Текст книги "Devious Minds"

Автор книги: K. F. Germaine

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

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 missed 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.”

I sagged back against the wall, muffling my laughter. If this were an alternate universe, I’d think Sydney and I would get along just fine. Both stubborn with evil tendencies. This thought, which came out of left field, made me shudder. Sydney Porter had declared war by ruining my Porsche. No mercy would be given.

Heels clicked up the hallway, and I hid in a shadowy alcove. After waiting a minute, in the event she was waiting to lunge at me with a vinyl record shard, I rounded the corner toward Ms. Douglas’s office.

My plan was to tear the folder off the wall with the stealth of a ninja, but since it took me three tugs and I ripped a piece of paint up with it, I was pretty sure the scene was much more suave in my mind.

Once in the peaceful familiarity my car—which, thanks to Sinister, now smelled like musty tacos and had stains like a toddler peed all over it—I rummaged through the envelopes until I found one clearly marked Sydney Porter in perfect writing, because that’s what Ms. Douglas (wink-wink) asked for.

Dear Ms. Douglas,

Let me start by stating my concern with the lack of security related to classified files at Northern .

What a turd.

I think it would be wise to reassess your organizational protocol, or if this is truly software-related, reassess your choice of IT contractors. Despite this breach of confidentiality, I will oblige your request with my semester schedule provided below. Please call me when you receive this so we can discuss the university’s shortcomings and my disappointment in greater detail.

Sincerely,

Sydney Porter (Junior – Communications Major)

Schedule is as follows :

M/W 10-12PM: 306 Graphic Design, Communications Building – Prof. Thomas

M/W 1-3PM: 302 Sexual Evolution, Anthropology Building – Prof. Gratis

Mental note to add that one to my second semester schedule.

T/Th 10-1PM: 304 Geology: Why it Matters (It doesn’t), Natural Science Building – Prof. Cahill

T/Sun 5-9PM: Elective (Don’t ask, don’t tell policy on this one),Communications Building – Prof. Sinister

Prof. Sinister? Don’t ask, don’t tell policy? I felt like I was in Vegas and had just hit the jackpot. That was my ticket. Today was Tuesday and it was already five. So she’d be in her mystery elective.

Crossing campus, I tried to keep a low profile, but I was stopped twice by teammates and three times by chicks wondering where I was going. I never understood why people asked that when you’re obviously in a hurry. It’s nosy. Sometimes, I want to tell them I just ate a bean burrito and had a gambler coming on (side note: gambler is a sudden urge to use the restroom for an unsavory purpose. It’s a gamble because the odds aren’t great you’re going to make it in time).

In the communications building, I stood in front of the map, scoping out the layout. Classes didn’t usually extend after five at night, so the odds of roaming the halls and finding it were probably good. Unfortunately, when it comes to the suffocating walls of campus, I have little patience, so maybe staring at it some more would help.

“Can I help you?” A sweet voice came from behind me, and I whipped around. A full-figured girl with mousy brown hair and glasses approached my side. Hey, I wasn’t going to judge. I like a little meat in my hands.

“Yes, sugar.” Suddenly, I had a southern accent. Too many Matthew McConaughey movies. I almost started with, “All right, all right, all right.” She blushed, so my confidence in my southern drawl grew. “I know there’s a class here from five to nine, but I don’t have the actual room number. Can you help me out?”

She peered up at the building layout as if she were analyzing a murder scene. Closing one eye, she dragged her finger over the glass-encased map. Next, she swung her eyes to the building’s wall-mounted clock. Then she nodded, a knowing nod, as if the killer had been in front of us the entire time.

“No classes right now,” she said, eyes scanning my body while deep in thought. “But the radio station is at the top level. It runs twenty-four hours.”

“What station?”

“Duh, the campus radio station, KRUZ 97.4.” She said it like I was the last person on earth to hear this news. “It’s a pretty good station. Right now is the Sunday Lane segment. She’s hilarious.”

“Sunday Lane?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you notice half of the girls on campus were braless on Monday? She had a convincing hour-long segment on how bras were created by sadistic men. Men from the same genetic line who pressured Chinese women to bind their feet.”

Now that she mentioned it, I did notice that. Chance did too. He’d managed to turn the air-conditioning up in the Chemistry building just so he could find out who had the best nipples. Bailey Jenkins won ‘hands down’ he’d said.

Giving her a wide smile, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She trembled under the weight of my bicep, and I couldn’t help but let out an evil cackle. “Thank you. Thank you so very much. You’ve just made my day, darlin’.”

