smiled down at my hat, thinking about our ridiculous song.

  “I’d recorded a song on the Casio so it was ready for playback. As soon as I hit the button, Jack lightly clapped his hands.” I clapped my hands lightly. “Then as he’d build to a louder clap, I’d blow air over a half-filled beer bottle. I didn’t drink it,” I added, and the kids chuckled. “Then I would tap a spoon against Dad’s pizza pan.

  “After exactly two minutes of clapping, Jack would start jumping on the one floorboard we discovered had a sharp-pitched creak.” I tried to copy the sound out loud, but it came across as a mating dolphin, and the kids winced.

  “And then we’d do it louder and faster, until my cheeks hurt, and I knew Jack’s thigh was aching. Then, at just the right moment, we’d stop and let the piano music take over. It was beautiful and complicated, you know?”

  A few of the kids shook their heads, not following my train of thought.

  “It was complicated because it was hard. The process of arranging the sounds perfectly after trial and error. But it was beautiful because when it all fell together, it was unique. Jack and I made music from an old piano, a pizza pan, a beer bottle, Jack’s hands, and a creaky old floorboard. Something you’d never hear on the radio. Two little kids running around an old one-bedroom apartment, repurposing objects until they sang.”

  I stopped, feeling a painful lump in my throat, and Gray moved to the front of the class. “Maybe we should take a break,” he said, his eyes never flickering from my face. “Let’s thank Sydney for such a colorful personal story, and when we get back, we’ll critique.”

  A few thanks were muttered, and then that little shorty with the terrible eyesight (thirty-eight!), Parker, spoke up. “Did your Dad like it?”

  I stared at his bright-eyed smiling face, but I couldn’t break his heart.

  “He loved it,” I finally answered, feeling old wounds tear open.

  The kids spread faster than wildfire, heading out into the hall to use the restroom or get a drink of water. Gray waited for them to leave before wrapping his arms around me in a warm, safe hug. “Awesome story, Sydney.” He dropped his hand down my back and led me toward the easels. “Let’s look at what the kids think.”

  We walked from picture to picture. I laughed at a few of them, not because they were funny, but because they were cute. One had a purple keyboard and a young boy dancing in the background, who I guessed was Jack. One kid drew me doing a wheelie off a park bench, but it looked like my arm was broken in half.

  “Needs some work,” Gray mumbled as he tickled my side.

  I stopped in front of Parker’s picture, and Gray shook his head. “Well, at least he used a lot of color.”

  “That’s the log truck,” I said, pointing to brown cylinders at the top of the page. It was held up by a grey rectangle that must have been the truck body. Underneath that were three vertical lines: pink, black, and blue. They were all connected by one dotted gray line. “And that’s me, my dad, and Jack.”

  Reading my face, Gray grabbed my hand as if he knew I needed the comfort.

  “And all that color, those rings behind us? See how they start off light and almost nonexistent in the center, then grow in intensity as you move toward the outer rings? That’s the music,” I choked out as hot, frustrated tears poured down my cheeks.

  Immediately, Gray pulled me into his side. “Shh… Sydney,” he murmured into my hair. “I didn’t want this to be a negative experience. It was supposed to be fun. I’m sorry.”

  “I loved it,” I said honestly. “It was cathartic. I could envision my dad right in front of me, smiling, as I described every carefully planned sound. I just wanted him to hear it.”

  Gray kissed my forehead and smiled. “Then tell him next time you see him. I’m sure he’d appreciate you remembering that day so clearly.”

  I shook my head. “Not the story, Gray. I just wanted him to hear the song.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Gray, will you stop shoving food in my face? I’m gonna need a power scooter at the grocery store if you keep cramming nachos down my throat.” Sydney pushed the plate of nachos away from her and crossed her arms. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d dribbled salsa down the front of her sweatshirt.

  I am a world-class idiot. Why did I press her to tell those kids a story?

