Devious Minds (5 page)

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.”

O
peration
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.