Chapter Seven

Mirrors are cruel inventions, aren’t they?

When I was younger, my mother would take me shopping, and I’d try on clothes in the stall with the most flattering mirror and the least amount of light. No one should look at you under fluorescent lights. Let me repeat myself: NO ONE. But every so often, you’d find that magic mirror, like it belonged in a fun house or something. It wasn’t the one that made you look like your head was about explode. It wasn’t the one showing hips that could cross continents. It was the one that made you look perfect. Or what you thought was as perfect as you can get.

“You look awesome!” Allison squealed, standing behind me in the mirror.

Yes, I pretty much qualified as a prostitute at this point—pimping out my soul for budget tires. At least that extra hundred and fifty ensured they wouldn’t blow up in the next three weeks, but by that time, I would have my old ones back.

During my official investigation, I determined my tire thief had less than three minutes in the parking lot and acted solo—although, without question, for Evil Lord Peters.

1. Snake patrolled the parking lot every five minutes, and through a series of unintelligible Morse code grunts, he informed me my truck was in the parking lot with all four tires three and a half minutes prior to my discovery (calculation as follows: one mmph = 1 minute, one ugh = 0.5 minutes).

2. Only one person could have removed the tires. You could hula-hoop down the middle of the parking lot without triggering the motion-sensitive light. However, if you were to hula-hoop just as a cockroach scuttled across, the lights would blaze like the Superdome. Without fail, any time the light popped on, Snake poked his head out the alleyway door to survey the scene.

My conclusion: the perp was experienced, nimble-fingered, and strong enough to toss massive tires in his car like plastic Frisbees.

Enter Jack.

I’d managed to swindle Jack into a white-flag-of-surrender lunch. Boy ate Chinese like it was going out of style. But really, we needed to discuss the upcoming earth-swallowing event that was “Mom’s weekend.” Mom had been texting every thirty-six minutes, asking about it, and I wanted to be sure Jack was getting the same death threats. He was.

Earlier, Jack claimed ignorance about the tire theft. So I tricked him in a roundabout way, which he should have picked up on considering that’s how I’d conned half his Halloween candy until he was twelve. Some people never learn. But that’s when Jack dropped the F-bomb (Fernando Cruz).

“Jack,” I’d said in a low purr. “My car is having trouble. It’s rattling. At first, I thought it was the bag of Skittles I’d spilled into the dash vent last month, but it’s been worse over the last week. Do you know of any experienced, reliable mechanics in town?” Eyelashes batted.

“No,” he’d mumbled through a pile of moo shu pork.

Then a light bulb clicked over his head. Well, the restaurant owner clicked a physical light bulb over our heads, then yelled at us in Chinese. But anyways, there was a metaphoric light bulb as well.

“Hey, yeah.” He looked up with glossy, MSG-infused eyes. “Fernando’s dad is a mechanic. He knows a lot about rigs. I can ask him for you,” he replied thoughtfully as he destroyed a plate of crab rangoons.

I waved him off like it ain’t no thing. “Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll figure it out.”

Fernando Cruz was next on my hit list. This was in my Kill Bill fantasy of course, but I would never be caught dead in yellow spandex.

Back to my current situation.

Here I was, an hour before the gig from hell, in a dress. Hell hath frozen over. DJ Sinister was in a dress.

Allison chose it. It wasn’t pink or cream. After an hour of threats and fighting, she’d allowed me to wear black. It was slinky, and I knew I was going to sweat right through it. A low-cut V plunged down the front, showing off the girls, which I fought her over. Somehow she won after dulling my senses with her rancid perfume. I wanted to wear a sports bra. They’re so much more comfortable, right? But she was my pimp for the night. God (mentally on my knees), if I can just get through this night, I’ll come to church. On Christmas. Every fifteen years. For the next fifteen years. So once.

“No,” Allison said as she fervently paced the room, examining me.

It was obvious she was having an internal argument I wasn’t aware of.

“You look really good, and it shows off your piano tattoo. Like it looks really good.” She ran over to her dresser and grabbed a pearl necklace. “Here, slap this on.”

A snake of pearls hit my bare skin.

“Allison? A pearl necklace?” Pulling it off, I tossed it on her bed. “No way. That’s crossing the line. I’m the DJ, not a European debutante.”

“Oh, about that.” Her voice softened and her eyes hit the floor. “I had to change your DJ name. Some of the girls think it’s crass.”

“Crass?” I threw my arms up in the air. “Half those girls give blowjobs for a living, and they think my set-in-stone DJ call is stupid?”

