Devious Minds Read online

  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

  [email protected]

  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.