Devious Minds

by Germaine, KF

  And what did Gray want? NFL? Maybe. To teach art? Sure. But I knew what he really wanted was for me to forgive him. Even if we’d never be together. I didn’t have to guess at that. He’d told me over and over as he puked into his toilet Sunday night. And several more times when I’d climbed into the shower with him so he wouldn’t slip and fall. I love you, Sydney, was the last thing he’d said to me when I tucked him into bed.

  “Two minutes,” Brian yelled, pulling on his headphones.

  I kicked the studio door shut so I wouldn’t hear him nagging me and looked up at the clock. Two minutes ‘til eight. I’d tucked Lily’s slip of paper next to the phone, and the numbers were taunting me to dial them. Hitting play, stop, then rewind on the recorder, I leaned back in my chair.

  What the hell am I doing? How long can I keep up this charade? Do I even want to anymore? Blackmailing Katharine was enticing. I mean, she was begging for it, but where did that leave me? Playing games again. Making lives miserable. Hiding behind a radio personality for the next year and a half. Would giving into the Panhellenic’s wants secure my future? Or did it just confirm I was a coward?

  Webster’s Dictionary defines a coward as someone who is too afraid to do what is right or expected. Someone who is not brave at all or courageous.

  I’d always looked for the easiest way out of a problem. Even if it meant dragging the people I love through the dirt to get there. Even if it meant turning my back on something scary instead of jumping in head first. That, my friends, made me a coward.

  So in the end, would Sunday Lane, DJ Sinister, and Sydney Porter take the easy way out?

  Was Sydney Porter a coward?

  My head flew up when Brain tapped the glass again. He signaled the countdown with his fingers. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Showtime.

  “Welcome back, Northern. Sunday Lane here. Still a beautiful Tuesday night in the Pacific Northwest. Can’t complain.” I snickered through the microphone. “Well, yes, I can. That’s what I’m here for, right?” Pulling away from the mic, I stared down at the recorder, grazing the buttons with my fingertips. “So I was thinking about it over break. Sunday Lane is sick of complaining all the time.”

  Brian pulled his feet off the desk and slowly shook his head.

  “I mean, it’s easy for her, right? She doesn’t really exist but between the hours of five to nine, two days a week. She gets to say whatever she wants with zero consequences. But let me tell you, my friends, there are always consequences to one’s actions. No one escapes that, and if they think they do, they are wrong. The guilt weighing on their shoulders will drag them down into the abyss. And not to get all biblical on you, but the truth,” I whispered into the mic, creating a pivotal moment, “will set you free.

  “So I’ll start with me. Three truths about Sunday Lane. Truth one. Her real passion is music, not talking crap over the airwaves. Truth two. Her real name is Sydney Porter. Do what you will to her. And truth three… and here’s the real kicker people…” I paused, closing my eyes. “Sydney Porter is in love with number twenty-four, Gray Peters.”

  Brian went ape-shit in the control room. Throwing paperwork. Slamming his head against the filing cabinet. I hated to see him this way, but it had to be done. I couldn’t live with the pressure, and I didn’t want to.

  “Bonus truth,” I said over the mic. “Panhellenic, if you’re listening out there, Sydney Porter ain’t nobody’s bitch.”

  Within my short life, I could count on one hand the number of times I felt truly brave. 1) Looking out for Jack throughout the years. 2) Holding my head high when my father’s casket descended into the earth. 3) Staying true to myself even when faced with Mom’s everlasting disappointment. And right now, putting my heart out there, because there was only one person I trusted enough to give it to—Gray Peters.

  Approaching my truck, I surveyed the tires. Not slashed. That was good news. I couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be tomorrow. No odd substance in the tail pipe. Also good news. I saw it when I settled into the driver’s seat. A note tucked under the windshield wiper. Rolling down my window, I grabbed it and took a wary glance at the empty lot.

  Sydney Porter (alias Sunday Lane, alias DJ Sinister),

  I am aware of who you are and where you live. I have detailed notes and am willing fight with you until the end of days if you ignore my demands. This is just the first of many.

