Текст книги "Devious Minds"
Автор книги: K. F. Germaine
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Synopsis
A New Adult Comedy
When Sydney Porter transfers to Northern University, she’s ready to put her past behind her. Landing a job on campus as an irreverent radio personality, she uses the anonymity to air all the campus dirty laundry—earning the infamous Sunday Lane more than a few enemies. But her true passion is spinning records, even if Drunk Earl is her biggest fan.
Sydney’s junior year kicks off with the promise to be amazing. Or at least it does until Gray Peters, hotshot quarterback, unexpectedly reenters the scene. His presence threatens to destroy everything she has going, as well as resurrecting a night Sydney never wants to remember or repeat. She’d run away like a coward, but this time she's determined to stay and fight.
A twisted battle of wit and trickery ensues, with one common goal—vengeance. Sydney and Gray set out to make each other miserable. But misery loves company, and soon, walls are destroyed and truths are revealed that could change their future forever.
Copyright © 2015 K.F. Germaine
Published: K.F. Germaine 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address above.
Editing: Gathering Leaves Editing
Creative consultant: Boxcar Betty
Cover design: K.F. Germaine
Stock photos courtesy Fotosearch ®
Dedication
Dedicated to romantic comedy movie (and book) lovers worldwide.
It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring – Marilyn Monroe
These ‘Sweet Beats’ are available on Google Music under “Devious Minds”
Sara Smile … The Bird And The Bee
Shot Me Down (feat. Skylar) … David Guetta
Banana Pancakes … Jack Johnson
Danger (Been So Long) … Mystikal feat. Nivea
Don’t You (Forget About Me) … Simple Minds
Left Hand Free … Alt-J
Make It Bun Dem … Skrillex
Apollo (Acoustic Version) … Hardwell
I Wanna Make It Wit Chu … Desert Sessions
Lips Like Sugar … Echo And The Bunnymen
Needles … The Pack A.D.
Ice Age … How To Destroy Angels
Crave You … Fight Facilities
Sad Sad City … Ghostland Observatory
Beat of Her Heart … Gungor
Queen … Perfume Genius
Until I Open My Wings … Small Wonder
Table of contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter One
“What… the… hell?” I took my best guess at what Brian was screaming from behind the soundproof glass. “Are you saying what the hell, Brian?” Maybe he was just eager to play a game of Charades.
Forming a circle with my hand, I slapped it over my right eye. “Movie, right? Two syllables or one?”
Brian shook his head and flipped me the bird with both hands.
“Okay. Two syllables.” I wrote my answer on a piece of paper, showing him the words Syd Rocks against the thick studio glass. “I know this already. That one’s too easy.”
Slamming down his headphones, Brian pushed his chair away from his desk and charged around the corner. When he burst into the studio, I casually sipped my energy drink, nodding my head to Hall & Oates’s “Sara Smile” playing over the air.
“What, Brian? Hall & Oates is making a comeback. You heard it from me first. You should feel privileged.”
“What the hell, Sydney? You can’t just walk in here, take over the airwaves of the entire campus, and say, ‘This goes out that one girl… Can’t remember her name… Oh, yes, I can. FYI, she’s got the clap,’ then put on ‘Sara Smile.’”
“There’s fifteen thousand kids on this campus. If I’m doing my math correctly, which I’m not, there’s at least a thousand potential Saras floating around out there. Come on, it’s funny. Which is why you gave me this spot to begin with… I’m funny, remember?”
When Brian fished me out of my Sexual Evolution class three weeks ago, he was fairly warned. I said what I wanted over the air, and he wasn’t allowed to stifle my creativity. That was my one demand. He got word I was the infamous Patty-Mouth, a radio personality/partial celebrity at my community college. Here at Northern, I went by Sunday Lane: a cheeky, no-filters personality who picked apart university flaws and campus morons. My anonymity allowed me abundant freedom over the air. And you can’t insult people without anonymity or you start to receive death threats.
“That’s irresponsible journalism, Syd.”
“Good thing I’m not a journalist. I’m a personality, remember? And I’m anonymous, so don’t worry about it. No girl in her right mind will admit I’m talking about her STD.”
The song ended, and I switched my microphone back on. Brian hovered over me with a pointed stare. “Fix this.”
“Hey there, Northern. I’ve been not-so-politely informed that I shouldn’t have outed Sara for her clap and terrible taste in men.”
Brian growled from behind me.
“But September is Safe Sex Month… Please wrap it up. And, number twenty-four, a Ziploc bag and rubber band won’t suffice. Please stop by Professor Grange’s office. Second drawer down, you’ll find condoms for elves. Should fit perfectly.”
Flipping off the microphone, I grabbed my bag and rushed past Brian to avoid a second lecture. “Later, Bri! Hittin’ da club!”