  She shook her head, reading my mind again. “I didn’t have to tell them that story, Gray, but it was nice to get if off my chest.” Glancing down at her chest, Sydney growled and wiped the salsa off with a napkin. “I mean, it was ten years ago.”

  Tossing her wadded napkin at my face, she said, “Maybe I should have told them about your Porsche’s quinceañera?”

  Blocking her shot, I snickered. “Don’t give those punks any ideas, Sinister. Besides, they would have picked up your guilt right away.”

  “Guilt wasn’t the feeling that came to mind,” she joked, taking a sip of her soda. “But seriously, I don’t want to talk about it, and don’t mention Dad’s death to Jack. It was a really hard time for him. He lost his only friend that day.”

  Sydney’s father had been in a logging accident that day. The truck’s trailer came loose, and when he stopped on a sparsely traveled logging road to inspect it, the whole thing toppled over. He wasn’t found for hours. Sydney and Jack were just sitting in his apartment, peeking through metal blinds, anticipating his return.

  “Jack lost his father, too,” I added, feeling that now familiar sting of remorse coat my throat. “I’ve been such an ass to your brother. Why didn’t he tell me about this? No wonder he—”

  “We don’t talk about it,” Sydney said quietly. “Jack and I have each another.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “You don’t get it.” Sydney smiled and shook her head. “Mom never cared. In fact, I think she was secretly glad Dad died. That meant she got us all to herself.”

  “You can’t mean that, Sydney.”

  “I do,” she snapped, then lowered her voice. “I’m all Jack has. He’s all I have. We look out for one another. Well, mostly, I look out for Jack.”

  “Not anymore.” I laid my hand over hers. “I’ll look out for the both of you.”

  “We don’t need to be ‘looked out for,’ Gray. I have this handled.”

  “Sure you do,” I said, picking at her plate of nachos. “I’m onto you, Sydney. You act all tough and gruff, but deep inside, you’re a big softy. Sometimes you need to put your trust in someone else and let them inside. You can whip me senseless with your snarky words, but I’m not going any—”

  “I never understood why people do that,” Sydney interrupted, clearly uncomfortable with our discussion. A disgusted look washed over her face as she jerked her head toward the corner of the diner. “It’s weird. Don’t you want to look someone in the face while you’re talking to them?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted a couple sitting next to each other in a booth, facing the empty other side.

  “Maybe they’re in love?” I flashed my eyes back to Sydney, and she focused down at her hands, smoothing them over her sweatshirt. “When people are in love, they want to be near one another. Is that so wrong? They want to touch one another.”

  Continuing to avoid me, she moved her focus to the chipped speckled counter edge and picked at it with her finger.

  “They already know the curve of her lips, every freckle on her face, and every speck of green in her coffee-colored eyes.” I stopped, and she briefly lifted her eyes to mine.

  She knew I was talking about her, and it was making her nervous. Well, I was going to make my point.r />
  “But sometimes they want to touch her skin. Sometimes they want to smell the spice in her hair and bury themselves in it. Sometimes they want to kiss her throat as she laughs, because the resulting vibration awakens every cell in their bodies.”

  Raising her head, Sydney’s eyes spilled over my face, stopping at my lips. “Sounds like an intense threesome.”

  When I left my side of the booth and settled next to her, I half expected she’d toss a fork my way or squirt Sriracha in my eyes. Instead, she rested her head against my chest, and I inhaled the fragrance released from her unruly dark locks.

  I’d nearly admitted my love for Sydney, and she was holding on to to me like a lifeline.

  As I wrapped my arm around her, the noises from the busy diner faded. “Now it’s time to laugh for me, Sydney.” Slipping her hair behind her shoulder, I kissed her neck.

  “But it’s usually your face that makes me laugh, and I can’t see it,” she said, relaxing under my lips. “That small chip on your right incisor. Those uneven sideburns that drive Hasidic Jewish men crazy with jealousy. Your wandering eye tha—”

  “Shut up.” I laid kisses across her jawline until finally she let out a full, deep laugh, sending that vibration rippling through her throat. “There it is.”

