Devious Minds (15 page)

“Whiskey, but it’s in my room. My brother gave it to me. I’m only supposed to drink a shot after Northern wins a football game. It’s top shelf.”

She nodded and pulled her hair off her shoulder. A tattoo of a guitar fret board lay against the back of her neck, blending in with her fine hairs. “Okay, then. Jungle Juice it is.” She lifted the cup for a sip and started to turn away from me, but I grabbed her arm.

“One shot would be okay. Just can’t let anyone know I have it. I don’t need a three AM dorm raid.” I drew in a breath, watching her pursed ruby lips drift up to a smile.

Then she shook her head. “I shouldn’t go back to any dorm rooms.”

“What if I leave the door open?” I released her arm and nodded toward the hallway. “I promise nothing will happen. Just two comrades taking a shot together.”

“Comrades?” She shook her head but stopped, pinning me with those smooth chocolate-colored eyes. “Fine. Door open, though.”

E
ver heard the joke about the DJ who walked into the doghouse?

No?

Well, you’re about to, and I’m sure the punch line will be spectacular.

Allison paced the sidewalk. “What if they kick us out, Sydney? Katharine’s in there.” Hitting a pothole hidden in the darkness, she tumbled forward, and I grabbed her arm to keep her steady.

“Pledges aren’t allowed in the doghouse. Her rules. What if she sees me? Oh my God.”

“I thought you were in already, Allison? Rush has been over for a week.”

Releasing her arm, I studied the house. Horrible music—
for shame, Peters
—oozed from the every surface of the sprawling Craftsman bachelor pad. Wicker furniture sat on the wide front porch, fenced in by sturdy white columns. It all looked inviting, but I was certain under black light that scratchy wicker would be dirtier than brothel upholstery.

“Not for me, Sydney… Katharine said I’m on probation.”

I frowned, thinking about how to get my hands on a copy of those Greek bylaws. “Allison, relax. We look like total sluts.” I pulled down my dress, which I swear was made of plastic wrap. “They would be total losers to kick us out, even if Katharine puts up a fight.”

“What if she kicks me out, Syd?” Allison started to walk up the street toward my truck. “We need to go. Let’s go.”

“Allison,” I whisper-yelled at her back. “Get your scrawny ass back here right now. What about Jack?”

After a dramatic freeze in the moonlight, Allison twisted around and walked back. She looked up at the house just as a couple girls stumbled through the doors, giggling and hanging on one another. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me up the porch steps.

We entered the living room, and it was packed. You could barely walk, which could be viewed as a blessing or a curse. You could blend in, but no speedy getaways if Peters or Katharine saw us.

“I can fit through there,” Allison whispered in my ear, pointing to a three-inch crevice between two groups of people. “You can’t.”
Remind me to punch her in the throat later.
“I’ll go see if I can find Jack. You stay in here in case he comes by.”

I nodded and leaned against the wall.

“Here, Syd.” She grabbed an unopened beer off the console table near the door. “Drink something or you’ll look out of place. Don’t make eye contact with anyone, especially Katharine.”

I nodded again as Allison’s bones were reduced to rubber and she easily slid through the narrow crack. This would have been resolved already if Jack were talking to me. My last message from him was about Peters’s wishes for a slow, painful death by Bieber.

It didn’t matter anymore. Tomorrow, Sunday Lane, Sydney Porter, would be front-page news. I’d have to move out of state, lose my summer dream job, and end up being the events coordinator at a local nursing home. I’d play oldies until five PM and then wheel them one by one back to their rooms, reminding them to take their meds. Finally, I’d go back to my low-rent studio apartment, eat a bowl of Top Ramen, and pet my seven cats.

Yes, I had it all planned out.

A minute later, I felt the heat from a heavy stare and looked up. Peters was opposite the room, and his stare locked on me like a laser beam slashing through the crowd. He was taking slow and steady breaths and his jaw clenched tightly on each inhale. I couldn’t read his expression, but I knew it wasn’t rage. I’d seen it once before.

Two years earlier…

“
A
re you a wizard? Why do you have an entire shoe box full of stones and crystals?”

Peters grabbed the lid from my hands and replaced it over the box. “My mother sends them to me. It’s kind of her thing.”

Sitting on the bed opposite his, I slipped off my shoes and lay down. “Do you have a roommate?”

“I lucked out this year,” he answered, eyes roaming over my horizontal frame. “I wasn’t assigned one, so I get both beds.”

“I’d push them together and make a full-size,” I said, flipping on my side.

