Darcy Walker - Season Two, Episode 2

by A. J. Lape

  “Two things are wrong,” he explained. “Someone in the store videoed what happened with you and Anthony this morning and uploaded it to YouTube. My grandson needs you to call him. He’s been inconsolable once he viewed the graphics.” He paused, his eyes softening with emotion. “And frankly, so am I. I knew the attack had to have been vicious by the bruises, but seeing it made it real.” Lincoln scanned my neck once more, and by the wince on his face, my guess was the rough feeling in my throat meant there had been some additional swelling.

  My phone lay on my nightstand. I reached for it, but Lincoln stilled my hand.

  “What else is there?” I said, suddenly feeling ill. “You said two things were wrong. Is my family okay?”

  “Your family is fine. It’s Dylan.” Lincoln thrust a shaking hand through his hair.

  “What?” I pushed him to answer, sitting all the way up.

  Lincoln’s next seven words fell out in a rush of air, but when those words broke the atmosphere, I requested he say them again because they just didn’t make sense.

  “Huh?” I said. “I’m going to need you to rewind.”

  “Dylan and Finn were stabbed last night,” he repeated, that time more slowly. “Willow, uh, she was hurt too.”

  His words were like a cannon blast in my ears. Pulling and tugging at my ratty “Fighting Buffalo” high school T-shirt, I gasped for air but couldn’t find anything but a brick wall between me and the oxygen. All the wind left my body at one time, and I leaned over the bed, dry-heaving while Lincoln held my hair. Thankfully, nothing escaped my mouth except shock and pain, but shock and pain had a taste all their own. That taste, that acid on my tongue, meant no more hugs. No more late-night calls to my best friend. No more mouth to mouth sessions when I needed to feel loved. No more dreams, promises, or plans for the future except the possible picking out of a casket.

  My mind raced backward, wondering what the last words were we’d shared together. He’d been at the club with friends, and we’d exchanged I love yous.

  So what had happened to make a knife wind up in someone as large and guarded as Dylan Taylor?

  Dylan had a terrifying amount of power in his fists. If he’d been stabbed, more than one person attacked him, and he couldn’t cover his back. “How many jumped him?”

  Lincoln briefly closed his eyes, acknowledging where my thought pattern had gone. “He had five on him.”

  It felt like someone had switched the power off in my body, my cells coming to a grinding halt. Again, I fought the urge to vomit. Yanking at my shirt once more, I whispered, “One was Kirby York, wasn’t it?”

  A single nod.

  “Did Dylan kill him?” I whispered more softly.

  Lincoln slowly shook his head. “No, dear. He did not. But York was the one who stabbed him.”

  I relaxed at his answer, my shoulders falling. Still, my insides couldn’t stop shaking.

  According to Lincoln, York went back for a part two sequel in the likes of The Dark Knight’s Joker with a knife, gun, and a high body count. His bait? Willow Taylor. While Willow had been exiting her car, York kicked his hatred up a notch and pulled a heater on her in the parking lot. He was in the process of trying to rape her in a back alley when Finn Lively came to her aid. Finn fought like a demon getting York off Willow—was able to wrestle the gun away—but was compromised when two others showed. While Finn fought them, York brandished a knife and slashed Finn’s face. The cut was so close to the eye Finn was lucky he hadn’t been blinded.

  As far as a timeline, when Finn didn’t show with Willow, Dylan made his way outside to check on them. He was stopped by two guys who wanted to shoot the breeze about next season, but after they’d finished talking, Dylan stepped outside and heard a ruckus in the alley. While Finn had fought to protect Willow and his eye, he obviously couldn’t see to land the majority of his punches, so he quickly was bested and knocked out cold. Dylan came in on the tail end of the sequence, and that was when all hell broke loose. According to Willow’s bleary-eyed account, Dylan had all three guys on him at that time. Willow witnessed Dylan immediately knock out two, but while he was fighting with York, two new guys showed and the three dragged Dylan to the ground. Thankfully, Domino showed not long after. Once Domino dialed into the situation, he jumped into the middle of the chaos and things went from zero-to-sixty fast. Watching Dylan and Domino fight was straight out of some action movie, according to Willow. Dylan landed several heavy-handed punches to York’s face, knocking him down like a dead tree and beating the sh*t out of him himself…Domino annihilated the other two. When the dust settled, and Finn and Willow were up on their feet, it was then Dylan concluded the guys who had been talking to him served as a distraction accomplice—because he recognized their faces as they lay moaning on the pavement.

