by A. J. Lape
“Thanks for the concern,” Dylan said genuinely, “but I’m fine.” A vanilla response, I thought. Evidence suggested their relationship was friends only.
Amazonian Creature tucked naturally platinum-blond hair behind her ear. That one move emphasized the heavy eye makeup she’d expertly applied to her large, light blue eyes. On anyone else, it would make them appear ready for the Sunset Strip. For her? She’d nailed the smoky eye, making her all the more alluring. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight, but I’m glad I did. Buy you a drink?” Oh, heck to the no. I giggled some sort of strangled sound of panic. Dylan jerked his head up like someone had just shouted, Timber, and he was supposed to move. He scanned the crowd once more, looking mystified. Oh, darn. I was seconds from being busted. Boozy spun us around, so my face was out of sight.
“Shhh,” Boozy snarled to me. Again, I unloaded an eye roll.
When Dylan didn’t take Amazonian Creature up on the drink, she murmured, “Still taken?”
I sucked in a fluttering breath, fearing what my boyfriend said behind my back. Dylan repositioned the hat on his jet-black hair. “Happily,” he told her.
I bit back a smile, but a nagging insecurity reminded me if Dylan was ever going to cheat, it would be with someone like her. How could it not be? Textbook gorgeous, she had a pin-up body to boot. And the tone of her voice was nothing but sincere, peppered with an above-average intelligence. I needed to do a cartwheel. Fist bump. Something to get rid of the excess energy.
“And loyal?” she said.
“The only way I roll,” he added.
Amazonian Creature gave an exasperated sigh. “I was hoping you’d turned into a dick. She’s a lucky girl.”
Lucky, lucky me, I agreed. On impulse, I reached out to touch his back—get a feel of that big, gorgeous soul I loved so much. Boozy smacked my hand away with a not-so-fast look.
Dylan twisted his hat around again. “Trust me, I’m the lucky one. Hey,” he said, changing the subject, “how did your interview go?”
Okay, do you really need to ask, D? Or are you merely rerouting the conversation?
She blew out a gust of frustrated air, playing with the gold heart chain around her neck. “Good…I think.” She quickly added, “I really want that job. But I haven’t heard anything. Isn’t that a bad sign?”
Dylan tilted his head to the side, thinking. “Did they give you a timeline?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Then take them at their word,” he murmured in a deep, sympathetic voice. “If two weeks creep up on you, then take it as a not-meant-to-be thing and move on. Something better will come along.”
Dylan was the eternal optimist and made people feel like anything was possible if they only believed. If something negative happened, he was the type that found a lesson. If something negative happened to you, he picked you up, dusted you off, and encouraged you to try again with whatever lesson you’d learned. Meh. What would he say about my current actions?
Another frantic squeak fell out of my mouth.
Dylan flinched once more, like someone had…well, like someone had stabbed him in the back in a part deux.
“Sort of like I’m doing with you?” she said coyly. Again, I unloaded a panicked giggle, and Dylan jerked his head toward the sound. I dropped down once more, doing some dirty dance move that was totally awkward. Boozy chuckled but joined in, slapping me on the rear and muttering, “Git it, girl.”
“Did you hear that sound?” Dylan asked her.
“Hear what?” Amazonian Creature said. “The music is extra loud tonight.”
Dylan gave his head a quick shake and gazed to the ceiling, like a warrior searching the heavens for strength. “Mother Mary. I’m hearing things. Yeah, yeah,” he said, quickly turning back around. “Hey, good luck with your job search, yeah? Don’t sweat it either way. Sweating it can make you miss what’s right in front of you.”
Dylan sliced his head to the right to Seven-Footer, who unbeknownst to me had been lurking in the shadows, watching their every move. So Amazonian Creature was the woman Seven-Footer referred to—who wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Ah, unrequited love. It seemed to be the way of the world.
Good luck, amigo.
Chapter 12
LIFE TENDED TO SHOOT THE MESSENGER.
My eyes rounded in shock. “You’re sure the text came from that number?” I asked.