I propped my elbow on the pillow and held up my head. “That way when you’re done banging chicks, you can just nudge them over to the other twin, push it across the room, and be like, ‘Thanks… but I like to sleep alone. Football players don’t cuddle. It obstructs blood flow to our extremities. We need to be in top form when our asses are getting kicked on the field.’”

He cracked a smile and reached under his bed, producing a bottle of Jameson. “Ha-ha. That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that next time.”

He stared at me for a minute, trying to get a grip on what I’d just said. What? I was just a girl helping him plot his moves with other girls.

I sat up as his trembling hand poured whiskey into two plastic cups. Handing one to me, he waited for a cheers before taking our first sip.

“To new comrades,” he announced as we clinked plastic and took a sip. “You haven’t asked for my name.”

“I know your name. It’s Gray Peters. Who doesn’t know your name… little prince?” I joked, and his flushed cheeks rose to an embarrassing smile. “I’m just joking. I read it on your dorm door, and since you’re the only one in here, I deduced you are the famous Gray Peters.”

Gray was cute. Scratch that. He was gorgeous. The moment I walked into the athletic dorm, he’d caught my eye. He wasn’t swaggering around the hall like the other males, puffing out their chests, delivering smiles they thought would leave Brittany, Megan, and me in a wet, hot puddle on the floor.

While all his buddies stood there checking out my ass, famed QB Gray Peters’s eyes never fell below my chin, which had me both flustered and surprised.

“I like Tool
,” he’d said, noticing the Tool patch sewn onto my duffle bag. “
Did you see them play this summer at the Arlene Schnitzler Concert Hall? My brother and I went. What’s your favorite song?
Mine’s ‘Schism.’”

I paused for a minute, trying to relearn English, but my tongue instantly thickened, and I couldn’t make it budge.

“
Well, I guess everyone likes Schism,”
he went on after releasing a nervous, ragged breath. “
That was a stupid question. I’m an idiot.”

Yes, but a cute idiot with strong arms and a broad, firm chest. Man, I was as bad as the swaggering meatheads—objectifying this poor schmuck.

“That looks heavy
,” he’d commented, motioning to my duffle bag. “
May I offer my assistance carrying it to the guest quarters, madam?”
he’d said in a BBC-worthy rendition of an old British butler. Then he chuckled at his own cheesy comment, slammed his hands into his jean pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels like a little boy.

Finally, I got my thick tongue to work. I meant to say yes, but what came out was the low growl of a wolf ready to pounce on its prey.
Stupid, Sydney.
Instead of recovering gracefully, I ran for the open elevator doors and repeatedly pushed the up button. Once in the safety of the metal box, I slid down against the wall and let out a true cheerleader-worthy squeal. Gray Peters had talked to
me
. Holy shit.

And now I was sitting in his dorm room drinking whiskey. Unreal.

“Famous?” Gray smiled and moved back on this bed. “Wow.”

“Yeah, the famous football team statistician Gray Peters. You just sit on the bench and crunch numbers, calculate the odds, you know.”

He laughed and took another sip. “You’re funny, Sydney
Fu
.”

We both started laughing, and I spotted a guitar in the corner. “You play?” I grabbed the guitar off its stand and handed it to Peters. He nodded, took it out of my hand, and began strumming.

It was a song I recognized, and he botched one of the notes. “That’s an E not an F, Peters.” I crossed over to his bed and sat leaning against the wall next to him.

Peters allowed me to move his fingers across the fret board, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was searing my face off with a heavy, heated stare. At that moment, I felt brave. I had him in a corner, and I could leave now or take this a step further.
Should I take this a step further?
It was now or never with Gray Peters. I knew that much.

“Tell me three things that are true about you, Sydney Fu, car thief and jokester. Just three things.” His voice was low and husky in my ear, and I dropped my hand from the guitar, resting it on his lap.

“I’m eighteen.” I stood, walked over the door, and pushed it closed.

“I hate wearing dresses.” I pulled my dress over my head, and he swallowed, taking in my frame. “And I hate cuddling.”

B
efore I knew it, Peters plowed through the dancing crowd, heading straight for me with fierce determination. I held my breath, watching, but two blondes made it to me first.

“Sanwicha Hamm?” Tina’s voice cut into my ear as she stepped in front of me. Tiffany joined her side, and they gave me another onceover.

Peters stopped just behind them. He crossed his arms over his fleece-clad chest but didn’t say a word. His eyes flickered with irritation, but surprisingly not at me. He was staring at the Tiffany.

“What are you doing here?” Tiffany said, lifting her hand to touch the strap of my cheap dress. “Here to profess your undying love for Jack Porter, I presume. Well, I think it’s a little too late for that. Theresa’s already boning him in one of the rooms.”