Darcy Walker - Season Two, Episode 1

by A. J. Lape

  The door squeaked wide, and we were met with the gray-blue eyes of Sister Mary Margaret. “Hi, Darcy,” she said.

  “Hey, Sister Mary Margaret. One Cardiac pizza in the shape of praying hands?”

  Her eyes crinkled at their corners, highlighting wrinkles that had come from a ready smile. “I assume everything is in order?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I quickly told her. “No hairy gonads here tonight. I checked myself.”

  Next to me, Detective Shafer groaned, “We’re going to get struck by lightning. Did you really just say ‘hairy gonads’ to a woman of God?” He mouthed, “Sorry, Lord,” to the heavens.

  While I unzipped the bag, and Sister Mary Margaret and I performed the pizza-cash trade, my mouth took off, and I explained to Detective Shafer what had happened. Two pizzas had gotten mixed up, and where Sister Mary Margaret normally ordered in the shape of praying hands, one time she received a big set of balls with pepperoni pubic hair protruding from them.

  “You could’ve saved that story for the car,” he mumbled.

  Sister Mary Margaret giggled. “It’s all right, son. Darcy?” she then said to me. “How is that nice, big boy who was here with you last time?”

  Ah, Dylan…superlative in every way imaginable.

  “Dylan’s just fine, Sister. Playing well, although he had an opponent last weekend who tried to cut him with a broken bottle. I wanted to kill him,” I said, mentally crossing myself even though I didn’t practice Catholicism, “but I didn’t. Hopefully that counts for something.”

  Sister Mary Margaret’s eyes doubled in size when I gave her a graphic account of the story, sparing no detail on how Dylan kicked Kirby York’s tail…and then some. “I will pray your Dylan has eyes in the back of his head,” she promised.

  “Tack my and Detective Shafer’s names onto that direct line to God, if you don’t mind,” I told her, explaining I had my first week of the academy under my belt but felt a tad bit of pressure to be superhuman.

  After she prayed for us and gave my arm a little squeeze, we loaded back into the car and made the run to Ugly Pizza four more times until we were at our last delivery of the shift, headed for 7-Eleven a little before five a.m.

  The nightshift workers at that particular convenience store occasionally ordered a pizza while they waited for dawn. We never routinely talked much—it was all business—but the manager was a good tipper, so I anticipated at least a fifty percent gratuity.

  “Where are we going?” Shafer mumbled, his eyes fixed and dilated.

  “Taking a little trip across the galaxy. Buckle up.”

  The manager at 7-Eleven ordered an eighteen-inch pizza in the shape of the solar system. Planets were comprised of green or black olives, different sizes of pepperoni, and the sun was a farm-fresh soft-boiled egg. Green peppers occasionally subbed as spaceships, making a path from the sun to Pluto since the guy was a real supernatural junkie who felt bad Pluto had been demoted. To top off his love of science, Rollo placed multi-colored gummy bears throughout to sub as extraterrestrial life.

  “That’s his pizza?” Shafer asked incredulously after I recited the list of ingredients.

  “Not my place to judge.”

  The parking lot was devoid of life when Shafer and I exited my car, save for one royal blue Honda CR-V at the gas pump. The driver stumbled out, half asleep with his curly rainbow-colored hair ’fro’d out like a beach ball around his head. Wiping a runny nose on his sleeve, he traveled to the pump, removing the nozzle and selecting a grade of gas.

  Shafer opened the door to the store, and I met Mr. Ganti’s eyes. Perched at the cash register, he spoke to several college students, ringing up their purchases.

  Someone put a poison dart in me. One of the students was Amnesty Stine.

  Bodhi Kessler’s ex, she was petite with coal-black hair and an hourglass shape, wearing skin-tight jeans showcasing a butt so taut I would lay some green the cheeks had new implants. As if summoned by the powers of darkness, Amnesty twirled on her Jimmy Choo’s, her smoky brown (and tipsy) eyes spying me and my pizza bag. “Well, what do you know,” she slurred, parading over. “It’s the hired help.”