I stood outside the ladies’ restroom, deep in conversation with Pixie on a prepaid burner phone I’d purchased at a cell phone carrier store. It could text and send pictures, and I figured that was all this little recon mission would need.
“Of course, I’m sure,” Pixie told me with a snort. “He asked if you missed him. I accidentally thought it was Dylan, and I told him I missed his big, sexy chest. That really set the guy off because he hit me right back with what he wanted to do to my…or your…big, sexy chest. No offense. But you don’t have a big, sexy chest, and Dylan would never talk that way because we all know he’s an ass man. I think I might’ve given the go-ahead to a stalker.”
Clyde Sargent was like the computer worm you needed to get rid of. And just my luck, he’d phoned while I was gone and had basically been given a thumbs up by Pixie. I had visions of ripping his head off, but I decided to think like a proton—be positive 24/7.
It will allll worrkkk outttt.
I ended the call with Pixie, telling her to ignore Sargent and to only text back and forth with Dylan in one-liners.
Clutching the top of my dress and pulling it north, I moved one step and ran into what felt like a brick wall. “Oh, hey, sorry,” I apologized, grimacing. While pulling my dress up to cover my Barely-Bs, I’d side-swiped one guy who’d been standing next to me and chest-bumped another heading into the mens’ restroom.
“No problem,” the guy I’d chest-bumped said. “You okay?”
My heels were so sticky with hairspray and other ancient contaminants bathrooms collected that walking required effort. “Nope, you got a cat’s tongue on you?” I joked. “I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing that’ll scrape the crap off the bottom of my heels.”
He quirked a brow. “Left mine at home,” he deadpanned.
“Figures. I’m striking out everywhere, which seems to be the theme song of the night. Why is it the good people are the ones who life always screws?”
His killer eyes softened. “That’s a broad generalization and quite fatalistic.”
Mid-twenties to early thirties, the blond-haired guy with killer baby blues could’ve exited the links sometime earlier, wearing shorts and a white gold shirt. He was tall and lean with a bright pink patch on a nose from lack of sunscreen. “Broad generalizations sometimes apply. Just like wearing sunscreen.” I paused and touched my nose with my index finger in the exact spot where his was red. “I don’t feel like I would be doing my civic duty if I didn’t tell you to lather up next time you hit the links.”
His eyebrows shot up, and he slowly grinned, highlighting one dimple on his right cheek. With a dip of his head, he disappeared into the restroom.
Glancing to the booth Bodhi still sat in, he was talking to Sia, the single mom who’d had several business classes with Dylan. She took a quick look at her watch and slid into the seat across from Bodhi while he dunked a tortilla chip into a large plate of beef nachos supreme. I crossed my fingers he was gaining something profitable because all I had was the name of Mark Malone verified by someone who’d given Boozy her name and number. It was a start, but I felt the universe rumbling.
Something was going to blow up tonight. I just didn’t know what.
After I performed a visual recon over the major areas of the club, I escaped to an empty booth in the back to return a quick text to Jaws who’d demanded a proof of life photo and unabridged version of the evening.
Gotta girl who verified Mark Malone is the guy in the video, I texted. Said he’s up York’s rear end like a colonoscopy tube. Def could be our guy with Willow. And s
ide note? Wigs itch.
Jaws hit me right back with, Turn the information over to the authorities. Get back to LA before you destroy the career I wish you would give up anyway. And side note? I prefer you blond.
I ignored his jab, fearing fate would pink slip me from the program regardless of his warning. Especially if my future actions went viral or my relationship with Twenty Bucks was discovered. Shakespeare chronicled it best. Life tended to shoot the messenger. I wouldn’t be a savior here. I would be the LAPD recruit who couldn’t fall in line.
Burying my head in my hands, I cried silent tears, lamenting the fact the guy I needed a hug from was somewhere deep in the club and currently unapproachable. Truth was, if I married Dylan, he’d be buried in blowback for the rest of his life. Did I want to do that to him? And even if I did, was that okay to do?
My mind jarred in shock when I heard the two voices of the people who’d slid into a booth in front of me, positioned at ten o’clock. My head shot up.
