by A. J. Lape
A two-inch scar ran down York’s left cheek, and tattoos decorated his neck and hands. He had dressed in street clothes: dark jeans, a black shirt open one too many buttons, and enough cologne to send an allergic person into anaphylaxis. An expensive Piaget flashed on his wrist, and a scan of his feet produced dark brown dress sneakers along the lines of what Dylan had on his feet. York, or better yet his daddy, had some cash.
By the heat he threw off, he wanted to perform an in-depth analysis of my body parts. I imagined myself as Clint Eastwood, pulling out a .44 Magnum and shooting him in the balls. Striking the number fifteen, I intentionally missed, the ball bumping off the side and hitting one of my other balls, knocking it straight into Thor’s path. Thor raised a brow, acknowledging I would never miss that shot.
“Any reason why you’re sucking down the crude oil tonight?” York crooked a finger for a server to bring a black cup of coffee.
“My days and nights are messed up,” I said. “I’m trying to stay awake.”
York narrowed brown eyes. “You work the nightshift?”
“I’m a delivery driver.”
“Delivering what?” he inquired curiously.
I shrugged, blinking my eyes like I was in love. “Oxy. Meth. On a good night, tons of heroin.”
Thor giggled as he dropped a shot in the corner pocket. “No shit?” York asked.
“I deliver pizzas.” Moron.
York removed my hat from my head and placed it on his block head. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “So you’re responsible enough to get the pizza there in thirty minutes or less?”
“Other than the fact I occasionally leave my flatiron on,” I said, “I’m pretty responsible.”
York scoffed, adding a grin that in no way was genuine. “Girl, responsible or not, pizza delivery is not a career.”
I heard his opinion and naturally didn’t care. Thor, however, stopped before he struck the next ball. “Sure, it’s a career, York,” he declared defensively, his blue eyes slicing into him like a hot laser. “It’s a career if it pays the bills. Besides, Darcy needs something to fall back on if she winds up in some shitty-ass marriage.”
Thor then chuckled, sliding his gaze to Dylan who rolled his eyes.
“Darcy, huh?” York said, acknowledging my name. I didn’t answer, figuring doing so would be redundant. York placed his finger on my back, tracing the number eighty in a suggestively slow fashion. “So I take it you were at the game?”
I backed away from him, just a smidgeon, but it wasn’t before I felt and smelled his hot beer breath. “I like Number Eighty.”
“All hype,” York said, referring to Dylan.
Listen, Abe. Not all men are created equal, I muttered in my head, but I realized the comeback came out of my mouth when those around me laughed.
“Maybe I can convince you to cheer for another player. Did you see me play?” he pushed.
“I saw you lose.”
“The scoreboard doesn’t always say who the best player is,” York countered with a huff.
Normally, I appreciated a person’s determination. With York? I wanted to strangle him with it. Something in my gut told me he suspicioned I was Dylan’s significant other. That meant he would continue to goad him. “But the stats do,” I countered. “You didn’t stop Dylan Taylor one time. Stay strong, man. Getting humbled is hard on everybody.”
Thor struck two more balls, sinking both and sending one of mine completely out of range for a corner shot. Well, out of range for an average player…not for me. When he missed his next attempt, I leaned over the table, lining up a shot.
York whistled…then cooed. Like literally cooed. “Nice ass,” he said. “Make sure you keep your foot on the floor or it’s cheating.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “If I don’t keep it on the floor, my only other option would be to shove it up your butt. And I’m kinda fond of my shoes.”
Thor was mid-swallow with the drink Crazy Lady Friend had offered and laughed so hard he choked.
There was no way Dylan had heard York, or York would be underneath his size fifteens. Right then, Dylan left his stool and sauntered over, chest out and eyes full of stormy emotion. Okay, perhaps he did hear. I purposely missed once more. “Are you running into some trouble?” he asked me.
I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment I decided to shark Kirby York. Maybe it was the coo. Maybe it was in the recesses of my mind that I wanted to put him in his place for disparaging my boyfriend’s name. Or maybe it was simply an impulse for me to want to gamble. Dang. I really should spend some time pondering my possible gambling addiction.