  Dylan kept bragging he’d taken three while Domino had a measly two. But while they told the police the story, all of a sudden Dylan had trouble breathing. He didn’t know he’d been stabbed until Domino and the officers checked him out.

  Stabbed…twice in the back…and he hadn’t even felt it. I knew Dylan and how his strength was unmatched. That split second of bodily shock was the only reason they’d been able to take him to the ground.

  When Lincoln finished rehashing the story, all I kept thinking was the human body holds eight pints of blood—how many had he lost?

  I stared throughs the slats in the blind, holding back the sun. If I could will back the hands of time, I would. But time, as I knew, kept rolling. There were no do-overs—only celebrations of good experiences or regrets that stopped a person dead in their tracks, with no other recourse but to experience them and hopefully move on.

  Lincoln patiently waited until I found my voice. “Go on,” I said, my voice not even sounding like my own.

  “Willow,” he said, his voice cracking, “she has some cuts and bruises. She will be fine. Dylan and Finn, however, both had to have surgery. Finn’s eye was spared after a couple of hours of microsurgery, and he’s expected to have no deficits. No word on his release but perhaps in a couple of days. They’re hoping he has no headaches. He was screaming and in the middle of a horrible one when they wheeled them both in.”

  Lincoln assured me a plastic surgeon worked some magic on Finn’s otherwise perfect face, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask about what…if any…organs of my boyfriend’s had been damaged and to what extent. “Just tell me how he is,” I said. “I can’t even form the words.”

  Lincoln reluctantly chuckled, wiping a tear from my eye I hadn’t been aware had fallen. “Dylan is fine. One wound was deeper than the other, the second one thankfully just breaking the skin. Like Finn, he’s expected to make a full recovery. Listen, dear, my grandson is meaner than shit. Willow was with him right before they rolled him into surgery, and she said he griped and complained so much she was glad when they put the mask over his mouth.”

  Willow was a self-made, super-model billionaire, and she and Dylan were extremely close. Although him griping was probably true, more than likely Willow’s words were a watered-down version of the real theatrics selectively given to keep his parents and grandparents from worrying. Here was the problem with Kirby York even entering the picture. Dylan did not press charges the first time York went at him with a broken beer bottle. Something I felt was a mistake at the time, but when tempers settled, Dylan was all about the second chance, especially when a formal charge would make York look like a bad risk to a future NFL home. Yes, York had been kicked off Florida’s team, but that didn’t negate someone else from picking him up. Mudder, however, had not been as forgiving—banning York for life. No word had leaked out if Mudder had filed charges of its own, but if Dylan would’ve pressed charges the first time, perhaps York would’ve thought twice about his second attack.

  All it did was give him the chance to finish what he’d failed to do. Which was? Permanently shutting Dylan down.

  “Are you flying out?” I asked. “You need to go to make sure they’re treated fa
irly during the investigation.”

  “No. Colton is already down there, and Lex flew out a few hours ago. Besides, I phoned Monroe Battle, and he’s requested the case.”

  Monroe Battle had already metaphorically stolen one case from me—I wouldn’t let him have another. “He’s good,” was my official answer.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He ever figure out who strangled the guy outside the club?”

  “We didn’t cover it, dear, but we’ve become friends. He’s unbelievably thorough. Besides, Colton will take care of things, and I have to get you through the academy and Pix through senior year.”

  Pixie went to an all-girl’s Catholic school, and her grades were lower than sea level. The academy? I could enroll another time. Being in the academy was like being trapped at the land-in-between. One wasn’t able to make a questionable decision or take action other than acting like absolutely nothing existed at all…except rules, rules, rules.

