by A. J. Lape
Dylan’s voice was so low and mesmerizing, it vibrated. He said something else, but by God, I was stuck in the vibration. After a slow blink, he leaned in even closer and brushed our cheeks together—our version of a kiss.
The hormonal floodgates opened.
I needed to find a backbone or I needed to…
Aww, crap, I don’t know what I needed.
Colton snagged his sneakers from under his chair, quickly laced them up, and took off at a full-sprint through the side entrance. Dylan casually strutted inside, presumably to scout around for his shoes.
Sydney’s voice graveled out, “Exactly what is your relationship, Darcy?”
I shrugged then curled to my side. I had nothing but baby kittens and moonbeams filling up my heart where Dylan was concerned. But I wasn’t a fool. I had a feeling dating someone like him would bring me to my knees—it was absurd, it wasn’t safe, it was illogical, and I’d have to seriously reevaluate my entire belief structure. Plus, we were too diametrically opposed. He was kind, dependable, and probably a knockout in the lovemaking department. That put him light-years ahead of me on the road to happily-ever-after.
“He’s my best friend,” I told them. And I just … loved him.
Kyd frowned, adding, “Maybe you need to define those terms to Dylan. He doesn’t seem to understand them. In fact, he acts like you’re dating.”
I suppose Dylan and I did act like we were dating. We had routines. He brought me coffee, I brought him the sports page; he gave me his dessert, I gave him my leftovers.
Come to think of it, we didn’t act like we were dating … we acted like we were married.
7. THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE
SERENDIPITY HAD SECRETS.
Probably why the coroner was parked across the street and detectives strung yellow crime scene tape through the yard. I didn’t see what had happened, but the setting was definitely the aftermath of something deadly and momentous. The fact that it occurred at Gertrude Burr’s home didn’t shock me, either. New to Serendipity, her reputation preceded her. She was a homewrecker and left her last neighborhood in Jupiter, Florida, because she not only wrecked a marriage but the six-figure car of her adulterous lover. Legend had it the bumper was left hanging from a street sign. Evidently, women could perform miraculous feats and don superhuman strength when they were so motivated.
Two men with “Coroner” on the backs of their black jackets wheeled a stuffed body bag out on a stretcher to place in the back of a black Suburban SUV. It bounced vertically twice when it hit the sidewalk, and an arm shot up out of the zipper at ninety degrees. I nearly wet myself and quickly grabbed the binoculars I’d snatched from the study earlier. Focusing on the body, one man rested a hip on the gurney, putting the full force of his weight on the arm, coaxing it to bend. The arm contrarily wouldn’t move, so the man opposite him leaned across the stretcher, attempting to angle the arm at the elbow. The victim—hand size insinuated male—had been dead for some time because it shouldn’t have been that difficult to get it to budge. When they finally got the victim zipped in the bag, Gertrude and a tall, stately man exited the house speaking with an officer who expeditiously took dictation on a notepad.
Gertrude’s face looked hollowed out, like a skeleton that’d been scared out of its own skin. The profile of her companion appeared unusually perturbed and not what the situation called for. He was both ruthless and apathetic or had almost expected this to happen. He held himself with an exorbitant amount of self-confidence—it lay in the strong curve of his spine, the elevation of his chin, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Even though he wasn’t law enforcement, it was apparent he steered and controlled the conversation.
My curiosity grew like a malignant cancer. Did I have time for this amidst Cisco Medina and whatever the heck it was Lincoln was into?
In a word, no … but I’d make time.
Situations like this were what made me expand the roster of whom I hypothetically employed on my staff. I couldn’t be everywhere at once, and since Murphy hadn’t been willing to part with any XY chromosomes—giving me brothers I could bully around—I developed a brotherhood of my own.
I was Darcy Walker, AKA, a Cincinnati mob boss.
My life, Grand Central Station for Freaks.
Inductees into my brotherhood had a certain swagger, with an undying loyalty to all future members—my discretion, of course. We had, for lack of a better phrase, a handshake. Not a high five or secret whisper in the air, it was the modified chicken dance. It consisted of two beaky hands, two flapping of your wings, two hip shakes, then a chest bump. We looked weird (okay, we looked like certifiable boneheads), but as long as I found people willing to be crazy, it was a no-brainer.
Currently, I had four brothers, and now Zander stood in the bathroom next to me begging to join the mob.
“Let me join the coalition, Darcy,” he smiled, staring into the mirror, attempting to style his tawny-colored hair. “It’s the least I can do since I bloodied your nose.”
Removing the binoculars from my neck, I pitched them in his direction and finished flat ironing my hair. Other than a few cowlicks, my hair hung poker straight, but stylists today claimed you had to flatiron your tresses to show the extra effort. By the smell, all I did was singe the ends.
“You’re doing this for me?”
A deviant grin curled the edges of his lips. “I’m doing it for you.”
Wearing only a pair of black nylon shorts, his chest was concave and totally devoid of testosterone. I hoped things gelled together, but it didn’t look like he’d headline the girls’ locker room talk anytime soon. “What do you have to offer?” I asked.
“A lifetime of eyes and ears, spying on anything Dylan does, and who he does it with. If it’s NC-17, you’ll get all the tawdry, raunchy details in 3D and high-def. And yeah,” he chuckled, jerking his head toward the window, “I noticed the excitement, and I’m all over that.”
Adrenaline spiked through me. Praise the Lord; this was a gift from Heaven.
Lifting my shirt, I drenched my underarms with Lady Speed Stick then applied a touch of blush, saturated my lashes, and rolled on two coats of pale pink lip gloss. “Do you love me?”
“100 percent.”
“Will you keep my secrets?”
He leaned up against the doorjamb, taking two fingers, symbolically locking his lips. “Until death,” he promised.
