Devious Minds (3 page)

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.

P
iece of shit closed his eyes.

What was he doing here? Panic set in, thinking my Sunday Lane character was breached. Maybe he’d heard my quips about his small prick and he was out for revenge.

Then he opened his eyes. “I know you.”

“No, you don’t,” I said, searching the room for more testosterone-laden Neanderthals. “What do you want?”

“Sydney,” he said, starting to hop up onto the stage. When he saw my expression, he backed down.

God, he remembers my name
.

My eyes locked with Snake’s, and he started a slow, steady walk toward the stage. When he reached me, he kept his eyes on my face but pulled Peters back by his shoulder. “Don’t touch the stage.”

“I got this, Snake. He’s just leaving.”

Snake took a few steps back, just out of earshot, but waited in case I needed him.

“Sydney, you do know me, remember? You came up here for a college visit, and w—”

“And that was two years ago,” I interrupted.

His eyes strayed to my chest, and I crossed my arms, blocking his view. Peters turned in a circle, as if to collect his thoughts. Then he faced me again with a soft look. “I’m here with your brother, Jack. He needs to borrow your truck.”

My eyes shot up, scanning the room for Jack. “He’s eighteen, and you brought him to a bar? You meatheads are already trying to mess up his NFL chances. Is that your play, Peters? Let him get busted in a club?”

He shook his head and was about to take a step forward but thought better of it when Snake cleared his throat.

“No. Of course not. He’s outside. Coach paired us as team buddies, so I’m showing him the ropes. We just need to borrow your truck for an hour and we’ll bring it right back. I promise.”

“Showing him the ropes?” I drew in a sharp breath. “You mean showing him how to use girls like brainless objects and laugh about it the next day, while you think they’re sleeping in your room you call the
sex palace
?”

His mouth turned up like he was about to laugh, but it shot back down, reading the death look on my face.

“What? Sydney, that’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” I repeated, gripping the record so tightly it was about to crack. “I remember it very clearly, Peters. I’m surprised you remembered my name after being scored so low on the
pussy scale
.”

He bunched his eyebrows, thinking it over.

“Remember it now, you micro-dick nobody?”

Peters’s face fell to a frown. “Micro-dick? That’s not what I remember. I remember someone panting over my shoulder for hours, screaming out my name.”

A dull burn flooded my throat, seeping into my veins. I grabbed the mic and yelled, “Five more minutes,” to which the crowd groaned. Setting another three tracks to play, I jumped off the stage.

“Hold him back,” I yelled at Snake, and he stepped to the side, grabbing Peters by his arm.

I could feel every eye on me, even the eyes I never got (Nick’s), as I charged through the crowd and threw open the club door.

Idiot left his car idling at the curb. When I jumped in the driver’s seat, Jack glanced up from his phone with a smile, then did a double-take.

All the blood drained from his face.

“Thought it was Peters?” I threw the car into drive and adjusted the rearview just as Snake dropped Peters roughly on the curb. Peters stood up, throwing his hands in the air, and started to come after the car.

“Turn around, Syd!” Jack yelped from my side. When he tried to grab the wheel, I punched him in the stomach with the side of my fist.

He hunched over, releasing a puff of air. “Syd, this isn’t your car, and it’s not
Mom’s
car.”

I gave him a long, withering stare and shifted the car into a higher gear. “Well, he’s so keen to drive my truck, so I thought a little swap would be okay. There’s a homeless camp down on Ninth Avenue, right?” I yanked the wheel toward downtown.

“Syd, please. You’re ruining this for me.” He cradled his head in his hands, lowering his elbows to his knees. “I’m going to throw up.”

I slammed on the breaks and pulled into a parking spot along the road. “What are you thinking, Jack? Really? Sending some asshole in to get the keys for my truck. What the hell do you need it for anyway?”

He hesitated, so I knew it was bad. “To pick up some kegs.”

I shook my head.

“He doesn’t want to put them in the Porsche because it’s raining out. It will ruin his interior. Please, please, Syd. I just want to fit in with the team. You know it’s hard for me to make friends.”

Shutting my eyes, I leaned back against the seat.

Jack Porter, star athlete and possibly the most awkward boy I’d ever known. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, which was why he didn’t know about Sunday Lane. His awkwardness only tripled when a female was within a ten-foot radius. He didn’t even have to see her. It was like his body sensed estrogen and folded in on itself. We Porter kids made quite the team.

But giving into the wants and needs of Gray Peters wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t do it—ever—not even for Jack. Besides, he needed to learn how to make friends without bartering or he’d be screwed his whole life.

“Not going to happen, Jack.”