  Prescription for a meltdown: angry, drunk, and a scorned lover.

  Shafer laughed, his ice-blue eyes awash with amusement. “I’m guessing she isn’t a fan,” he mumbled for my ears only.

  I took the high road. “Hello, Amnesty. I’m assuming the ink on your divorce papers is dry?”

  Okay, not exactly high…the hour was late…and point blank, I didn’t like her.

  While Amnesty’s friends paid for some cheap wine with what I’d bet were fake IDs, Amnesty marched over to me, her lips Botox’d to the point she belonged in Whoville.

  “Hello, Darcy. You’re looking…like a pizza delivery driver.”

  Ugly Pizza wasn’t exactly five-star, but if anything, the food tasted good.

  “I’m picking up some extra hours, Amnesty. I started the academy this week…and I even have a gun. I practiced all week long, and I hit exactly what I was aiming for…every time,” I emphasized.

  The innuendo was lost on her.

  “Just so you know, Bodhi and I are trying to make things work,” she said.

  That comment came from left field, especially since Bodhi had told me earlier his father practically had the mistake dissolved. I would be lying if I said that statement didn’t chill me to the bone, but Amnesty was a story weaver. If you had a conversation with her that included twelve sentences, eleven and a half were lies. “I suppose I should offer congratulations, but I’m going to reserve my breath until I speak with Bodhi.”

  “Whatever,” she said, finally clocking on Detective Shafer. Shafer was a good-looking man, and Amnesty poured on the charm when she dialed into the size of his muscles.

  Shafer caught on quickly. “I’m Riley and a pizza delivery driver in training.”

  Shafer’s words shut Amnesty down quicker than an overturned semi during rush hour. The girl was a gold digger. Interesting thing was Shafer hadn’t introduced himself as a detective. Once Amnesty strutted back to her friends, as if to pile on the weird, Jerald Packer pranced through the door. Packer and I had an interesting backstory. He’d escorted me to a BDSM club called Lux, helping me chase a lead on who’d murdered my customer. An aspiring director, Packer was weird then, and by the looks of things, his weird had not diminished. Dressed like he’d just come from the streets of Rome, a white toga stretched over his skeletal torso like an anorexic Julius Caesar. His shoulder-length dark hair was in wild disarray, reminding me of a school shooter. He headed for the refrigerator case until he spied me and came to a halt. “Darcy,” he said, his canine implants grazing his lower lip. “Long time no,” he said in greeting.

  “Hey, Packer, long time no,” I greeted back. “You good?”

  He spun a 360 in his white toga, teetering on platform gladiator sandals. “Just thirsty. Need some vitamin D.”

  “Cool,” I said.

  “Cool,” he parroted, heading for the refrigerated unit.

  Shafer palmed his eyes, mumbling to himself that riding at this time of night had been a bad idea. My gaze cut to a guy in the store. Early twenties. Thin. Caucasian. Wearing a white ball cap pulled so far down over his face I couldn’t see his features. He threaded earbuds in his ears and lurked in the tampon aisle, picking up boxes and reading the back print. Weird place to be. I guess he could be a really proactive partner—making sure he purchased the right comfort and cotton strength—but most in that section couldn’t wait to get out.

  Shafer mumbled, “I’m gonna grab some candy.”

  While Shafer left me next in line at the counter, I spotted a young woman in an adjacent aisle. She cried so hard her wails sputtered like a car engine that wouldn’t start. Thing was, no one made a move to get involved. It was LA. Things could get weird here, so people just did their things and left people to solve their own dilemmas. Striding toward her, I noticed her face was red and swollen on one side. Someone had re
cently hit her. “Hey, is there something I can help you with?” I asked.

  Tampon Aisle Guy materialized next to me, removing the buds from his ears. “Butt the fuck out.”

