Devious Minds by KF Germaine Page A

way, you’re too enticing in this little boy outfit.” He smiled, and I swung my fist into his gut.
    Grabbing my hand, he pulled me to his chest and leaned down to my ear. “Rule four.” His breathy whisper stroked across my earlobe. “Don’t disobey the other three rules, or Jack will die of a broken heart because his sister will have been murdered by some sociopath street kid.”
    Gently, he pulled up my chin until our eyes met. “That would make him sad, terribly sad, and he’d drop out of school. And because he’s so coordinated, he’ll be destined to work as a street mime and never marry his future trophy wife.”
    He took in a deep breath next to my head, and for a second, I was frozen against him. My body betrayed me with a flood of warmth and now my polyester-muscled chest was rising and falling against his distracting, hard one.
    Then he added, “And I’d be sad, too. What would I do with my life if you weren’t here to fuck with?”
    I took a step back and looked into his eyes. “I don’t know, Peters. Maybe find another chick to take to Pound Town?”
    He shook his head and took a step toward me, closing the distance. “I would never say the words ‘Pound Town.’ That is so cheesy, Porter. I might say Fuckville or Vagina Hole, Wyoming… Get it? Jackson Hole, Wyoming.”
    I nodded, distracted again by his whiskey-colored eyes and sweet breath.
    God, what am I doing?
    Peters was an ass, and he just made a very lame joke (which I could appreciate), but still, I was standing outside a club at one in the morning, on my twenty-first birthday, with the first boy I’d ever slept with.
    “But with you , Porter…” He started laughing, breaking the spell he’d cast over me. “I want to take you to Nirvana.”
    I rolled my eyes, and we made our way across the parking lot.
    It took us ten minutes to get inside. We waited behind the entire cast of Sex in the City, and I pitied the woman dressed as Miranda Hobbes (the redhead). She probably got the short end of the stick when picking out costumes. All her friends wore tight or short fashionable dresses, and she was in a wool business suit.
    A lady dressed as a peacock walked the line, asking for IDs, then offered Jell-O shots for three bucks a pop. I bought four, and Peters gave me a slow, disapproving headshake.
    “Live a little, QB,” I said, popping a cup up to his face. He slammed his lips shut, and I jabbed him in the gut until he opened his mouth. Then I squeezed gelatinous blue down his throat. He swallowed and started to cough, and I took the other three.
    Once inside, I had to lean against the brick wall immediately inside the door. I felt like I was in a movie. Like the crowd was going to open up to a rap battle followed by a dance off between two talented yet bitter rival break-dancers. One would whip his back around the concrete floor while his homeboys stood beside him, puffing and glaring. Then the other would step up and grab the girl—there’s always a girl they’re fighting over—and he’d twist her in the sky, catching her dainty body on top of his sneakers before the real fight broke out.
    Yes, that could totally happen here.
    Nirvana was huge. At least ten thousand square feet. Black lights hovered from chains overhead, and a series of long bars along the side offered everything from Pabst Blue Ribbon to green liquid in test tubes.
    Amazing .
    But what got me wet—yes, wet—was the balcony above. A long DJ booth was set up, and I noticed you could only see the head of the DJ poking over the edge. He was good, and the crowd was on fire.
    I pointed up to him and yelled at Peters, “He’s good.”
    Peters nodded, and I noticed him swaying to the beat. He never did that with my mixing. I tried to knock off the wave of insecurity crashing over me. It didn’t matter that Peters didn’t like my music. Maybe I should’ve thought twice about liking this DJ if Peters appreciated him so much.
    Peters kept a steady stare on the