Like Thor’s eyebrow raise had suspicioned, Dylan knew I intended on sharking York. I would act as though I was losing, up the stakes, and then nail his slimy butt to the wall.
“I haven’t played this bad in a long time,” I whined. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Do you know, Darcy?” York questioned Dylan, his tone sharp, implying Dylan was infringing upon his territory.
Keep up the charade, buddy, I thought. You know and I know you only approached me because of the eighty on my back.
Any other time, Dylan would make it clear we were in a relationship—he’d sling an arm around me, hug me, or kiss me on the lips or cheek—but when I was sharking, he tried to appear as nonchalant as someone like Dylan could be. “Yes, we’re familiar with one another,” Dylan answered. “Just center yourself and focus,” he then said to me.
I blinked up at Dylan with puppy dog eyes—the eyes of a seasoned grifter. By that time, the rest of our party had strolled over to watch the game, along with some others who’d just exited the dance floor. After Thor missed his next ball, I purposely shot wide, and Thor won the game in a few more shots. I watched him scrape up the one hundred dollars, masking my frown because the money should’ve been mine.
Thor offered his stick to York. “Wanna play Darcy?” he asked him.
York snatched that cue stick like it were an oar when he hung onto an abandoned raft headed for Niagara. “Sure,” he said, jumping at the chance. “I’d love to play with her…I mean, play her.”
The guy cooed again…
I swallowed down a case of the ewwwws and accepted the challenge, stepping next to York as he racked the balls. “Lucas just took my fifty dollars,” I said. “I’d like to get it back…and then some. Why don’t we up the stakes?”
Our eyes caught. “Up the stakes?” he guffawed. “I just saw you crash and burn.”
Go die in a ditch, a*shole, I cursed in my head, but “Everything happens for a reason,” made it out of my mouth.
At first, I went for my purse to grab another one hundred bucks, but by the way the guy didn’t like Dylan, I did a mental-180 and slid my hand into the back of Dylan’s jeans, removing his wallet. Unfolding the black leather, I removed five hundred dollars and plunked it down on the table. Then I removed my hat from York’s head, placing it back on mine.
“Winner takes all,” I said. “Can you front five Franklins? I don’t take payment plans.”
A-hole happily removed a wad of twenties from his wallet and three Benjis equaling five hundred dollars.
“Winner takes all?” Dylan verified, glancing around the room.
“Winner takes all,” York parroted cockily.
When York told me to break the balls with a, “Ladies first,” I systematically nailed all my shots until it was only me staring down the eight ball. Announcing, “Eight ball, right corner pocket,” I struck the ball dead center and watched it balance on the lip and drop inside.
I love myself…I really do.
“You shark,” York spat.
“Free enterprise,” I said as an excuse.
York snorted, the air coming out of his nose practically visible. He leaned down, whispering in my ear, “Free enterprise, my ass. You played me, and if you played me, then it’s only fair I get to show how I play.”
Chapter 6
NOT TODAY, SATAN.
Okkkkuuuurrrrr….
&n
bsp; Did he mean doing the nasty? Because nookie was never placed on the table. When a carnal heat practically melted the panties from my body, it was obvious the guy was all kinds of degenerate. Something primitive sparked in his eyes, and I knew in every part of me that was female York was the type of guy who didn’t understand the word no.
My brain said, Make a fist. Punch him in the face.
But I decided to use big people words.
Opening my mouth, I nearly had a full-blown come-apart, speaking for every female who didn’t have the strength to do so herself. “Are you DSL or ISL?” I said with a snap.
His nostrils flared, and he crowded me with his chest. “And what would those be?” he said.
“Douchebag as a second language or idiot as a second language. The definitions are a little murky, so I was hoping you could fill in the blanks.”
Eh, not so big people talk…but who cares.
York mulled those words over, oblivious to the chuckles from the crowd. He paced around the table—gazing at it, glaring at me, wondering how in God’s name the game got away from him. Picking up the cash, once again I slid my hand in the back of Dylan’s pants and removed his wallet. I placed the bills inside, which was tantamount to the vault at a bank. Only an idiot would attempt to lift them.
“I can’t believe you just sharked me,” York complained to the air, stopping to run a hand through his long, dark hair. “That was a shit-ton of money.”
