Devious Minds (29 page)

“
I
feel like death.”

Fernando slammed down next to me on the couch, and I moaned.

“What happened last night?”

The whole party was spotty. I was browning out all night; I just remember glimpses. Tina touching me. Something about the engulfing black sky. And I think my face was too close to a toilet at one point. The last thing I remembered was dreaming about Sydney as a Hindu god. Eight arms and everything.

Fernando popped a pretzel in his mouth, and the crunch made my head nearly explode. “Well, you almost got sued for slander because you saw Sharbus and mentioned shit in his confidential lawsuit settlement. You know, the gag order.”

“What?”

“Yes. And you also punched him repeatedly in the face, which would’ve probably been another lawsuit.” Fernando popped another pretzel, and I snatched the bag from his hands.

“What do you mean
would have
?” Sitting up straight, I buried my face in my palms. “Dammit. Coach is going to be pissed.”

“But,” Fernando added with a little more pep in his tone. “Your girlfriend saved your ass.”

“Sydney?”

“No, Chance, dipshit.” Fernando rolled his eyes and flipped on the television. “Yes, Sydney. She clocked Sharbus in the face and sprayed him with Mace.”

“She did what?” Running my hand through my hair, I paused over a sore spot on the back of my head. “Is she okay?”

“Yep. She’s a smart one too, because when Echols and Berret walked outside with their girls, she totally freaked on Sharbus, claiming he groped her.” He softly laughed under his breath. “It was a good act. I’ll give her that. Echols knows Nick is a sleaze, so no one suspected she was lying.”

“I can’t believe she did that,” I said, feeling my lips move up to a proud smile. “Then what happened?”

“You should get ready for your rep brunch,” Chance announced. Entering the living room, he plopped down on his bean bag gamer chair. “Your mom will be here in a half hour.”

I swear to God, Chance would make an outstanding secretary. You should see inside his closest. It’s a wall of Post-it notes ordered chronologically and color-coded for importance. He has the next ten years of his life mapped out.

“Shut up, Chance.” I focused back on Fernando. “What happened next with Sydney?”

Fernando chuckled and grabbed the pretzels back, spilling a salty dust pile across his barrel chest. “Well, we all got in Chance’s truck and came back here. She helped you in the shower.” He gave me a wink. “She got in the shower with you, idiot. Bad time to black out. Then she dressed you and put you to bed.”

Jesus had just smiled down on me and the gates of forgiveness had opened, flowing forth a stream of hope. Tucking someone into bed is a good sign, right? That means you still care about them. Well, enough to make sure they aren’t sleeping in their own vomit outside on the porch (It’s happened twice. Don’t ask).

“Then I took her back to her truck,” Chance added, leaning back in his ridiculous chair. “I tried to tell her I wasn’t interested, but she’s got those long, slender fingers, and they just glide over your skin, you know?”

Grabbing a pretzel, I tossed it at Chance’s head, and he caught it in his mouth. “Just messing, but she did say to tell you thanks for Nirvana and good luck in the NFL.”

“What?”

“Yeah, she said to tell you she wished everything could’ve been different, but it’s too late to go back and that you should find a trophy wife with small ears for the sake of your future children.”

“Who the hell told her I was going to draft early?” Standing
very
slowly from the couch, I felt my brain slam against my skull. “I’m not stupid enough to believe anything out of Chett Ramsey’s mouth. Sure, he tells me the Steelers are interested, but he tells fifteen other QBs the same thing. Ditch my senior season? That’s the most important one.”

“Then why are you going to brunch with him?” Fernando mumbled, rolling his T-shirt back down his stomach. “I don’t get it.”

“He’s taking us to Palo’s for brunch. It’s hella expensive and it books four months out.” I started for the hallway. “Mom and I thought it would be funny. We’re gonna drink mimosas until his wallet cracks in half.” I grabbed my head, rethinking our plan. “At least Mom is.”

“Then what?” Chance yelled at my back. “You gonna finally man up and get your girl?”

“Yes, she’s mine to torture,” I yelled back, now sporting a shit-eating grin. “
Exclusively
.”

If Sydney Porter thought she could save my ass with Sharbus, lather me up with soap (so pissed I missed that), tuck me into bed, and leave me for good, she had another thing coming. I wasn’t done fighting. I didn’t spend the last six weeks trying to make her life a living hell just to watch her walk away. Short of time travel, I couldn’t change our past, but I could sure as hell change our future.

“
T
hree minutes ‘til break end.” Brian tapped the thick glass separating his office from my studio. “Almost through. Just stay on your game, Sydney,” he warned, slapping Gray’s fake letter against the glass as a threat.