  Okay, they’d come together, and by the hiss in his words, he had plans to freshen up the bruise he’d probably left sometime earlier. My hand longed to deck him, but the academy had warned me that was a no-no. Negotiations, I’d been told, were a first line of defense when no weapon was involved, especially in domestics.

  “Hey, no harm intended. I was just trying to help,” I said.

  “We. Don’t. Need. Help,” he hissed, punctuating those four words.

  Right then, his girlfriend—or whoever she was—opened her jacket, showing me a blood-soaked and slashed T-shirt where he had injured her. She shook like a Titanic passenger without a lifeboat, especially when the bloodstain began to grow. A profile in courage or stupidity, I opened my mouth once more. “Listen, man. Your friend doesn’t look like she’s having a good—”

  Tampon Aisle Guy interrupted with a scowl that said I had two seconds to butt out, and the clock starts now. When he readjusted the cap on his head, I gained a better read on his face. My heartbeat bottomed out when I discovered it was Eugene Anthony—he had the one wonky eye and the nose two sizes too big. Anthony’s demeanor was nothing like I’d encountered at the academy. Not when he’d been brown-nosing and certainly not when he endured the long walk of shame after accidentally discharging his firearm. He looked as unstable as a sandcastle. Whatever smarts Eugene Anthony had a few days back, they’d gone deep underground. I could throw him back into the academy setting—with no marks against him—and the crazy still wasn’t going to melt away.

  Something inside him had shut down. I had to think…and think fast.

  “Eugene,” I said calmly, “it’s Darcy Walker. From the academy?”

  Anthony saw me…but didn’t see me. “He’s been sad all week,” Battered Girlfriend said when he didn’t say anything. “I don’t know why. This isn’t him…I don’t know…”

  She couldn’t talk anymore…the pain and shock of what had happened was too overwhelming.

  So Anthony hadn’t told her. Lying was not necessarily about your relationship with the other person. Sometimes it was about you not wanting to admit to yourself who you really were.

  I swallowed down the dread, fearing where this would go. “Eugene,” I said, making my voice softer. “Let me help—”

  Like any good movie script in Hollywood, the moment someone tried to do good, fate introduced the second act, and you were so far away from your goal you were tempted to throw up your hands and quit. Anthony curled his right hand into a fist and punched me in the jaw before I could finish my sentence. Tears instantly speared my eyes, and blood spewed out of my mouth, spray-painting the air. The impact was so lethal it set my chest on fire. I dropped Mr. Ganti’s pizza in the process and line-drive’d across the room like a hard-hit baseball, taking out a stand of magazines.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  When I wrote the SIDE HUSTLE books, I didn’t exactly know what to expect. I’d never written a serial before, and I’m so happy that you, the fans, have responded so positively to the format and to Darcy’s next step in her life! Thank you for still going on the journey with her. If this is your first time diving into a Darcy Walker story, thank you for entering this underdog’s world! She and I promise to keep it entertaining. If you read SIDE HUSTLE, SEASON 2, and enjoyed it, I’d be honored if you’d consider leaving a star rating at the retailer in which you purchased it. Your words mean so much to authors and help other readers discover new worlds. Here’s to wishing you and yours health, happiness, and the grit of the ultimate underdog.

  ALSO BY A. J. LAPE

  THE DARCY WALKER SERIES

  HIGH SCHOOL YEARS

  Grade A Stupid

  No Brainer

  100 Proof Stud

  DEFCON Darcy

  Foolproof

  SIDE HUSTLE SERIES

  Season One, Episode 1

  Season One, Episode 2

  Season One, Episode 3

  Season Two, Episode 1

  Season Two, Episode 2

  Season Two, Episode 3

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A. J. lives in Cincinnati with her husband, two feministic daughters, an ADD dog, a spoiled hamster, and an unapologetic and unrepentant addiction to Coca-Cola. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, watching too much cable TV, or eavesdropping-slash-creeping on those around her. If you would like to receive emails of upcoming releases, please sign up for her distribution list by visiting her homepage.