He let out an infuriated growl. “Then how the hell are we going to get the kegs, Syd? You have a better idea?”

I smiled and hit the automatic roof button. The panels slid off, and sheets of rain dumped into the car like God was tossing buckets, drenching us both. Jack’s eyes pleaded with me, but he didn’t make a sound. I would have driven it through a car wash if I had more time, maybe dropped it in the river, but I had to be back in four minutes.

Pulling the car out, I circled the block a few times, collecting as much rain as I could. A huge puddle had pooled to one side of the uneven road, and I sped through it. An ocean of oily, dirty water crashed over Jack, hitting us both. He lifted his arms shaking off. I just laughed my ass off.

Before I turned the block to the club, I stopped in front of Rico’s, a gut rot Mexican food truck.

“Trash,” I yelled at Rico, hopping out of the car. I slapped Jack’s hand away from the ignition and pulled the keys. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Rico gave me a confused look but pointed to a large can of half-consumed bean burritos, red rice, and sticky orange soda. His mouth dropped open with sheer amazement when I rocked the can toward the back of the car.

“No, Sydney. NO,” Jack yelled from the passenger seat.

“Rico, come help.”

At five-foot-four, I couldn’t tip the can myself.

“Or you’ll be next,” I threatened.

Rico stepped out of the truck and helped me lift the can over the side of the car, dumping it all over the backseat. It covered most of it but I was still unimpressed with the damage. So I grabbed several partially drank bottles of soda and poured them over the seats.

“What are you doing?” Jack screamed.

“Stop playing follow-the-leader, Jack,” I yelled back at him just before dumping half a bottle on his head.

Rico snapped pictures from the sidewalk and laughed.

“Destroy those pictures, Rico.”

Rico immediately dropped his head and went to work punching buttons.

When we turned the corner, Peters furiously paced the sidewalk while Snake leaned against the club door. Peters’s phone was up to his ear, and he looked ready to detonate.

His hand dropped along with his jaw when he saw us coming.

“What the fuck!” he screamed.

Snake still sported those aviators, and I caught a small smile on his face. Jack just sat there like rigor mortis had already set in. He knew he was dead meat.

I hopped out of the car and threw a speechless Peters the keys. “Not a scratch on her, Peters, and look.” I waved my hands over the now open top. “I solved your keg transportation dilemma,
and
you have a midnight snack.”

Flipping him the bird, I brushed past Snake and toward the club door.

“Now you can scream
my
name, asshole!” I yelled without turning back.

Stepping into the club, I was dripping through to my bones, and it was awesome.

“Hi, Nick,” I said, passing the bar.

He looked up, surprised, but slow and steady, he said, “Hey.”

The shock of me speaking to Nick would sink in later, but for now, I felt victorious taking that stage.

“I’m fucking back,” I yelled into the mic, and the crowd cheered as I faded into an adrenaline-infused track.

Chapter Four

I
put Jack through hell for a week. He detailed my car. He cleaned up the puke after our kegger. He went on unwarranted runs for ice. Every time, I’d tell him we only needed
one
bag, and he’d come back with one bag. Then I’d tell him we needed
one
more bag, but just one. This got old after fifty times.

I know what his sister did wasn’t his fault, but he was spineless around her. He needed to grow a pair of balls. I was more upset about that than the fact the bitch ruined my leather.

The guys thought it was a simple hazing. They didn’t question my methods or the why, and I didn’t tell them about Sydney. Jack was smart enough and didn’t say a thing either. He knew I would have been harassed for weeks, and shit rolls downhill.

I lay back on my mattress, plotting my revenge.

If Sydney Porter thought this would be swept under the rug, she had another thing coming. I wanted to slap that sassy look off her face when she threw those keys at me. Of course, I was in shock, and
Snake
(could a bouncer’s name be any more cliché) was right behind me, out for blood. And she was wet, her tank like a second skin, showing off two teardrop-shaped breasts, nipples erect, so naturally, my body betrayed me with wood.

Letting out an infuriated sigh, I leaned back into the mattress. A smaller whimper came from my waistband, where Tina—or Tiffany… or who the fuck cares—was sucking me dry.

“Baby, you taste good,” she murmured, taking a break to stroke me.

I didn’t feel a thing. Sex had been replaced with rage.

“Get up,” I said softly, pushing her shoulders. She looked at me like I’d just told her to jump off a building. “I’m too tired tonight, Tin—”

“Theresa,” she snapped, wiping a hand across her mouth. “It’s Theresa, you ass, and it didn’t taste good. It never does. Sunday Lane was right. You boys are all the same! Just a hoard of disease-riddled amoebas slithering around campus trying to get your next fix!”

Sunday who?
Must be a new cheerleader.