I arrived fifteen minutes early to the SpaceRoom, a local off-the-beaten-path dance club. It was dirty and disgusting, and they didn’t pay me, but the manager let me DJ for tips.
Really, I didn’t care about the money. I was able to experiment, play my music in front of a real people for the first time. There’s nothing like watching a crowd enjoy your creation, or rather reinterpretation, of pedestrian pop music combined in beautiful waves—matching beats, listening for the kick drum, the snare on the eighth—then dumping something unexpected into the mix.
“Anything else?” Snake muttered, setting down my vinyl record crate and scooting it under the booth.
“Thanks, Snake, I’m good,” I said slowly, staring at his mouth. He speaks?
Snake, the club bouncer, was built like a brick house and never took off his aviators. I wasn’t convinced he had eyes. But if he were blind, he sure as hell knew his way around here. Sometimes I made faces at him just to check, but his lips were always formed in a thin, solemn line, offering no hint he’d seen them. And he never spoke. He grunted. Despite his menacing size and caveman verbal skills, I thought he liked me… or pitied me. Whatever it was, I’d take it because he was always ready to help carry my gear.
Raising my headphones, I checked the sound connection between the laptop and amplifier. Good to go. I placed my turntables carefully in front of me at three and nine o’clock, laptop at twelve. Interface was set between, and there was even enough room to lay down my hat once I got sweaty, which would be in two minutes considering halogens that could rival the sun faced my back.
My neon-green bracelet, showing the world I was underage, caught on the crossfade. I pulled a roll of duct tape from my bag and taped the bracelet tightly against my skin. It was going to hurt like a bitch later when I pulled it off, but the embarrassment of fucking up right now would be considerably more painful. Just to be sure, I swiped a few more times until I was satisfied it wouldn’t snag.
Grabbing my rag from the crate of records, I wiped the sides of my four-channel controller—my newest toy. It took a summer of slave wages to purchase. An endless summer of spinning at five-year-old birthday parties (think Wiggles on crack) and gigs at our local nursing home (think Sinatra on spiked prune juice).
Before I laid down the first track, my phone buzzed.
Jack: Syd, need your truck for the night.
Jack’s my little brother and also attended Northern. Mom wanted us here together, so after my two years at the local community college and Jack graduating high school, the Porters arrived.
Unlike me, Jack had a full-ride scholarship. He was a running back on the football team and my complete opposite. Jack was preppy, primped, and polite. A major contrast to his trucker-mouthed, tattooed big sister.
Syd: Tough luck, Dimebag. At work.
Jack earned the nickname Dimebag after he was caught with a bag of weed in his room. Mom found it, but I took the blame. Why? Because deep down, I’m a good sister. It’s way deep, though, like Grand Canyon deep. It just seemed natural considering I was, in Mom’s words, a tattooed mess that won’t amount to anything.
Jack: PLEASE… I WILL NEVER ASK YOU FOR A FAVOR AGAIN
Syd: No. Borrow one of the meathead’s trucks.
Flipping off my phone, I stretched my fingers and flexed my wrists. Already feeling the trickling sweat from the stage lights, I pulled off my trucker hat and placed it in its designated spot. It was my dad’s. It had a perfect butcher’s diagram of a cow, which prompted a twisted scowl from every vegetarian/vegan on campus. I loved it and it stayed with me always.
An icy bottle of water plopped down in front of me, and I jerked up my head. Nick, the bartender, gave me an acknowledging nod. I opened my mouth to say thanks, but it suddenly felt desert dry. He stared for a second, then turned back to the bar.
Nick didn’t talk much, but he always sent over a couple bottles of water throughout the night. Gotta keep the free help hydrated. I’d seen him on campus over the last two weeks but was never brave enough to approach him.
By my definition, Nick was hot (a term I would never say aloud). That is, he was tatted, built, and close-lipped. There’s something about those strong, silent types that spike my interest.
The week before, I saw him walk into the art building, and I followed him, but he disappeared behind the rows of mediocre pottery and paper-mâché theatre masks. I imagined him modeling for a nude drawing class, perched against a white slab of marble, arm curled up, resting his chin on his hand. A fine specimen of the human form… Hmm, I might have to sign up for that class. For the love of art, of course! Get your mind out of the gutter!
The enigma that was Bartender Nick was a side hobby of mine, not that I was a stalker. Although, I’d been tempted to cut up some magazines and glue together a love letter like a demented serial killer. Maybe leave it taped to his Harley. Yeah, he probably rode a Harley. Stop, Syd. You sound crazy. But for now, our interaction was limited to a subtle nod and two bottles of water every Sunday.
Focusing back on my gear, I pulled up the first track.
Time to blow some minds!