  “I’m going to drop out. Fly down there. Dylan needs me,” I said.

  Lincoln adamantly sliced his head right, then left. “An excuse to leave will always be there, dear…opportunity won’t. You need to continue with your plans. It’s not easy to be accepted into the LAPD Academy. We’ve got it covered.”

  “Dylan is more than an excuse.”

  His eyes softened. “Of course, he is…but on this one, I’m right. Please, trust me on this. Your neck…I’m afraid it would be too overwhelming for him to see in-person. It’s swollen. And bruised. Trust me when I say it wouldn’t be good for him to see it in the flesh.”

  I buried my face in my hands. Every trial, tribulation, and curveball life threw, Dylan was there. And right then, I’d basically been ordered not to join him. “I shouldn’t have sharked York,” I whispered. “This is my fault.”

  “It’s my understanding he egged you on.”

  “But I shouldn’t have allowed it. I knew he wanted Dylan. I should’ve refused, but I wanted to pay him back.”

  “Darcy, he has been coming at Dylan for months.”

  I found his gaze. “No one told me.”

  “Dylan didn’t say much to anyone because he’s used to people being out for his spot. I can assure you Kirby York won’t have the last word.”

  That’s because I would have it.

  Right then, we were interrupted by Pixie, knocking on the door. “Darcy?” Pixie said to me. Like Lincoln, she appeared to have been up all night. Pixie was petite as a human being could be, but right then, she stood taller than a mountain. Her biological father, rest his douchebag soul, had been a mobster for one of LA’s darkest crime families. Pixie had seen and experienced a considerable amount of chaos, choosing to be good and strong all on her own.

  “Dylan won’t relax, Dad,” Pixie said to Lincoln. “Can you speak with him now?” she said, her eyes falling on me. “He’s FaceTimed three times. Shouldn’t he be knocked out on drugs or something? Is that even normal?”

  No, it wasn’t normal. And although my boyfriend was tougher than nails, the ache in my throat reminded me he wasn’t immortal—even if I often joked him to be. I contemplated that unbearable thought with a heart-pounding anxiety as I picked up my phone.

  Chapter 3

  I COULDN’T EXACTLY SPEEDBAG HIS FACE.

  Dylan was stunned. Bewildered. Looking like someone who’d just survived a cataclysmic disaster but the wreckage around him was too horrid to process. I felt him watching me, dissecting and questioning what I would do or encounter next. That feeling wasn’t reserved only for him. I pondered the same things where he was concerned, wondering to what extent a rival would take his jealousies. An examination of his face answered that question. His left cheek had a vertical cut across the cheekbone with bluish-purple bruising and swelling, traveling the length of that cheek. His right eye was swollen with a horizontal gash underneath. I should’ve expected as much—with five on him, no way in the world could someone not land a few punches. All I knew was Dylan grounded me, and a life without him would be a tragedy I couldn’t recover from.

  Lazily sweeping my eyes over his beautiful face lying on the pillow, I resisted the urge to cover my neck. He wanted to see it, so I allowed the scrutiny until he groaned deeply and sighed. Dylan leaned over on one hip, grabbing the electronic controller of his bed and hitting a button that raised him to a sitting position. Except he winced during the process, so he readjusted himself twice, using the scraped and bloody knuckles of someone who’d violently used their hands just hours earlier.

  “D, I’m so sorry. Does it hurt that bad?”

  “No, it’s just fricking annoying. I can’t find a comfortable position, and I hate the way the pain medication makes me feel.”

  “So you’re not taking anything?”

  His head smugly tilted to the right. “I’ll take the heavy-duty shit when I need to sleep.”

  “You’re not a good patient.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Tears filled his eyes.

  “But you’re crying. You should take something if the pain is that great.”

  Dylan closed his lids and reopened them, reassuring me the wound thankfully only hit muscle—close to the vital organs—but spared only by millimeters. “I’m not crying for me, honey,” he said, finally finding his voice. “I’m crying for you. Someone hurt you, and I wasn’t there to stop it.”