  In your backseat, you will find a box containing a dress. Wear this dress to the athletic dorm tonight. Wear it all night. No alterations. I will be watching. Look for the dumb jock in room 213 who is desperately, utterly, and dangerously in love with you.

  XOXO,

  Micro-dick

  My hands had never moved faster. I grabbed the box from the backseat and opened it to find it was a blue dress. Similar to the one I had freshman year. Pulling it out, I held it to my nose, breathing in the soft cotton. My arms shook as I yanked off my jeans and shirt, quickly throwing the dress on over my head. And I was glad I had on my Chucks, because I was about to run.

  And run I did. Weaving between the dark redbrick campus buildings, pushing through students chatting in the quad, until eventually, I arrived where it all began two years ago.

  Catching my breath, I peered up at the athletic dorm, trying to regain my composure. My stomach heaved, turning my insides out with nervous anticipation. The night’s mist cooled my flushed cheeks, and mustering all my courage, I stepped into the building.

  I paused in the front lobby. It was completely empty. No meatheads or groupies like there usually was when I visited Jack. The only sound of life came from above on the second floor.

  Horrible music.

  I listened for a few seconds before my ears started to bleed. That poor stereo! But a brilliant move on Gray’s part. He knew it would call to me like a wounded animal, begging to be put out of its misery.

  It was in the elevator when the first clear rush of nerves hit me, causing my pulse to rise until I thought I’d faint. Don’t, Sydney. Now was not the time to falter. Now was the time to make it right.

  The elevator doors sprang open to the floor’s recreation room. The same recreation room I was in two years earlier. It was decorated with the same hand-me-down Christmas lights from freshman year. Spotting the boom box in the corner, I ran toward it, shut it off, and whispered my apologies for Gray’s offensive taste in music.

  When I turned, I noticed a small sign: Drink Me or Don’t was posted next to a punch bowl in the corner of the room. It was Jungle Juice. I poured myself a cup and leaned against the wall. The same wall where I was lured into a dorm room by a yogurt pickup line and promises of whiskey. Only there was no eighteen-year-old Gray across the room, awkwardly stumbling toward me, making my brain turn to mush with his charming smile.

  But there was a twenty-one-year-old Gray here. Waiting for me.

  Peeking my head down the deserted hallway, I noticed red gummy bears. They were taped to the wall in an arrow formation. Following its direction, I saw a warm glow from room 213, Gray Peters’s old dorm room.

  When I walked inside, Gray wasn’t there. But what was there took my breath away.

  A shoebox full of crystals on the desk. Gray’s artwork taped to the walls, with one addition, the picture of me he drew at the beach. His guitar was propped in the corner. A bottle of Jameson sat next to his old desk lamp. A sign was taped above the extra dorm bed. Reminder: Push Away When Done Banging Chicks.

  I felt tears slide down my face, and I lifted the hem of my dress, wiping them away.

  It was freshman year again. It was two years ago, but right now. It was where we left off. Where our misunderstanding was created, but now it was our beginning.

  “I’m back.”

  Startled by Gray’s voice, I flipped around. He was standing in the doorway, wearing just his boxers and running shoes, holding two waters and an open bag of gummy bears. He was breathing deeply, like he’d just run laps, and he steadied his eyes on me, smiling cautiously.

  “Too
k you long enough.” Wearing a grin so big it hurt, I sat on the bed. My hands trembled, and I held them firmly in my lap. “Two years is a long time to wait for a drink of water.”

  “Two years?” He stepped inside, now with a smile matching mine. “I was only gone five minutes, Sydney Fu.” Handing me a bottle of water, he sat on the empty bed across from me.

  He pulled off his shoes and was quiet, scanning me over. “And like I said, our conversation isn’t over.”

  The back of my neck flushed with heat, and I squeezed my hands into excited fists. “It isn’t?”

  “No.” Carefully moving from the bed, he kneeled down in front of me. “I don’t want it to ever be over.” He grabbed my shaky hands and laid light kisses inside my wrists. When I felt his warm mouth on my skin, they stopped shaking, instantly recognizing the person who held them.