  As I started to move a hand underneath her sweatshirt, a black leather billfold slapped onto the table.

  “Can’t you lovebirds wait until later?” The gravelly voice of a lifetime smoker broke my hold on Sydney’s neck. We both turned toward a seventy-some-year-old woman in a stained apron with a mop of gray curls on her head. “So sick of you college kids thinking this is a brothel. I have to wipe the booths down more than the tabletops.”

  Sydney laughed and reached for her bag, but I laid money on the table first. “Bad day, Lenore?” I asked, reading her aged, yellowed nametag.

  Her rough hands snatched the money, and she shoved it in her apron pocket. “One day you’ll figure out it’s not all cuddles and butterflies. One day you’ll wake up after being with the same man for fifty years, and he’ll be trying on your compression stockings and dipping into your Rosalicious pink lipstick. Then you’ll be sorry because you’ve wasted your life on a jerk who’s been screwing your church pastor. The same church pastor who gave you marriage counseling. One da—”

  “Lenore!” An old man wearing a paper chef’s hat and bright-red lipstick poked his head through the hot food pass. “Stop telling lies about me and get back here. Next order’s up.”

  Lenore delivered a slow headshake of warning and turned back to the kitchen.

  “Holy crap,” I said, watching Lenore hobble around the counter.

  “That’s a good shade on him,” Sydney joked. Grabbing her bag, she glanced at her phone. “It’s four o’clock. Do you want to hang out some more, Professor Peters?”

  “Yes, Miss Porter,” I answered, and she gave me a weird look. “Shit, I thought you were talking about role play.” I knew she wasn’t, but I loved that eye roll she gave me.

  “Where are we going?” Sydney asked, flipping through the radio stations, hemming and hawing at each song. “Can’t they play anything decent? It’s all teenagers with boob jobs and voices so auto-tuned a parrot could do better.”

  “I’m taking you out of the city,” I answered, entering the highway 30 on-ramp. “You did bring an overnight bag, right?”

  I made an executive decision to take Sydney away from campus. Away from Katharine. Away from Sunday Lane. Away from the dark clouds looming over her head… and mine.

  “Gray, are you kidnapping me?” Her shocked tone was laced with excitement.

  “Yes. Twenty-four hours. It’s just going to be us. No Jack, Allison, Fernando, or Chance. I want you all to myself.” Giving her a sidelong glance, I tried to gauge her reaction. She’d pulled her hat down and was chewing nervously on her lower lip. “Or I can take you back to campus, and we can go our separate wa—”

  “No,” she said, placing her hand on my lap. “I think I’d like to be kidnapped, but you have to be gentle.”

  “Gentle?”

  “Yes. The skin on my wrists and ankles is sensitive. No rough ropes.”

  I shifted in my seat, trying to hide my growing erection. “Don’t test me, Sydney.”

  Letting out a loud laugh, she rolled down the window and tapped her fingers along the frame. “So, Snake, where are you taking me? You headed west, and we’re on one of two highways leading to 101, hmmm.” A high-beam smile erupted on her face. “The coast?”

  I nodded, and Sydney grabbed my hand, pulling it into her lap.

  “I haven’t been to the coast since… well, since Dad.”

  “Really? Well, it’s about time, Sinister. New beginnings, right?”

  “For comrades,” she added.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  After two hours on a single-lane highway, we made our way to a tiny coastal town. It was quiet and filled with old cabins built in the 1940s, set by the ocean. Multimillion-dollar homes precariously perched on cliffs above, competed for their views of the Pacific Ocean. The town had one small grocery store with an attached coffee shop. Everything you needed.

  Gray parked the car in front of a tiny cabin with worn cedar siding. As I stepped from the car, I tried to tame my hair. Beach wind and humidity is never a woman’s friend.

  “Stop it,” Gray said, pulling his art supplies from the trunk. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Whose cabin is this?”

  “My grandpa’s. Well, it’s the family cabin now, but no one’s been here since he passed, except for Mom.”