I sat behind my desk, spinning the little black recording box around the table. This little recorder. The one thing that would break Katharine’s hold over me but put me at the beck and call of Northern’s Greek Nazis.

My fight for anonymity was all but gone. Why should I care? I had Nirvana, thanks to Gray. When Darren Waters offered me a DJ spot, Gray was the first person I wanted to share the news with. He’d ruined Sunday Lane, but he’d propelled DJ Sinister to her one true love—music.

And what did Gray want? NFL? Maybe. To teach art? Sure. But I knew what he really wanted was for me to forgive him. Even if we’d never be together. I didn’t have to guess at that. He’d told me over and over as he puked into his toilet Sunday night. And several more times when I’d climbed into the shower with him so he wouldn’t slip and fall.
I love you, Sydney
, was the last thing he’d said to me when I tucked him into bed.

“Two minutes,” Brian yelled, pulling on his headphones.

I kicked the studio door shut so I wouldn’t hear him nagging me and looked up at the clock. Two minutes ‘til eight. I’d tucked Lily’s slip of paper next to the phone, and the numbers were taunting me to dial them. Hitting play, stop, then rewind on the recorder, I leaned back in my chair.

What the hell am I doing? How long can I keep up this charade? Do I even want to anymore?
Blackmailing Katharine was enticing. I mean, she was begging for it, but where did that leave me? Playing games again. Making lives miserable. Hiding behind a radio personality for the next year and a half. Would giving into the Panhellenic’s wants secure my future? Or did it just confirm I was a coward?

Webster’s Dictionary defines a coward as someone who is too afraid to do what is right or expected. Someone who is not brave at all or courageous.

I’d always looked for the easiest way out of a problem. Even if it meant dragging the people I love through the dirt to get there. Even if it meant turning my back on something scary instead of jumping in head first. That, my friends, made me a coward.

So in the end, would Sunday Lane, DJ Sinister, and Sydney Porter take the easy way out?

Was Sydney Porter a coward?

My head flew up when Brain tapped the glass again. He signaled the countdown with his fingers. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Showtime
.

“Welcome back, Northern. Sunday Lane here. Still a beautiful Tuesday night in the Pacific Northwest. Can’t complain.” I snickered through the microphone. “Well, yes, I can. That’s what I’m here for, right?” Pulling away from the mic, I stared down at the recorder, grazing the buttons with my fingertips. “So I was thinking about it over break. Sunday Lane is sick of complaining all the time.”

Brian pulled his feet off the desk and slowly shook his head.

“I mean, it’s easy for her, right? She doesn’t really exist but between the hours of five to nine, two days a week. She gets to say whatever she wants with zero consequences. But let me tell you, my friends, there are always consequences to one’s actions. No one escapes that, and if they think they do, they are wrong. The guilt weighing on their shoulders will drag them down into the abyss. And not to get all biblical on you, but the truth,” I whispered into the mic, creating a pivotal moment, “will set you free.

“So I’ll start with me. Three truths about Sunday Lane. Truth one. Her real passion is music, not talking crap over the airwaves. Truth two. Her real name is Sydney Porter. Do what you will to her. And truth three… and here’s the real kicker people…” I paused, closing my eyes. “Sydney Porter is in love with number twenty-four, Gray Peters.”

Brian went ape-shit in the control room. Throwing paperwork. Slamming his head against the filing cabinet. I hated to see him this way, but it had to be done. I couldn’t live with the pressure, and I didn’t want to.

“Bonus truth,” I said over the mic. “Panhellenic, if you’re listening out there, Sydney Porter ain’t nobody’s bitch.”

Within my short life, I could count on one hand the number of times I felt truly brave. 1) Looking out for Jack throughout the years. 2) Holding my head high when my father’s casket descended into the earth. 3) Staying true to myself even when faced with Mom’s everlasting disappointment. And right now, putting my heart out there, because there was only one person I trusted enough to give it to—Gray Peters.

A
pproaching my truck, I surveyed the tires. Not slashed. That was good news. I couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be tomorrow. No odd substance in the tail pipe. Also good news. I saw it when I settled into the driver’s seat. A note tucked under the windshield wiper. Rolling down my window, I grabbed it and took a wary glance at the empty lot.

Sydney Porter (alias Sunday Lane, alias DJ Sinister),

I am aware of who you are and where you live. I have detailed notes and am willing fight with you until the end of days if you ignore my demands. This is just the first of many.

