Текст книги "Devious Minds"

Автор книги: K. F. Germaine

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

 

 

T here is nothing better than this.

My life is complete.

I can die a happy woman.

But, God, don’t take me now, because DJ Bently just left the stage, and now I’m mixing for a real down and dirty crew.

My face ached I was smiling so hard. Pulling off my mask, I dropped it on the floor and picked up the headphones.

After showing me the effects system, Bently laid down a track and whispered in my ear, “Grabbing a beer. Back in seven.” Being groped in a dark closet seemed mundane compared to these seven minutes in heaven.

I bounced. I ran in place like I was in a bad exercise video. I sucked the musty warehouse air into my lungs, dragging the music into every cell of my body.

Nothing could feel better than this. Nothing.

I added another track, exploding the speaker with a fast beat, and danced around until I felt a pair of hands run up the sides of my thighs, slow and easy.

“What are you doing?” I yelled up at Peters. He was standing directly behind me and the top of my head landed just below his chin. His answer was to pull my backside into his hips.

“I’m dancing, Sinister.” He groaned into the back of my neck. “This is what you wanted, right? No inhibitions. I’m your bitch tonight, right? We can start flinging knives in the morning.”

I let out a cracked laugh, not quite understanding this one-eighty in his personality. “You don’t bring a knife to a gun fight, Peters, but if you’re referencing your dick, I’d be shocked to receive a paper cut.”

He pressed even farther into me as I continued to mix.

Looking back on this now, I should have just elbowed him in the stomach and tripped him off the edge of the balcony, but I was drunk. Elated by the dancing crowd. Everything about this place screamed sex—the people, the lighting, the sweat dripping off bodies, and Peters’s husky breathing against my ear breaking down my protective dome. I tried to muster the strength to stop him, but with my mind half altered, my body took over completely.

As if he knew I was struggling, he gently lifted the back of my damp hair and planted his lips on my neck. His tongue swept across my skin, and he softly moaned over my fret board. I released a sharp breath into the microphone, and he laughed against the back of my ear.

“What… are… you—”

Before I could finish my pathetic plea to end this, his hands slid over my front, gliding down my stomach and stopping just before the waistband of my underwear.

“Peters,” I rasped.

His hand rolled over my shirt, and he pulled it deep between my legs. I let out a breathy groan into the microphone and tipped back my head until it rested against his shoulder. Peters dragged his tongue up the inside of my neck like I was a Popsicle—his favorite flavor—long and flat. He pulled my sweat into his mouth.

When the music rose to a sharp crescendo, so did my panting, right into the mic. It was hard to believe this six-foot-two behemoth could deliver such a delicate touch, but I didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. My body had a memory of its own.

“Should I stop?” he whispered into my ear.

“Yes, stop,” I whispered, rolling my neck to the side to allow him full access.

He chuckled as he dove into my neck and rubbed between my legs again. I was breathing heavily, not caring if the microphone was in front of me. It was rhythmic and it didn’t clash with the music; it enhanced it. Husky breathing every second beat. I could feel the swell building and my muscles starting to tighten as he sucked on the back of my neck, hungrily groaning into my skin.

“Whoa, that’s more action than this balcony has seen in a long time.” Bently’s voice came from nowhere, and Peters jerked away his body like I was poison. “Seriously, DJ Sinister, you can come back here whenever you want.” Bently laughed, pulling his beer up for a swig.

Scanning the balcony for the nearest exit, I realized I would have to pass both of them before getting to the stairs. I had a what-the-hell-did-I-just-do look on my face, and when I glanced at Peters, it was on his, too.

Before I could brush past them, Bently grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the booth. “Be cool, shorty,” he whispered into my ear, and I closed my eyes. “Play it off. No one cares. Open your eyes and take your bow.” I opened them to the masses below.

People were drinking and laughing and making out and dancing.

No one cared about the DJ and QB, arch nemeses, standing up on the balcony, about to get as intimate as lovers. They didn’t know us, and we didn’t know them. If there ever was a place for judgment to lapse with Gray Peters, it should be in the safe embrace of five hundred lunatics.

“DJ SIIINNNESTEEERR!” Bently screamed into the microphone, to which the crowd lost their shit. Most likely because the good DJ was back.

Bently nodded at Peters, and before I knew it, I was pulled away. We made our way down the stairs and pushed through the masked mob. Several people slapped me on the back, spewing out accolades to DJ Sinister, but Sydney Porter was about to enter cardiac arrest. When we passed by a dark hallway, Peters jerked my arm back and dragged me into obscurity.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you up there. Too much booze I guess.” Peters raked a hand through his now drenched hair. “Shit.”