  “I plan on staying right here and fighting it out with you. I’m all in, Porter. And if I have to make your life miserable for another year, that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “I dunno, Gray.” My chest felt heavy as I gulped down a sob. I lifted my hands to cup his ears and gently tugged on them. “Are you sure you’re all in? Because we’re gonna fight.”

  “I count on it,” he whispered, rolling his stubbly chin against my forearm. “But we’re going to make up, too.” He raised an eyebrow, and I laughed.

  Then he scooted closer and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I heard you on the radio, Sydney. I was pacing around here, nervous as hell. Then you said you loved me, and I just coul—”

  “Of course I love you.” I slid my hands to his cheeks, rolling my thumbs under his watery eyes. “So much it kind of pisses me off.”

  He softly laughed and buried his head into my chest, squeezing me to him. “You love me more than gummy bears?” he teased, jerking his head toward the open bag across the room.

  “More than those gummy bears. I love the red ones, and you taped them all to the wall outside.”

  Gray tickled my sides until I started laugh-crying. Then he stopped and lightly pushed me down across the bed. He moved to straddle me, and I closed my eyes, expecting his hands to ride up my dress.

  Instead, I felt his face hovering just above mine. “I love you, Sydney.” He gave me a light kiss on my forehead. “So you better get used to me being around.”

  I nodded just as an embarrassing snort escaped.

  “Good.” He kissed the tears from my cheeks. “Because you’re kind of my favorite person, and you’re the only girl I know with ears small enough to balance mine out in the gene pool.” He paused, laying a soft kiss on my lips, and I opened my eyes. “Plus, Sunday Lane told me you’ll be needing a bodyguard.”

  “I’ll be needing an army,” I said on a laugh.

  Gray smiled and leaned in, tracing my lips with his. “But I need a favor from you.”

  “Anything.”

  “I need you to stay.”

  I nodded again, giving him my silent promise. “Well, you’re in luck, because I just transferred here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chapter Fifty

  “Check under Gray Peters.”

  The bouncer skimmed his metal clipboard. “Nope, no Gray Peters,” he grumbled, glancing behind me at the long line of antsy clubbers. “Any other name?

  Chance waited for me next to the glass double doors. He looked pissed. He was impatiently tapping his foot against the concrete, and I knew he was eager to get inside. He’d been coming here with me for weeks. Grumbling and reluctant at first, but once he saw what the girls wore here, he placed Nirvana on a special green Post-it in his closet. Green Post-its are top priority.

  “Try Snake,” I said, and the bouncer dragged a finger down the page. I turned toward Chance. “Where the hell is Fernando? He was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”

  Chance shrugged. “Said he was getting ready.”

  No sooner had he spoken, when a yellow cab pulled up and a certain chubby offensive lineman in a blue rayon pantsuit hopped out. Chance and I couldn’t keep straight faces as Fernando fingered the thick gold chains he was wearing, and he stepped up to the bouncer.

  “What the hell, Fernando? Did you rob a parachute factory?”

  Ignoring my quip, he turned to the bouncer. “Fernando Cruz,” he said, wearing a confident smirk.

  The bouncer gave him a onceover and skimmed the list. “Yep, you’re on the list. Go ahead.” He glanced back to me. “No Snake, sorry, man.”

  I growled and mumbled out the words, “Check under micro-dick.”

  The bouncer smiled and raised an eyebrow. “What was that?” He cupped his hand behind his ear.

  “Check under micro-dick,” I yelled over the noisy crowd, and an explosion of laughter came from the line behind me.

  “Nope.”

  “Man, come on. I’ve been coming here practically every Saturday for four months. My girl works here.”

  He took a step back and chuckled. “I know, but you’re not on the list.”

  Snatching the clipboard from his hands, I skimmed the page. “There I am.”

  “That says Gary Peters.”

  “Yes, well, some genius messed up the spelling.”

  “You calling me a genius?” He pulled his shoulders up, flexing his three hundred-pound frame.

  “Yes,” I squeaked out.

  “Get inside, micro-dick.” He pushed me aside, and I made my way toward my boys.

  “Seriously, Fernando, what the hell?” I tugged on his silky jumpsuit. It was already darkening with pit stains. “Did you order this from a hot air balloon catalog? Better stay away from open flames.”