“Slithering
amoebas
? Never listen to girls named after weekdays, Theresa,” I teased.  Theresa slapped me on the thigh and scowled. Before she could continue her rant I broke in, “
Us
boys
are all the same yet you continue to give blowjobs, Theresa. Maybe you should take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and ask, ‘Why do I continue to give head?’ and maybe you’ll figure out, like all the rest of the cheerleading squad, you were born to do it, and that’s your fate in life. To suck a quarterback’s dick.”

She threw my Nikes at me and huffed out of the room.

Okay, I guess that was a little mean, but Sydney Porter was invading my thoughts to the point I couldn’t even enjoy Theresa.

Pants still down, I grabbed my phone and sent Jack a text.

Peters
:
What’s Sydney’s phone number?

Two minutes later, because I’d kick his ass if it were three, Jack replied.

Porter
:
Why? You don’t want to go there, man. She has no limits. None. Zero.

Peters
:
Just give me the number
.

Jack sent back a series of numbers with a sad face emoji after.

Peters
:
Stop acting like a pussy, Porter. No one respects weakness.

No text back. He got the point.

My first inclination was to send her a nasty message. A death threat or tell her she’s ugly, something like that, but that would be Gray Peters in the third grade. Twenty-one-year-old Gray Peters, I’d like to think, was more calculating. He could play the long game to prolong the pain.

I thought briefly about asking Jack to do some recon, but if she caught him, he’d cave. He couldn’t be trusted. Not in his fragile state. Guy snooped in her room and only came out with a vibrator and her diary. I would’ve had major dirt if I had a sister. Serious where-the-dead-bodies-are-buried kind of dirt.

I smiled thinking about that little pansy roaming around her room, cracking open her diary. It was probably pink with a heart locket, all innocent on the outside but revealed her dark secrets on the inside. I actually chuckled out loud when I remembered her diary passage was about the guy she had sex with two years ago.

Probably me.

What did Jack say?
I was messy… no, sloppy. Sloppy and arrogant in bed.
What a liar
. Oh yeah, couldn’t keep it up for longer than two minutes. I’d never been accused of that.

Two years ago, she’d shown up with her friends. They were staying in the guest rooms at the athletic dorm. She had this little dress on—blue, like a dark blue. It clung to her hips, bringing every guy’s dick to attention. I remember that much. Our floor had a party and there was drinking. Lots of Jungle Juice, because I remember suffering through some serious heartburn at practice the next day.

She looked way different at the time. No sloppy flannels and ugly hats, but she did have that tattoo on her neck, and as soon as I saw it I wanted to lick it off or die trying. She complained about the music a lot. Which made sense now that she was the ever-so-picky
Sinister
. Jesus, that name.

Somehow we ended up in my dorm room. I made sure she was eighteen, by the way. I’m no fool. I had my college ball career and NFL hopes on the line.

We started off slow. I even played the guitar for her. That was kind of a douchebag move, but hell, I was nineteen. Then we ended up having sex. Yes, there was heavy panting, and yes, she screamed out my name. She was tight and she didn’t shave all the way like other girls, so it was smooth down there, soft. Not like grinding against sandpaper.

Her breasts were perfect, heavy at the bottom but still fell flat against her chest, enough there to peek over the side of her narrow frame. She purred, and her thighs were soft, her ass perky. Great for gripping and pushing her up against a dorm headboard, and her—

“The fuck are you doing?” Chance snickered from my open door.
When the hell did the door open?
“You’re sitting on your bed, phone in one hand and your dick in the other.”

Shit
. I didn’t even realize I was stroking myself. I wasn’t embarrassed about getting caught. I was more horrified I was thinking about Sinister.

Grabbing my sheet, I tugged it around my waist.

“Who are you sexting with? Wasn’t Theresa just in here? I want that number if you’re willing to toss her out for phone sex.”

Before I could react, Chance swiped the phone from my hand. “Oh hell, you’re texting Jack Porter? What the fuck, man?”

I threw one of my Nikes, which Theresa had kindly chucked at my head, at Chance. “I was not, asshole. I will ruin you if you start spreading rumors.”

“You’re taking this hazing thing to a whole new level if you’ve enlisted a fluffer.” He let out a short laugh and tossed the phone back. “Get your ass up. We have practice in twenty.”

“It’s Sunday,” I murmured, ignoring his fluffer comment. “Which one of you assholes knows the most about cars?”

“Fernando. Remember, his dad’s a mechanic.”

“Good, tell him to meet me in the living room.”

I still had some major long-term planning to do for Sydney “Sinister” Porter, but I wasn’t going to miss the chance to mess with her in the meantime.