“Remy, I have to admit, you hanging out with the four of them worried me at first. They have things I don’t have. Can offer you things I can’t.”
Domino was here…still going Tom Petty with the “Free Fallin’” for Remy Waters. Again, something was going to blow up tonight. A good chance existed it was me.
Remy’s back was to me, and Domino was sitting directly across from her, facing me. She slid her hand across the table and clasped his. “What can they offer me, Nicholas?” she said with a softness in her voice. “Hearts that are attached to other people?” She laughed. “All of them are royally obsessed in the relationship department. We all look out for each other.”
All are obsessed? Dylan and Lucas, yes. But Hootie and Finn? They were attracted to anyone with ovaries.
“And what is your role in their lives?” Domino asked.
“To tell them when they’re stupid.” She giggled, and Domino leaned across the table, wrapping a strong hand around the back of her head and pulling her to him for a quick kiss.
Not long after, Thor strolled back and kissed Remy on the top of the head, collapsing into the booth beside Domino. I slunk down in my seat, texting Bodhi to circle around the back for a bailout. I needed to appear as though I’d come with a date. Dylan had met Bodhi one time. Would he remember his face? Especially if Bodhi had his hat pulled low? “Rem, I’m beat,” Thor mumbled. “I’m gonna go back to the apartment and see if Sydney will return a text. When Taylor will leave, dammit. This is so messed up.”
“Talking to Sydney is messed up too,” she said tenderly. “It’s not good for you.”
“Maybe,” Thor mumbled, “but I’ve never been one to care about my vitamins and minerals. Can I tell you just how draining this week has been?” Thor rearranged the royal blue ball cap on his head. “I feel like I’ve barricaded myself in my room and watched the cartoon UP all week. It’s been a fricking rainbow of emotions, and I need it to stop.”
I frantically searched the crowd for Bodhi and Boozy. Bodhi’s booth was empty, and Boozy was missing in action. I fired off a group text, telling them to meet me at the car because things were getting a little messy inside. We could rally in the crappy Versa…think of something else.
My thought process stopped dead because all of a sudden, I felt Dylan in my bones. Nervously raising my head, my eyes adjusted to the shock when they fell on his six-foot-six frame like a magnet that refused to budge.
When Dylan walked into a room, my body did a whole lot of shaking. Right then, I might as well have been standing on the epicenter of an earthquake.
Furiously rummaging around in my purse, I pulled out a tube of lipstick and mirror, holding them up to my face to block my features. Dylan was thankfully preoccupied because he slowly and gingerly slid into a seat beside Remy. I knew him. He was in pain…and telling no one. Fortunately, his broad back was toward me, but his face was angled in such a way I could see him while he spoke. “What’s wrong with you?” Remy asked him. “Other than the fact you shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m antsy, dammit. I need to work out.”
Whenever Dylan and I parted, I always fell into an emotional funk. Treatment protocol? Rap music and caffeine. Dylan’s treatment protocol was to pump some iron or worry.
“You can’t work out,” Remy reminded him. “What you need to do is go back to your place.”
“Why? So I can sit by myself? You guys are here.”
“We’re here because you were coming without us,” Remy reminded him. “We thought we should follow.” Dylan dropped his gaze to his phone. “You’re making me nervous just watching you. You okay?” she asked him.
“No,” he said firmly.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Darcy.”
He repositioned the hat on his head. “Something’s wrong. I feel it. I swear, a few minutes ago I could’ve sworn I smelled her…even heard her laugh.”
“It’s just a little PTSD,” Remy said. “It’s been a rough week.”
“Call her,” Domino murmured softly.
Dylan’s voice raised. “I have fricking called her—like a certifiable stalker.”
“Can you find her location?” Remy offered.
His eyes dropped to his phone, punching around on its screen. “She’s been at the mall. Then earlier, she was at the bank. At UCLA. Just normal stuff and places she goes while she’s working.” Pixie…I’m impressed. “But then she went into Compton, which she would never do without Raymond, so I’m kind of afraid someone kidnapped her.”