  I followed him to the side of the cabin, and he stopped in front of an open firewood shed. Like a thick, white bridal veil, a mass of spider webs covered the entrance.

  “The keys are in a jar,” he said, pointing blankly to the opening. “In there.”

  “Okay,” I said, watching his hands clench into tight fists. “Then go get them.”

  “Yuuup.” Rubbing his hands down his pants, he leaned against the side of the cabin. “Nope. Can’t do it.” Two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and he was afraid of spiders?

  Rolling my eyes, I entered the shed, wiping the delicate webs away from my face. I grabbed a jar sitting behind an old stack of dried wood and smiled.

  “FUCK,” I yelled, rushing outside with the jar. “I ripped open a spider egg sack.”

  Gray remained petrified against the house.

  “They’re in my hair!” I threw my hat off and ran up to Gray. He released a high-pitched squeal and lifted a leg to block me with a kick. “I can feel them crawling all over my scalp!”

  Red-faced and screaming, Gray ran around the back of the cabin. I followed him, trying hard to suppress my laugh, but as I turned the corner, I was met with a blast of water in my face.

  “What the hell?”

  “Put your head down,” Gray yelled. He kept a wide distance from me but raised a hose above him, thumb covering the nozzle for added blasting pressure. “Sydney, put your head down!”

  “No dryer here, but I put your clothes on the deck rail,” Gray said, opening the bathroom door. “Are you warming up yet?”

  I was standing in the tiniest shower invented by man, trying to regain the feeling in my toes. “Trying to,” I answered, smoothing my hands over my goose-bumped shoulders. “I can’t believe you hosed me!”

  “Never, ever joke about spiders with me, Sinister,” he warned.

  “Or what?” I said, grabbing an old bar of soap from the wire shower caddy.

  I heard the toilet flush and then glacial water spewed from the showerhead. Letting out a loud scream, I tossed the bar of soap over the edge, hoping I’d hit Gray.

  “Or that,” he said on a laugh.

  A few seconds later, the shower door opened and a naked Gray squeezed inside, holding the bar of soap. I wanted to be mad, I really did, but once his chest smashed against me, I was instantly warm. Before I said something snarky, he leaned down and kissed me. Soft and perfect.
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  “Let me wash those spiders outta your hair.” He lathered the soap in his hands and raked them through my hair. “I love your wild hair.” Lowering his hand, he stopped between my legs. “All of it.”

  I swatted him on the arm, and he laughed. Then he began running his fingers between my legs.

  Mumbling something incoherent, I leaned against the back of the stall.

  Gray grinned and slipped a finger inside me, working me at an angle. “Are you still mad at me?” He slid his other hand down my hip.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I’m pissed.”

  Lowering to his knees, Gray spread my legs open, and soon his head was buried between my thighs. I let out a long groan and grabbed the back of his head as he worked his mouth along with those magic QB fingers. My knees were beginning to weaken, which Gray must have noticed, because he pulled a hand to my hip, holding me steady.

  “You still mad?” he said, pulling back his head to look up at me.

  “Getting closer to forgiving you,” I said, pushing his head back to me.

  He laughed and lifted a leg over his shoulder, sinking back between my thighs. It didn’t take long. Soon, I was yelling my forgiveness through the rooftop.

  “A little to the left,” Gray said, jerking his head to the right.

  A crisp pop from our beach fire delivered a sprinkling of sparks into the night sky.

  “You mean my right?” I moved a few inches to my right, digging my toes deeper in the damp sand.

  “No. I mean my right. Your left.”

  I moved a few inches back, settling just behind the fire. The licking flames pulled heat across my face, and I moved my fingertips along my skin, cooling it down.

  “Keep your hands down.” He shifted his sketchpad higher on his lap and dug through his box of pastels. “If you keep touching your face, it’s going to change the outcome.”

  “I thought you were drawing my soul,” I teased, flashing him a flirtatious smile from across the fire.