  Dylan roared in an anguish so loud he should’ve busted out the windows in his room. He swore once more, adding a few adjectives his mother wouldn’t like. I longed to hug him to relieve the weight of his worries, but a couple of time zones and two thousand miles had been our enemy since graduation.

  “Sweetheart, slow your roll,” he said on a shuddering exhale.

  “I was just delivering a pizza.”

  “No…I mean…Mother Mary…I don’t know what I mean.”

  When Dylan was emotional, his deep baritone went as rough as gravel. He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, telling me Thor found the video that morning. When Dylan pushed him to ask why he was acting weird, Thor fessed up what he’d discovered. “Darc, he was squeezing your neck like he tried to determine whether you were an invertebrate or not. I started screaming while watching it, telling you what to do when I realized it was after the fact, and your fate had already been determined. Dammit!” he swore. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life. And it has almost a million hits…the psycho assholes are eating it up.”

  Duuuuuude, I’m clickbait. That’s almost impressive.

  Dylan’s face and neck were decorated with day-old stubble. I focused on his throat, imagining my lips all over it. A spike of lust nearly knocked me over. I wasn’t wired right. Who in their right mind would be thinking about making out at a time like this?

  “Again, delivering a pizza,” I said quietly. “The girl was crying, with a bloody gut wound. If you’d seen someone in that shape, you would’ve tried to help too.”

  A cloud passed over his eyes. He couldn’t deny it. “Listen, yeah?” he murmured more softly. “There are doers and then there are watchers. And you know what the watchers do? They sit on the sidelines and snipe at everyone who has guts enough to try something. I’m not sniping at you. I will be the last person walking this earth who ever does that. I just want you to know…I love you. I love who you are, what you stand for, and you humble me because you live your life thinking of yourself last. But Darc,” he said, “you…you have to tighten up your game. I thought of at least half a dozen things you could’ve done while watching that video. I screamed them at you, okay? And then when you didn’t do them, I bawled like a baby and broke the screen on Conner’s phone.”

  My throat began to throb. “I couldn’t exactly speedbag his face,” I said. “It just happened so fast.”

  “I know it did, honey. I saw it…and it was four minutes of a one-way fight until he wound up with a shotgun wound to the chest. And Merry fucking Christmas to him is all I have to say.”

  The silence was so loud it was p
alpable. I found my voice first. “What is it you think I’m going to be doing in about five months?”

  There was such a thing as willful ignorance. Dylan had practiced it for years, but his conscious mind was deciding to wake up. “I don’t know,” he said. “I try to imagine it as the good guy or woman always winning. What I saw was not the good woman winning. He was choking the life out of you, and all I could do was sit there and will you to fight back. I’m not used to sitting on the bench, but with you, Darcy, that’s all I do. I hate the distance between us…hate it,” he spat. “I need to be more active, but as it were, I was sucking on a grape popsicle in recovery while Conner and my dad showed me the video of you fighting for your life.”

  The machines documenting his vitals showed his blood pressure spiking. I tried to divert the conversation. “I’m assuming York is rotting in jail?” I asked. Dylan nodded in answer. “York was kicked permanently out of the club, Dylan,” I added. “That insinuates he was stalking you.”

  Dylan’s vision turned into a red haze of anger. “Yes, it does, but we’re talking about you now.”

  “I don’t want to talk about me…I want to talk about you. Tell me about Kirby York.”

  Word on the street, according to Dylan, was York was trying to get his reputation back—the annihilation from Dylan apparently being the impetus for the showdown. But if he had been attempting to gain back his tough guy rep, his plan backfired, and his stock plummeted in inverse proportion to his notoriety. He’d already been tried in the court of public opinion, and an NFL team would have to be desperate to pick him up after he’d been booked for his crime.

  He would definitely be seeing some bars.

  So to break things down on an elementary level? Career suicide.

  “How about Domino and Remy?” I added.

  Dylan assured me Domino was fine. Remy, however, needed prescription help to deal with the aftermath of three of her best friends getting attacked. “And then there’s Willow,” he said and winced. “She looks like someone beat her with a bat.”