Okay, not impressed. And why would Pixie go there?
“You have it bad,” Domino said. I heard the smile in his voice.
Dylan sighed. “I’ve worshiped at that woman’s feet since I was a child. I love her. I’m obsessed with her. Both those things consume me where Darcy Walker is concerned.”
Thor, who had his head in his phone, piped up with an, “Amen to that, brotha.”
Domino’s rough laugh floated up to meet the music, and for a brief second, we stared at one another. His focus intensified—and his eyes held on, dissected—but then as if the connection never occurred at all, he shook it off, back to smiling at Remy.
“It’s been such a shitty week,” Dylan said quietly. “I just want to hug her. That’s all I need.”
I agreed. His hugs were maddening.
Dylan opened his mouth to suck in some air. The look he gave the ceiling was the type of look you got when your relationship was at the verge of permanent disaster. Not because the love connection had died. It was because you’d just discovered that some hurdles were too big to cross.
My iPhone chirped, and I dropped my head, training an eye on a text message from Jaws. Get out now! it said.
I typed back a Huh???, questioning if he meant those cryptic words for someone else in his twisted employ. When he didn’t answer back right away, I slid my gaze back to Dylan, listening to his conversation.
“Let’s grab Hootie and head back to the apartment. I’ve made my point,” Dylan said to Thor. Both pushed to a stand.
“Dylan?” I said when he turned toward the door, not able to stand the tremble in his voice. When he didn’t hear me, I said it louder, “Dylan?”
He should’ve been able to hear me. And in truth, he should’ve already spotted me. It had to be the pain. Not fingering me immediately, despite a noisy club, was not normal Dylan behavior.
The moment my feet planted, an influx of people went for the restroom at the same time in between song changes. I got lost in the crowd, forced to move backward like I’d been trapped in a herd of cattle. The sleek steel of a gun went to my spine. Just when I thought I’d hit peak stupid in my life, something else rolled around and reminded me I hadn’t. I swallowed past the bile in my mouth and watched Dylan travel further and further away as I was backed into the parking lot.
Chapter 13
WHEN BAD CAME MY WAY, I CHOSE TO CONNECT THE DOTS.
I kept walking to Bumfudge, Egypt, as he growled for me to do so, heading for a stretch
of adjacent property for overflow parking. Full-grown magnolias bordered six large recycling drop-off boxes, and palm trees blocked the nearby street lamps. It appeared he’d taken me to the one area of the property that had please-let-me-kill-you all over it. The temperature had dropped several degrees, but my adrenal glands pumped out sweat so fast it felt like I’d been playing on a Slip ’N Slide. Riven with anxiety, I scanned the area and wondered if others were outside and what the gunman—I still couldn’t see—had planned. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me, chilling me to my core. It wasn’t the first time I’d been dragged somewhere against my will by someone wanting to harm me. That had happened while in Florida a few years back at a club. Maybe the moral of the story here was to stay out of night clubs…or Florida.
He’ll let me go. I am no threat, I told myself. Think positive. Happy thoughts seed positive, not negative.
Strangling on the psycho rhetoric, I needed to think fast. I could scream, send a Mayday to the crowd, attempt to overpower him, but it was as if he’d read my mind. “I have enough bullets in this gun to take out whoever you alert. Remember that.”
I knew what guns were capable of. It was the very reason I hadn’t screamed for help. Bodhi and Boozy were no doubt looking for me. Problem was, were they skilled enough to talk us out of making nice with a bullet? Bodhi, probably. Boozy would tick someone off so badly they’d shoot him just to shut him up.
When we made it to the back of the recycling drop-off boxes, he swiveled his gun and me around in one swift move—the barrel right then at my gut. Could I remove the gun like I had in class? Knock him off balance and then turn it on him? One wrong move, and we would be on the ground. What then?
“Do you know why you’re here?” he hissed.
Dropping my gaze to the 9mm in his right hand, my eyes traveled up his frame until I found 3 Bulls markings on his forearms, just like Kirby York had. He had brown hair, and by the crunched-up nose, no one had to tell me Mark Malone held the gun.