“Nothing happened, Peters.” I honed in on his eyes so he understood the plan. “As far as I’m concerned, we were passengers on a crowded subway.”

“Passengers on the subway?” He smirked and looked down at the ground. His dark hair swung across his forehead, blocking my view of his face, and I brushed it to the side.

“Yes, you’d be the homeless guy with gout, riding the rails night after night, just trying to stay warm. I’d be the five-foot-ten supermodel who just got her big break. Then the subway hits a bump in the track and it goes dark. For seven minutes.”

Peters lifted his head, sporting an incredible grin. It was infectious, and my cheeks lifted, matching his smile. Just for tonight, his beaming face was all I wanted to see.

“And because I have the body mass of a praying mantis, I fall into your lap, turn around, and slap you across the face for getting ‘handsy’ with me.” Lifting my hand, I lightly smacked him across his cheek, and his grin grew wider. “Then I stand up, shake it off, and hop out at the next stop to meet my multi-platinum musician boyfriend.”

He closed his eyes and laughed. “So what do the homeless guy and the supermodel do now?” he said, leaning a hip against a flyer-covered wall.

I reached up and playfully tugged on his ears. “They dance!”

Chapter Twenty

Contrary to popular belief, Gray Peters is not rich.

My father, Hank Peters, is a history teacher at my old high school. He enjoys football, drinks Bud Light and builds miniature model WWII airplanes in the garage of our quaint yet respectable seventies-era ranch house. My mother, Della Peters, is a librarian at the local community college. She’s a firm believer in the healing power of crystals, plays guitar in a local folk band, and refuses to eat anything with a face.

Yes, I have a Porsche, and that throws off a lot of people. It was my grandfather’s car, and he left it to me when he passed. To say it’s special to me would be a gross understatement. So when some bitch turned it into a soggy taquería four weeks ago, you can imagine the burning rage that might inspire. That fury, that sudden passion for unbridled violence, was just a tenth of what I felt at this very moment.

“Christ, Peters.” Fernando shook his head and slumped down on the bench seat in front of me. “What happened?” He stole glances at the front of the bus, where Coach sat staring me down.

Coach was practically picking his teeth with his pocketknife, ruminating over how he was going to commit the perfect crime, murdering his QB. His face was as red as Elmo’s, but not cute and fluffy, more like sweat-laden and dangerously close to a full-on stroke.

“Coach has been staring at you like that all morning.” Fernando continued. Pulling off his shoes, he leaned against the window. “I thought I was going to get that look. One of those club kids put a video of me DJing on YouTube last night.”

Fernando drew in a sad, long breath. “Nine hundred hits by eight AM.” He pulled out his phone, tapping onto the screen. “Twelve hundred,” he said with a little too much excitement. “Twelve hundred hits. I’m a fucking YouTube star.”

“You’re a fucking moron.” Chance sat in the seat across from me, slamming his hand into a bag of Cheetos. “She got you good, Fernando. She’s hilarious.” He chuckled to himself. “Cute too, right, Peters?” He winked at me while tossing a Cheeto at my face.

I took a breath as the powdered orange stick bounced off my cheek.

“Sydney Porter is the ugliest, most vile person in the entire universe,” I bellowed. “I hope she slits her wrists on a Justin Bieber CD and bleeds out all over her DJ booth while a line of grade school children walk up to her and one by one spit on her hideous face.”

Half the team, including Jack, turned their heads at my announcement.

I narrowed my eyes on Jack, and he whipped his head around, cowering next to the assistant coach. No one talked to Jack. That was my message to the entire team when Coach and I arrived fifteen minutes late for the bus this morning.

That’s right. Coach and me. My new BFF.

After my night with Sydney Porter, I was ready to bury the hatchet and inch into her life. I wanted her. Badly. So much so I had to excuse myself after we’d been dancing for another hour just to take care of business in the bathroom. I know it’s dirty, but at the time, I was ready to grovel at her Converse-clad feet to just hold her hand.

Then this happened…

 

“Son, son, wake up. What the hell are you doing out here?”

My eyes shot open, and I rubbed my face. I was covered in glitter, and a piece got in my eye (gold pixie glitter). I cursed. Still in a daze, I realized I’d fallen asleep in a cab, wearing half a dozen glow-in-the-dark necklaces and a man’s red thong on my head.

As I scrambled to pull off the thong, I’d only made it worse. The crotch portion hit me across my eyes and then slid down my face. It moved past my nose, alerting me of its recent use, and stopped against my open mouth.