I raised my head to greet my adoring fans … Shit, adoring fan.
Chapter Two
“Come on, Porter.” I held Jack’s head under my arm as I rubbed my knuckles into his thick hair. “You’re not going to get far with the team if you don’t deliver.”
“My sister’s at work, and I can’t go in there. It’s a club,” Jack answered in a defeated voice. He’d been pacing back and forth in the kitchen, sweating over his phone for the last ten minutes.
“No shit.” I set my beer down on the counter and began ripping the label. “You’ve been holding out, Jack. Is she a stripper? Hell, never mind. You will go far with the team.”
I’d been instructed by Coach to take Jack Porter under my wing. Whatever the fuck that meant. I took it as don’t let him die. I didn’t have time to babysit an eighteen-year-old all day, but when Coach orders, we obey, no questions asked.
“Well, we need a truck. Chance’s is in the shop and we can’t fit the kegs in the Porsche. It’s raining out and I don’t want to lower the top. Just tell her we’ll only use it for an hour and get it right back.” I grabbed my keys off the counter. “Which club?”
I’d invited Jack over to the doghouse, our shared Northern football house on the edge of campus. Yes, I knew doghouse spoke volumes of the pretentious douchebags who had resided in its bedrooms over the past ten years. Our landlord was ex-NFL, straight from Northern, and he felt it important to keep the star players together under one roof. He said it encouraged teamwork. Personally, I could have cared less. The rent was cheap, and I was able to live with my best friends, Chance and Fernando.
I feel the need to clarify. I wasn’t your typical jock. I didn’t pound fists or towel-slap my teammates, and I wasn’t going to wear my goddamn number around to remind everyone who I was.
That wasn’t Gray Peters.
I was a good quarterback, but I didn’t swing my dick around expecting it to hit gold.
Any praise I got on campus came from cultural expectations associated with being a first-string QB. Yes, I’m aware of how insightful I must seem. But I have to give credit to the hippies in my sophomore year Women’s Literature class. I took it to meet chicks but ended up griping about the pressures of football with three junior girls who’d never seen the sharp edge of a razor. Once I got over the long hair creeping from their armpits, everything out of their mouths just made sense.
Most of these people knew nothing about me off the field. I was content to keep it that way.
On the other hand, Jack Porter, wonder boy running back, never had a chance to establish your typical footballer persona. I’d never seen girls run away from a first string faster than when that kid stepped into the cafeteria.
He’d been quoted in the campus paper several times already.
When asked what he felt about wearing our school colors, blue and grey, Porter answered, “Those colors are great. I really like chartreuse, too. You know, it’s like a citrus green. My mom has a citrus sweater and it looks really good on her because it pops against her olive-toned skin. It’s soft too. Reminds me of my baby blanket.”
When asked how he got his keen skill to catch the ball on almost every play, Porter answered, “People used to throw balls at my head in school. Balls were always flying at my face, hitting my mouth. Once I got a ball in the eye. So one day, I just had enough of balls in my face. So instead of letting them hit me, I just started grabbing them. I was so good at grabbing balls it became second nature. I could smell balls before they came at me.”
Jack Porter, good-looking kid on all accounts, was a hopeless embarrassment. Coach had to ban further interviews, and that’s when I was assigned to be his publicist. A daunting task I was beginning to think I’d fail, so I thought a party might work. If I could get Jack to booze it up a little, maybe he’d make some friends and I could wipe my hands clean of him.
“SpaceRoom,” Jack said, eyes dipped to the floor.
“No shit,” Chance said over his shoulder. He was playing Call of Duty on his Xbox. He paused to talk into the headset mic, then turned back. “That’s a gay bar.”
Chance LeMere was a running back as well. Not as good as Jack, but there was no bad blood between them. He saw football as a way to pass time. Chance was also a closet gamer, but he’d never admit that to Northern’s press.
For those not familiar, Call of Duty allows you to play online with people all over the world as you fight one another in fake missions. He’d been playing a twelve-year-old kid from Naples, Florida, for the last three weeks. They’d send each other threatening messages over their headsets while trying to kill one another every other day.
“Take that, dickwad,” Chance muttered into his headpiece right before the kid blew off his character’s head. “Damn it!” He threw the controller across the room. “I’m going to get you, little Scott Johnson. I know where you live.”
Giving Chance a disapproving frown, I whapped him upside the head.
“Just kidding, Scott… No… No, Scott… don’t tell your mom.”
I focused back on Jack. “Porter? Is your sister a lesbian?”
If she were anything like Jack, she was a tall blonde. This was getting better by the minute.
“Yes,” Jack replied a little too quickly. “She’s a lesbian.”
He seemed serious, but I couldn’t tell if he was messing with me.
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.