Dylan winked at me and got his flirt on. “Nice job, Darc,” he murmured, his voice soft and husky. “Pool is one of the games I don’t even try to beat you at.”
I slid my arm around the stud’s waist, slipping my thumb in his belt loop. “Why thank you, baby. I love it when you think I’m a big deal.”
Dylan spun inside my arms and brought his lips down for a kiss. Unfortunately, the idea was cut short. York dropped an F-bomb, destroying the mood. “You are more than acquainted with, Darcy, Taylor. She’s the girlfriend I’ve been hearing about. Heard you’re a real firecracker,” he snarled, sliding angry eyes my way, “so I imagine you’re a firecracker in the sack.”
I can’t even…
I heard a gasp…possibly three gasps because Finn, Thor, and Hootie trooped up beside Dylan, the three of them subliminally willing him to keep his cool. Dylan, however, pivoted to Finn, calmly asking where Willow, Colton’s sister, was since she hadn’t shown yet. When Dylan anticipated a throwdown, he liked to remind himself where his loved ones were. Again, why anyone worried was beyond me. Dylan would eat York alive if he decided human meat was his chosen protein. In reply to Dylan’s question, Finn assessed the crowd in a frenzy, frowning as his eyes darted overtop heads for Willow Taylor.
Thor, however, appeared to be in the mood to fight. Giving Crazy Lady Friend his drink, he pushed her and those 36-Ds behind him. “You’re right, York,” he said in a loud voice. “Darcy is Taylor’s girlfriend. You might want to remember that the next time you address her. So cut out the ass comments, shark comments, and basically any comment where you try to get in her pants. You’re as transparent as water, man. And as far as sharking? I asked you if you wanted to play her. She never approached you once. Too bad for you Darcy’s practically a pro.”
Well, not really a pro, but pretty darn close.
Another profane explosion came from York. “Taylor, I’m talking to you,” he said more loudly, ignoring Thor, which by the red look on Thor’s face had been a mistake. When Dylan didn’t acknowledge him, York’s mouth did a rewind, and he shouted the words once more. York had the emotional maturity of a toddler screaming to have his way, but Dylan still ignored him…eh, not good. By the tic in Dylan’s jaw, he was itching to confront York about me, his cheap shots during the pregame interview, and basically for taking up space on the planet. When York dumbly added that Dylan had selective hearing, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Dylan licked his lips. A telltale sign he was ticked off because I honest to God think his mouth watered from the prospect of an upcoming meal. Turning toward York, he slid a gaze over so icy I felt the temperature drop.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” York said lowly.
“I’m just trying to figure out when I invited you into our conversation,” Dylan said.
Dylan’s voice was a decibel or two below its normal baritone. That meant one thing: he’d gone total native. A cold rush unfurled, feeling like a Siberian air when an angry wind blew. Next to me, Finn mumbled the F-word. Thor, however, leaned forward, welcoming the physical contact.
“I don’t need an invitation to talk to the feisty, little shark,” York said with some force.
Dylan’s hands fisted, and a little angry “v” materialized between his eyes. “Oh, hell yeah, you do,” he hissed.
York motored toward Dylan until they bumped chests. “No, I don’t,” he barked. “You’re jealous, Taylor. Have you been wondering what your girl does behind your back? Here’s a little piece of advice. A wise man once said jealousy is nothing more than a fear of abandonment.”
Dylan grinned, but the brittle laugh that followed held no humor. “Another wise man said, he who looks on another man’s girl with lust in his eyes deserves to have his eyes gouged out.”
“And who would that wise man be?” York smirked.
“Dylan Taylor,” my boyfriend deadpanned.
…and I was pretty sure some radicals in the Middle East.
Dylan and York continued their king-of-the-mountain thing. One breath here. Another there. And then York opened his dumbass lips, proving once and for all he didn’t know when to shut the garage door on his insanely unintelligent mouth. “Again, jealous,” he barked Dylan’s way. “And you know why? Your girlfriend and I just got as close as two people can get without losing their clothes. And heads up? I’m ready when she is.”
The D-bag then grabbed himself in the crotch, shooting an air kiss my way. Seriously, was he high??