“Two hundred and seventy-six.” I heard a smoky growl from the front seat.

“What?” I’d finally flung off the thong, tossing it down on the floorboard.

An old man with a paperboy cap turned his wrinkled head toward me. “The fare is two hundred and seventy-six dollars.” He’d pointed at the meter attached to the dash.

“What are you talking about?” I’d said just as a tap came from outside the window.

It was Coach Samuels in a bathrobe and slippers, eating a banana and holding the Saturday paper. When I looked up at his face, his fangs were out, and he was looking to murder someone.

“Lock the door!” I’d yelled at the cabbie right as Coach reached for the handle and pulled it open. He said nothing, which was more terrifying than him yelling or screaming or punching.

Resigned to get out of the cab, I told the driver, “I’m not paying you. What the hell are you thinking letting me sleep in a cab all night, just sitting outside my house?”

Then I’d looked past Coach, and the realization hit me. I was no longer in the city.

I was in the country.

I peeked at the mailbox off to the side of the road. There was a giant crucifix painted on its white side, and the words below it read: Samuels Family: Blessed Are Those Who Deliver Mail.

“I picked you and your girlfriend up at Nirvana at four AM,” the cabbie said, checking his watch against the meter. “You fell asleep, and she said you only really sleep well in cars, so If I didn’t have any more fares, could I drive around the city for a couple hours.”

He took a long look at my glittery face and shook his head. “An hour ago, she asked me to drop her off at her dorm, then take you to this address where your dad would hop out and wake you up. She said if it was anyone else, you’d get startled and pee your pants, and I didn’t want to risk the pleather with a urine spill.”

I remembered the back of my neck was on fire because I’d rubbed my hand down it trying to fizzle out the flames.

“I’m not paying you a goddamn cent,” I’d growled, recognizing my efforts were useless and all my cervical vertebrae were now a pile of ash against the headrest.

“Here.” The driver handed me a credit card. My dad’s “emergencies only” credit card. “She said you might get crazy when you wake because you’re an alcoholic and you black out a lot. She dug this out of your wallet for you and handed it to me. I already ran it.”

Coach was huffing next to me by now, overhearing our interaction. “Get the hell out of the cab, Peters.”

When the cab zipped down that gravel driveway, so did a piece of my dignity. Before I could run—and I had no idea where I was—Coach grabbed me by my apparently massive ear and twisted, pulling me up his driveway.

I spent the next twenty-five minutes lectured by Coach, but really, only bits and pieces made it into my head as I answered question after question. Dammit, Peters, we leave for an away game in one hour and you’re out at a club all night? Do you want to lose your scholarship and chances for the NFL? Who the hell is this girl? Porter’s sister? I don’t care if she has a nice ass, you idiot… The rest of my brain was trying to piece the night back together, figuring out where it all went south.

“Your phone,” Chance yelled, smacking me in the arm. “Your phone’s buzzing across the bus floorboards, space case.”

It was bouncing around and slid under Fernando’s seat. He stopped it from moving farther with one of his stinky-socked feet.

Bitch: Just wanted to be sure you arrived at Coach Samuels’s house in one piece. And FYI, my wrists would never be within ten centimeters of a Justin Bieber CD. XOXO… Bitch.

Chapter Twenty-One

Not one minute after I sent that text did that arrogant prick write back.

Peters: I’M TAKING REALLY DEEP BREATHS RIGHT NOW, SYDNEY, TRYING TO KEEP MYSELF FROM RUSHING UP THE BUS AISLE AND POUNDING JACK.

Syd: Leave my brother alone. This is on you, Peters.

I’m sure you’ve heard Peters’s side of the story by now. Well, here’s the real one.

We were having fun. Like pretty damn close to the best night of my life kind of fun. Peters was letting loose (FYI: he’s a terrible dancer). He would just sort of shuffle around and stomp on my feet.

We had three more drinks after the close encounter in the DJ booth: two test tubes and a shot of Fireball. Within an hour, I’d managed to collect a dozen glow necklaces and catch a red thong midair that some hairy guy with a huge package ripped off his body. Don’t fret—hands were washed in boiling water.

After an hour, Peters was getting all sensitive and awkward. Every time I bumped into him, he’d jump away, dart his eyes around like a nervous rat, and straighten his shirt over his pants.

“You look like you have to pee, Peters,” I screamed up in his face, continuing to dance around him. I pointed to a Men’s Restroom sign hung above a door in the corner. “Over there. It’s over there.”

He nodded. “Be back in five. Do not move.” He started to run through the crowd, covering his crotch.