In your backseat, you will find a box containing a dress. Wear this dress to the athletic dorm tonight. Wear it all night. No alterations. I will be watching. Look for the dumb jock in room 213 who is desperately, utterly, and dangerously in love with you.

XOXO,

Micro-dick

My hands had never moved faster. I grabbed the box from the backseat and opened it to find it was a blue dress. Similar to the one I had freshman year. Pulling it out, I held it to my nose, breathing in the soft cotton. My arms shook as I yanked off my jeans and shirt, quickly throwing the dress on over my head. And I was glad I had on my Chucks, because I was about to run.

And run I did. Weaving between the dark redbrick campus buildings, pushing through students chatting in the quad, until eventually, I arrived where it all began two years ago.

Catching my breath, I peered up at the athletic dorm, trying to regain my composure. My stomach heaved, turning my insides out with nervous anticipation. The night’s mist cooled my flushed cheeks, and mustering all my courage, I stepped into the building.

I paused in the front lobby. It was completely empty. No meatheads or groupies like there usually was when I visited Jack. The only sound of life came from above on the second floor.

Horrible music.

I listened for a few seconds before my ears started to bleed. That poor stereo! But a brilliant move on Gray’s part. He knew it would call to me like a wounded animal, begging to be put out of its misery.

It was in the elevator when the first clear rush of nerves hit me, causing my pulse to rise until I thought I’d faint.
Don’t, Sydney.
Now was not the time to falter. Now was the time to make it right.

The elevator doors sprang open to the floor’s recreation room. The same recreation room I was in two years earlier. It was decorated with the same hand-me-down Christmas lights from freshman year. Spotting the boom box in the corner, I ran toward it, shut it off, and whispered my apologies for Gray’s offensive taste in music.

When I turned, I noticed a small sign:
Drink Me or Don’t
was posted next to a punch bowl in the corner of the room. It was Jungle Juice. I poured myself a cup and leaned against the wall. The same wall where I was lured into a dorm room by a yogurt pickup line and promises of whiskey. Only there was no eighteen-year-old Gray across the room, awkwardly stumbling toward me, making my brain turn to mush with his charming smile.

But there was a twenty-one-year-old Gray here. Waiting for me.

Peeking my head down the deserted hallway, I noticed red gummy bears. They were taped to the wall in an arrow formation. Following its direction, I saw a warm glow from room 213, Gray Peters’s old dorm room.

When I walked inside, Gray wasn’t there. But what was there took my breath away.

A shoebox full of crystals on the desk. Gray’s artwork taped to the walls, with one addition, the picture of me he drew at the beach. His guitar was propped in the corner. A bottle of Jameson sat next to his old desk lamp. A sign was taped above the extra dorm bed.
Reminder: Push Away When Done Banging Chicks
.

I felt tears slide down my face, and I lifted the hem of my dress, wiping them away.

It was freshman year again. It was two years ago, but right now. It was where we left off. Where our misunderstanding was created, but now it was our beginning.

“I’m back.”

Startled by Gray’s voice, I flipped around. He was standing in the doorway, wearing just his boxers and running shoes, holding two waters and an open bag of gummy bears. He was breathing deeply, like he’d just run laps, and he steadied his eyes on me, smiling cautiously.

“Took you long enough.” Wearing a grin so big it hurt, I sat on the bed. My hands trembled, and I held them firmly in my lap. “Two years is a long time to wait for a drink of water.”

“Two years?” He stepped inside, now with a smile matching mine. “I was only gone five minutes, Sydney
Fu
.” Handing me a bottle of water, he sat on the empty bed across from me.

He pulled off his shoes and was quiet, scanning me over. “And like I said, our conversation isn’t over.”

The back of my neck flushed with heat, and I squeezed my hands into excited fists. “It isn’t?”

“No.” Carefully moving from the bed, he kneeled down in front of me. “I don’t want it to ever be over.” He grabbed my shaky hands and laid light kisses inside my wrists. When I felt his warm mouth on my skin, they stopped shaking, instantly recognizing the person who held them.

“I plan on staying right here and fighting it out with you. I’m all in, Porter. And if I have to make your life miserable for another year, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“I dunno, Gray.” My chest felt heavy as I gulped down a sob. I lifted my hands to cup his ears and gently tugged on them. “Are you sure you’re all in? Because we’re gonna fight.”

“I count on it,” he whispered, rolling his stubbly chin against my forearm. “But we’re going to make up, too.” He raised an eyebrow, and I laughed.

Then he scooted closer and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I heard you on the radio, Sydney. I was pacing around here, nervous as hell. Then you said you loved me, and I just coul—”