“Not me,” Allison said on the verge of tears. “The chapter head did, so we just changed it up for the night. Just one night. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, which was now fringed with soft curls. “Who’s the chapter head? Hitler?”

“No, worse.” She shuddered under her baby-pink slip dress. “It’s Katharine DeSonna.”

Sinking down on her bed, Allison ran her fingers along the pearls. “She hates me. She’s terrible to me.” She looked up at me with those pitiful blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Syd. I really am.”

I gently patted her on the shoulder. “It’s fine, Allison. I’ll do you proud.”

This is just one night, right? I can do this.

“Baby girl got this.” Baby girl? Note to self, no more Real Housewives of Atlanta marathons. “What’s my name, then?”

She wiped her eyes and smiled. “You’re DJ Lesbos.”

If I had a mouth full of acid, she’d be Two-Face from Batman. “What the hell?”

She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “It’s Greek Island themed. If it makes you feel better, I’m pledge Mykonos.”

“No, Allison,” I chastised, hands on hips to exaggerate my annoyance. “That does not make me feel better.”

Operation Do My Job and Get the Hell out of Dodge was in full effect. The Kappa Delta sorority house was a massive brick colonial with impressive landscaping and a suffocating air of snootiness. We were in their basement recreation room. As expected, tacky Greek columns plunged down from the ceilings, surrounding the room like a cage—I was a caged animal.

Fortunately, my table was in the corner, black tablecloth, and they’d sprung for decent amplifiers. After setting up my gear, I started a slow, steady beat. Just one track to invite the crowd inside. I felt like an old pervert at a middle school dance, watching the tweens roll into the room. Most of them were already drunk, so that helped.

Before I got into the groove, my phone buzzed across the table.

Unknown: Hey

Syd: Who is this?

Unknown: Oh, sorry. It’s Nick, from work.

Yes, Nick from work, I know who you are. My pulse rose just typing the next text.

Syd: Is tomorrow canceled or something?

Nick (I’d just programmed him in my phone… in gold): No, just seeing what you’re up to.

Syd: I’m in Hades right now.

Nick: Hades?

Syd: Greek hell. Literally, I’m on Greek row, doing a gig.

Nick: Oh. Hope you don’t mind I swiped your number off the employee roster.

I’d made it on the SpaceRoom employee roster? That was better than honor roll. I wanted a bumper sticker for my mom’s car: My Sinister made honor roll at the SpaceRoom.

Syd: God no. It’s fine.

I was about to give him my social security number at this point.

Nick: Are they accepting visitors?

I looked up at the snooty crew growing across the room.

Syd: Probably not. But they are accepting roadies *wink-wink*

Nick: Okay, where?

After typing out the location details, I was pretty close to being on cloud nine. No sooner had I whipped them out, when a tall brunette with a self-satisfied smile entered the room. She screamed bitch, which also meant she was Katharine DeSonna. She was disgustingly thin. A draft from a door shutting across campus could’ve blown her over. Her long, dark hair fell in loose curls down her shoulders, and her iridescent-blue eyes made my brown ones feel like pebbles of dung slapped into sockets. If there were ever a girl to make you feel like crap just by breathing the same air, it was this one.

She was followed by eleven meek girls, Allison included, with heads hung low. It pained me to see this. Allison was a sweet girl, maybe not the brightest, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like trash. I thought about the million ways I could fuck Katharine over tonight, but Allison’s pleading eyes infiltrated my brain.

Do this for Allison. That was my new mantra.

Without pause, Queen Bee Katharine sashayed up to the DJ booth and gave me a onceover. Glancing over her shoulder at Allison, she said, “I thought we’d agreed she’d be in pink.”

Allison trembled behind her like an abused animal.

“Sorry, I was in pink earlier, but I made a switch. Pink was the color my mother was buried in, and I can’t quite get over the image.” For dramatic effect, I looked down, wiping my forearm across my eyes.

“Oh,” Katharine said, knowing anything she said after this would confirm she was Satan’s spawn. “That’s… umm… that’s fine.”

She waited until I raised my head.

“Well, I know we said Jack Johnson, but we really like Taylor Swift if you could fit that in.” She crossed her arms, wearing a smirk.

I saluted. “Yes, ma’am. DJ Lesbos is on the job.”

A few snickers arose from behind her.

“Yes,” she replied, and I felt another judgmental stare, but then she turned, distracted by someone lingering in the doorway. “There you are. Girls, this is my date, Gray Peters.”