While he was in there probably having sword fights with other guys, I ran over to the coat check. I’d left my bag up there and wanted to grab some more cash from my wallet.

“Got your number?” the zombie behind the desk croaked out.

She wasn’t an actual zombie, just looked like she was about to pass out on the pile of fake fur coats lying behind her. After all, it was past two in the morning now. I handed her the slip marked “23” and glanced back toward the bathroom doors, wondering what was taking Peters so long.

“Here,” she grunted, slamming my bag down on the chipped wooden counter. Then she walked away, grabbed a self-help book, and sat in the corner.

I checked the contents of my bag. Everything was present and accounted for, but when I grabbed another twenty from my wallet, my phone lit up, blinding my eyes.

Allison: Oh my God, Syd. Had so much fun tonight. I’ve never felt more alive. My body’s on fire still and it’s almost 2:30.

I was about to scratch my eyeballs out of my skull. Why was she telling me this?

Syd: Gross.

Allison: What? Your music was awesome. That club is fun.

Syd: Oh, okay. Sorry. Is Jack there?

Allison: No, why? Peters told him to drop Katharine and me off at Kappa Delta.

Syd: What do you mean?

I glanced over to the bathroom. No sign of Peters.

Allison: They have an away game tomorrow. Don’t you keep track of these things?

No, I couldn’t give a crap about football. I just wanted Jack’s millions.

Allison: Katharine was pissssseeddd!

Syd: Why?

Allison: She wanted Peters to take her home, but he told her he had to go get some pound cake? I didn’t even know bakeries were open at midnight. Yummm, that sounds good though. Hope you’re having fun with Nick. I’ll be home in the morning to dish about your date. Katharine’s got me sleeping on the floor of the kitchen… I think she’s warming up to me.

Then she sent a string of heart and smiley face emojis along with a selfie of her head lying on a piece of cardboard next to a gas range oven. Her blond hair spread out along the dingy tile floor, and she had a huge grin on her face.

I would have laughed if my throat hadn’t closed up and my body hadn’t tried to swallow itself whole.

“Hey!” Peters’s voice took me by surprise, and I dropped my phone. It hit the floor with a thud, and the battery ejected from the back, clattering into a dingy corner.

“Crap, sorry.” He bent down to gather it, and a vision of me snapping his neck with the ease of a professional hit man crossed my mind.

“Here you go.” Peters grinned and looked over at my bag. “Do you want to go? We can go. Let me call a cab.” He pulled out his phone.

“No. Jack and Allison are probably doing the deed still. I really want to give him his space.”

He’d looked up at me with a cracked smile, which I now recognized as Gray Peters’s liar face.

“I’m good here. Let’s dance some more.” I grabbed his phone from his sweating hands. “Here, let me keep your phone in my bag. Lots of kleptomaniacs roaming around here. A girl just ran out of here crying about her diamond earring being ripped off her ear while she was dancing. That’s a gusty thief. Don’t want to take any chances.”

He hopped around looking back in the dancing mob and then glanced back at me. “Are you sure you want to stay? It’s really getting late.”

“You have something to do tomorrow?” I ran my hand down his chest, and he trembled under my touch. “‘Cause you can leave if you want, but I want to stay.”

I couldn’t have timed this better, but a creepy man walked by and mumbled, “Hey, sugar,” sending me a wink through his Mexican wrestler mask.

Peters paused, watching the man walk by. “Ummm… nothing. I have nothing tomorrow, or I guess this morning now.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Here put this in there too.”

I handed him my twenty. “Here. Go get us another drink.”

I pointed to the zombie in the corner, nodding off into her book. “I have to get her attention so she can put away my bag. I’ll meet you right here in five.”

“Promise?” He pushed his chest into my hand. “You’re not going to cut and run on me, are you?”

I shook my head. “I would have been long gone by now, Peters. You know that.”

He laughed and headed back to the bar.

 

Peters: You owe me $276, you talentless pickpocket.

Ouch. Ha-ha. Little did Peters know I didn’t swipe his credit card in the cab. I did it right there when he turned his back to get us drinks. And I managed to scroll through his phone, and something caught my eye. My phone number was in his contact list under “Bitch.”

Syd: Is that all? By my calculation it’s $574.

 

Yup, $574. I was a celebrity when I waltzed back from the bar after getting us another round of drinks. Peters had waved at me from across the dance floor, where he was stumbling around like a baby trying to walk for the first time. I’d just walked up to the gear-faced bartender and slapped his card down, yelling, “A round of drinks for the next fifty customers.”