  “Yes,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “Had some extra cash to burn.”

  Fernando was still sore over the doghouse party months ago. I’d ordered a keg and invited the entire second floor of the athletic dorm over just so Sydney and I could be alone. He stayed in his room for days, depressed because the hungry masses discovered the boxes of rocket dogs in the garage. I had to pay him back at market price.

  “Don’t tell me that cost you three hundred dollars.” I shook my head and followed Chance and Fernando into the club. “‘Cause you got suckered.”

  Immediately, Sydney’s music hit my ears. Calling out my name. Not literally, but figuratively, because she played this mix for me last week, pestering me with a million technical questions. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I told her everything she does is magic and not to worry. That got me a playful swat in the gut and a long, satisfying thank you under the sheets.

  But I wasn’t lying. It was magic. And the only thing more beautiful than her music was Sydney up in that balcony, jumping her little heart out to the roar of hundreds of fans.

  After spying a group of near-naked girls, Chance bolted into the crowd. Fernando grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the bar. “Let’s get a drink. I’m nervous.”

  We stopped in front the long concrete bar top, and Darryl gave me an acknowledging nod.

  “Hey, Darryl, decided to change it up?” I asked as the steam punk bartender grabbed the whiskey off the top shelf.

  He turned, glanced at Fernando with wide eyes, and grabbed three glasses. “Yeah, well, I fell asleep last weekend with my head gear on, and when I woke I’d nearly cut out my eyeball.” Turning to the side, he showed me a long gash next to his right eye.

  “I guess clock gears should be left on the nightstand,” I said, pulling out my wallet. “Those old-timey aviator goggles bring out your eyes, though.”

  He pulled the goggles down over his eyes and winked. “You think so?” He shook his shotgun peg leg. “Doctor told me to stop wearing this too.”

  “What? No way.” I pointed down at his leg. “What if the apocalypse happens? You’re as good as ready, man.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He nodded and glanced up at the balcony. “Your girl’s been on fire tonight. Hers is on the house, as always.”

  Fernando and I made our way up the steep steps toward the DJ boot
h.

  “I’m so nervous,” he whispered, taking a quick sip of his whiskey. “What if they hate me?”

  Bullet, the bouncer at the top of the stairs (Yes, Bullet… God, these bouncer names) said a quick hello and let us pass. Just like Sydney’s first time up here, Fernando stopped, gaping at the crowd. At least four hundred people below were dancing in rhythm to DJ Sinister.

  I watched Sydney for a minute. She was back in baggy jeans and a tank top, with her dad’s trucker hat on and a low ponytail down her back. As she danced, it swished from side to side, offering me a glimpse of my favorite tattoo. Creeping up behind her, I wrapped my arms around her waist. Now familiar with my grasp, she leaned back and moaned, rubbing her hips suggestively.

  “Bullet, really. I told you we can’t do this now. My boyfriend will be here any minute.”

  I smiled and pulled her hair to the side, kissing just under her chin. “Bullet have moves like this?” I thrust my hips to her, and she laughed.

  “No, he’s usually rougher with me.” She flipped around and wrapped her arms around my neck. “But he sure doesn’t kiss like you.”

  I was in heaven for ten seconds, hungrily kissing the woman I hadn’t seen all day. Twenty-four hours was too long to be away from her.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” Fernando interrupted, pulling a pair of black shades from some unknown crevice. “DJ Crazy Cruz is in the house.”

  Sydney tore from my arms and pulled an arm across his wide back.

  DJ Crazy Cruz? Fernando was an idiot. A happy idiot. But still an idiot that was about to get his ass handed to him in front of hundreds.

  “Come on, Crazy.” She led him toward the booth, and I took a step back, watching her orient him to the controller. When he finally nodded, she gave him a pat on the back and grabbed the mic. “DJ Crazy Cruz in da club! Laying beats for the next seven minutes. Be nice!”

  Fernando settled into whatever groove he has, and she turned, running straight into my arms. She jumped and wrapped her legs around my waist, and we moved into the shadows against the balcony wall.