Dylan had a Popeye moment, his that’s-all-I-can-stands, I-can’t-stands-no-more thing exploding. In two heartbeats, he landed a right to York’s jaw that left him seeing stars. York staggered backward into a table, lost his footing and went down on one knee in a hard thump. But instead of finishing York off, Dylan gave him time enough to recover. After a few head shakes, York pumped a heavy blow to Dylan’s gut. Dylan didn’t flinch, punching York’s ribcage in a series so fast it was hard to track his hands. York started to breathe with his mouth open, refusing to throw in the towel. He swung at Dylan once more, striking him in the chest. Dylan, however, had no reaction to the contact except to move back into the boxing stance his godfather and Lincoln’s former vice partner, Paddy O’Leary, had taught him—both forearms up, guarding his face, his muscles bulging as though they were two mountains. When that thought came to mind, I moved out of the line of fire, and like any good girlfriend, I hit “record” on my phone.
Yup, I did…so shoot me.
The savage crack of fists rang through the club, leaving everyone in a panicked flinch. The level of aggression did not worry me because Dylan fighting was like a sexy dance. He was fluid, moving and adapting to whatever York threw at him. I knew Dylan’s tactic though. It was the way I’d witnessed him fight a few years back in a fight club when he tried to keep both of us alive. He could absorb a set of punches like a pro because he’d been trained to have stamina. He would wear the poor sucker out until he grew tired of the game, and then he would demoralize his opponent.
Dylan delivered a series of jabs that had York’s head bobbing as if it were a toy. When he kept besting York at a fist-to-fist encounter, York went offensive lineman and headed straight for Dylan’s knees, dragging him to the floor. Dylan’s roar hit everyone in the skull like a swinging plank. Throwing an elbow at York’s head, Dylan then rolled out of the way, so he could find his feet again. York staggered to a stand but not before he found a beer bottle on the floor and cracked the neck on a chair, going straight up street fight.
Not today, Satan.
My cue to suit up.
Should I go for a tackle? Aim straight for his balls? Unfortunately, after one step, Domino snagged my shirttail and yanked me back to his side. When I protested with a stare so lethal it was a wonder the skin didn’t melt from his body, Domino barked, “No,” and kept his hand on my waist. He wouldn’t negotiate, so if I couldn’t fight, then I would at least continue to film to keep my eyes on the bottle and what York intended to do with it.
When Dylan spotted the broken glass, he fought like a scorpion in a bottle, landing a right-left pattern underneath York’s ribcage, reminding me of a drill bit stuck on fire. When York’s posse attempted a triple-team, Finn, Thor, and Hootie jumped into the mix, trying to keep the fight fair. Following them was Remy in a high-pitched squeal, but Domino seized her around the waist, pulling her to his other side. From out of nowhere, one voice split the air that could always get Dylan to disengage. “End it or stop!” I heard the feminine voice order.
Willow Taylor…and a bouncer.
Eh, party’s over.
An “oops” baby, Willow was only five years older than Dylan and one of the world’s famous super models. The only thing physically different was that she stood five inches shorter, was pencil-thin and black-eyed, with features more feminine and refined than her brother’s. At the sound of her voice, Dylan curled his left fingers into a fist and served up a knockout à la Ali in round eight against Foreman.
The club went deadly silent, everyone questioning if York’s lungs still worked.
One of York’s friends stood over top him, coaxing his lungs to work. With bleary eyes, Kirby York finally staggered upright. Finn yanked the phone from my hand, ending the video madder than a hornet struck with a stream of Raid. “Why in God’s name didn’t you try to stop them?!” he shrieked, dragging his gaze to mine. “Taylor would’ve stopped if you’d asked him to!”
I wasn’t sure Dylan would’ve given me full veto power on Kirby York. Besides, Domino foiled my efforts. Regardless, Dylan’s bravado was contagious, okay? I honest to God had a hard time not watching. Before I came up with a suitable answer, Willow literally ripped Dylan a new pie hole, tag-teamed by Matt Mcguire, the U of F defensive coordinator who materialized like the conscience you’d long buried. Mcguire was flanked by the head coach’s oldest daughter, Gigi Scott, his fiancée. A fiery redhead, Gigi was giggling but swallowed it down when Matt growled.