A vinyl scratched to a halt (in my mind of course), and I looked over at the ever-so-arrogant face of Gray Peters.

Chapter Eight

Katharine’s arms were wider than the Pacific Ocean when she pulled me in for a hug. I couldn’t focus on her. I was here for one reason only: ruin DJ Sinister’s night. Oh, whoops, I mean DJ Lesbos’s night (yes, I suggested that to Katharine).

Katharine was a tool—on all levels. She was a jerk, and I’d use her like a crowbar to tear Sinister apart if I could. A little known secret: I was repulsed by these gutless sorority types. The girls I slept with were usually GDIs (Goddamn Independents). I found them more refreshing and adventurous. Less need to define relationships or get pinned, whatever that meant.

After overhearing Sydney’s phone conversation, it became my mission to get to this party. So I made a few calls and got myself on the VIP list, but I forced the guys to come with me. I couldn’t sit in the corner, listening to Katharine’s bullshit all night.

To be completely honest, I was a little pissed at Katharine. She might have changed her name for the night, but DJ wasn’t in pink. She was in a slinky black dress, and for some unknown reason, I checked the eyes of every male in the room, satisfied their gazes were on the bimbos in front of them. If anyone was going to mess with her tonight, it would be me.

Sydney’s gaze flew to me with the sharpness of a thousand knives. Nearly snarling like a rabid dog, she dumped one track over another. A husky voice billowed over a slow beat. It was highly sexual. Heavy breathing. Panting. Then a beautiful lull engulfed the crowd.

Now all eyes were on the DJ, but she was looking down. The moment Katharine turned to look at me, Sydney flipped her the bird. The line of girls behind Katharine chuckled, glancing at Sydney with brief admiration.

Adding a light piano track to the mix, she faded completely into a fast beat, taking the room into dance mode. The girls squealed, obviously recognizing a part of the song, and grabbed onto one another. In less than two seconds, she’d taken them from zombies to vibrant.

The girls surrounded the DJ booth in a semicircle, pumping their fists in the air. She looked at them with a beaming smile and picked up a pair of headphones. Covering one ear, she nodded to the beat. Then she kicked it up to nuclear. It was magic, and I hated her for it. Everyone was on the floor but me. I was stubbornly leaning against the cheap fake Greek column in the corner.

“Come on.” Katharine grabbed my arm, trying to pull me onto the dance floor. “Let’s dance.”

I shook my head. It would make Sinister’s day if I actually enjoyed her music. “Waiting for my boys.”

Katharine bobbed to the music, regarding DJ Lesbos with honest respect. “She’s good. Like really fucking good.”

“She’s all right,” I said, crossing my arms as Katharine left my side to join her friends. I would do everything within my power to stay off the dance floor.

Not two seconds later, Sinister popped up her head, looked at me, and pressed a button. “Oh my God, is that Gray Peters? He’s got the clap. Everyone clap,” resonated through the speakers.

It was her voice as a sound effect, in a high-pitched tone mocking sorority girls nationwide. Bitch must have practiced hoping I’d show my face.

Every eye turned on me as I stood sulking in the corner. Then they all lifted their hands in the air and clapped. I was in hell. Sydney smirked and moved her chin from side to side to show me what’s up, then raised her tiny fist when a new hard beat broke up the slower one. All the girls shrieked as it entered a Taylor Swift song (don’t ask how I knew that).

A blonde I could only assume was the elusive Allison, came around her booth and gave Sydney a hug. Blondie looked so relieved, and I was reminded how hard Katharine was on the pledges.

Sydney slid off her earphones and placed them on the girl’s head. Then she stood behind her, showing her how to use the crossfade and track buttons. There was a huge build. Then at just the right moment, Sydney swiped the girl’s hand over a bar. The song was joined by an earth-shattering beat that knocked the crowd to their knees.

The girl looked so happy. It was crushing. Then Sydney raised her hands in the air and twisted next to her friend as a woman’s voice rang over the speaker in a sexy melodic tone. The same woman that started the song. The words “you never said good-bye” pulsed through the speakers, causing another ridiculous uproar.

“Okay, we’re here.” Annoyed grunts came from behind me, and I turned to find my boys.

I’d made sure Katharine invited Jack, Fernando, and Chance. Jack was going to get drunk tonight, although he didn’t know it yet. If I knew anything about Sydney, she was protective of her little brother. Him getting drunk before her very eyes would set her off. As if on cue, Sydney’s eyes fell on Jack, then shot to mine, where I was sure to give her a smug grin.

