Devious Minds
Authors: KF Germaine
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
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
“
W
hat… 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
.