She looked so different tonight, with makeup and her hair curled. She could have stepped right into this sorority and ended Katharine’s evil reign. I hated to admit it, but she was ten times prettier than these girls. Mainly because of the disgusting confidence wafting from her with every swipe over the crossfade. While all these other girls, Katharine included, fought for adulation from the men in the room, Sydney was happy dancing by herself, not giving a crap.

She was out of her usual baggy little kid clothes that hid her figure. In that black dress, she was all curves, undulating hills of soft skin. A bit of cleavage fell along the cut of her dress, showing off her breasts. The lights above the booth emphasized their roundness and the sweat gleaming from them rivaled the images in Chance’s porn magazines. Damn.

“What the hell, man?” Jack’s voice cut through my daze. “You didn’t tell me my sister would be here. This isn’t cool. She doesn’t like to see me drink.”

Chance glanced down at my pants and shook his head. “Katharine works fast.”

Yes, my dick was at full attention. I said Sydney was a bitch, not hideous.

Ignoring Chance, I wrapped an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Be cool, Jack. Does your sister tell you what to do?” I entered motivational speaker mode. “You’re a man, Jack. You work hard. You deserve to have fun. Get drunk for once. Come on.”

I sent Chance and Fernando a pointed stare, pressing them for backup.

“Yeah, Jack,” they said in unison. Then Chance added, “We all deserve to blow off a little steam. Get a drink. Get laid.”

I watched Jack scan the room full of vulnerable wannabe Greeks.

“She’s hot.” I pointed at Blondie standing next to Sydney.

“Yeah, that brunette’s smoking,” Chance said, following my finger.

“Chance, that’s my sister,” Jack snapped, sending him a death glare. Little tyke had bite when his sister was involved.

“Not her.” I guided Jack’s shoulders to face Blondie. “That one. She looks like she needs to be loved on tonight.”

Jack peered at me with a somewhat disgusted look. Even I was disgusted, but this was part of the game, and Jack was my pawn.

I’d spent the last few nights perusing the infamous Sunday Lane’s recorded podcasts. She was dangerously close to being exposed, but I needed to play my cards close to my vest. Sydney was the type of girl that if you said her dick was hanging out, she’d helicopter it just to spite you. She was crafty, and skill must be fought with skill.

As if Sydney Porter were reading my mind, and not in a good way, the blonde waltzed up to us with eyes locked on Jack.

She stopped in front of him, delivering a sexy smile. “Hi there. You’re cute.” With her finger, she touched the tip of his nose like he was kitten.

Right on cue, Jack melted under her azure eyes. “Hi,” he said nervously, wearing a smile so enormous it almost spilt his face in two. “I’m Jack Porter.”

Then he reached his hand out. She giggled and took it. Instead of kissing the back of it, a tried and true pick-up move, Jack gave her a hardy handshake.

From behind me, I heard Fernando and Chance chuckling.

“Duh.” She threw back her head and laughed. “I know who you are. Everyone does. You’re the hottest player on the team. I’m Allison.”

I shook my head, shooting Sydney an annoyed look.

Allison honed in on Jack like a cruise missile. “Honey, you look thirsty.” She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and he went from nervous to close to pissing his slacks. “Let’s go get a drink.”

Squeaking out a nearly inaudible noise, Jack disappeared with Allison into the crowd. She slid her hand down to grab his, and he actually skipped—the boy skipped across the floor.

Chance pointed to Sydney. “If that’s Jack’s sister, I’m about become best friends with Porter.” He started in her direction, and I held him back.

“No. You’re not. She’s mine.” I gave him a cool stare, adding to the threat in my tone. “I mean, she’s mine to fuck with.” I corrected myself. “Take all the rest.”

“Okay.” Chance nodded, but it was a weird, slow nod, like he was piecing together a puzzle.

When Jack and Allison approached the DJ booth, Sydney gave Jack a hug and he wrapped his arms around her. It was almost touching—almost.

Then she put the earphones on Jack, placed Allison’s hand on the mixer, pointed to a couple of buttons, and charged toward us like a rhino. She brushed past me, smacking me hard in the arm, and stopped in front of Fernando.

“Fernando, right?”

He nodded, eyes drifting to the side to avoid her Medusa gaze.

Poking a finger into his thick chest, she said, “I better have my tires back by midnight or I’m calling the police. SpaceRoom has you on tape.” She glanced between me and the now scared shitless Fernando. “And you better fucking believe I’ll do it.”