“My other brothers?”
“Family.”
“Deal,” I said. We did the modified chicken dance … twice for good measure.
Zander jumped up and down, acting as though he’d just seen his first naked girl. Puckering his lips, he sauntered three steps closer, aiming right for my mouth. Suddenly the room felt hotter than a bonfire. This boy might only be twelve, but he threw off enough hormonal heat to warm Poland. “Do we ever get to kiss?” he moaned flirtatiously.
I had to think about that. There was a four-year age gap, and I was two months shy of sixteen. Nah, I quickly decided. Dylan would de-ball him; plus, it was now officially incest. “Maybe if we travel to the mountains.”
“Run that by me again?” Kyd asked confused.
What-evvvs. I explained the benefits of joining the brotherhood for the third time. Frankly, there were no benefits other than bragging rights, and bragging rights existed in my own warped, little mind. Well, that wasn’t totally true. If he needed me to have his back, I’d have it and then some.
Thing was, Kyd wanted me to have something else…
“Repeat after me,” I laughed, “Darcy’s the boss.”
“Darcy’s the boss,” he echoed. I sooooo wanted to say Jester, but that identity needed to remain on the down-low. When we landed, Colton reminded me his laptop belonged to me all week. Feeling industrious, I typed and re-typed a “let me explain” letter to troyoncrime. When I realized there was nothing to explain, I deleted it, paced the floor, and banged my head against the wall until it bruised.
Time.
Give
me time, people, and I’d rock Orlando’s world.
“You’re in,” I told him.
“Is this a secret?”
“Not really,” I shrugged, but if it were true to the mob, it should be.
“I like secrets,” he moaned. “Can we seal the secret with a kiss?”
“No!” I giggled. “That’s sort of creepy.” Both of my new brothers were incestuous. If I had bylaws, that’d be the first clause included: no making out with the family.
The whole concept totally flew over Kyd’s massively touchable, blond head. “What time are you coming over?”
Kyd was killing me. He’d called three times in three hours, and this new blood tie insinuated he could step it up even more frequently. Maybe I should go over early, I rationalized. If anyone knew the dirty laundry in town, it would be Herbie and Minda Sue Knoblecker. Good thing because I felt slightly dirty.
Waiting until Dylan jumped in the shower, I quickly slid into black shorts, a painted on tuxedo t-shirt, and black flip-flops with sequins adorning the top. Knowing I needed to give accountability for my whereabouts, I sought out Lincoln while he shaved. He motioned me inside the bathroom as he finished up a phone call with his partner, Patrick O’Leary.
The earbuds of my iPod were threaded in one ear, listening to Godsmack’s Voodoo. Lincoln held the title of the world’s most suspicious man. True to nature, he pulled the white cord from one ear and listened for about five seconds, then yanked it out with a snort. “What’s this shiii—stuff?” he corrected himself.
“Godsmack’s Voodoo,” I smiled, taking it from his hand.
“Godsmack?” he frowned.
“Voodoo,” I grinned bigger.
“Of course, it is,” he grumbled. “Darcy, this is Paddy. Paddy,” he paused, “Darcy.”
“Hey, Paddy,” I said.
Paddy answered in an Irish brogue. “Hawareya, doll?”
Paddy slurred his three-worded “How are you” into a three-syllabled sound. Nice to meet him, but seriously, I didn’t have time for chitchat even if it appeared rude.
“Good,” I said, “and you?”
“Grand. I’ve heard some wonderful things about ya.” Well, he might think differently if he knew the bull-crap I’d been bathing in.
“Finish up,” Lincoln told him. Scooting around Lincoln, I fell onto the toilet, trying my best to remain calm. Wasn’t working. My legs bounced up and down, my heart beat irregularly, and before long, I’d developed an eye twitch that felt terminal. Lincoln pressed his razor to his cheek and carefully swung the blade downwards, mimicking the movement until one side of his face smoothed. Rinsing the blade, he duplicated the process on the other cheek.
“Our girl told me Turkey’s proposin’ a large land deal,” Paddy said. “In other words, this third family wants to buy their books of business or a portion of it, at least. And if the deal isn’t legitimate, we’re lookin’ at a turf war beyond turf wars.”
“Hmmm,” Lincoln responded.
“Yeah,” Paddy snorted, “hmmm is about right.”
I didn’t have time for “hmmms” because time tick-tocked away. Except something was scheduled to go down tonight, and my imagination polluted my thoughts of what that could be. Were they referring to that midnight meeting? With the man making unreasonable demands? And hellooooo, what about the body in the video whose head just happened to pop off?
“You saw the video, right?” Paddy asked.
Talk about timing … I couldn’t breathe. Move. Do anything other than swallow my own dang tongue. “Yes,” Lincoln muttered, surprisingly unaffected. “Just because he stole the video doesn’t mean he now has the right to make demands.”
Let me summarize … so the guy making demands snitched on the goings-on of a psychopath? A psychopath who liked to film his own psychotic exploits? Stupid and dangerous, but idiots like him kept people like me entertained.
Lincoln suddenly jumped subjects, bracing one hand on the sink with a faraway look in his eyes. “What in the world is a viscount, Paddy?”
Oh, boy. Talking about his daughter’s boyfriend was one subject I needed to get out of like yesterday. “Ah, I don’t know, Linc,” Paddy sighed. “Whaddya think, Darcy?”
Heck, if I knew. I wouldn’t recognize a viscount any more than I’d recognize a balanced meal. I offered him a shrug—my face saying Henry Ainsworth embodied the dumbest viscount of all viscounts.
After a few more sentences where they contemplated whether Henry was a closet serial killer, I finally spit out that I’d ditched Dylan like a bad date. Both wanted to know if guns were in the Knobleckers’ home, did they do drugs, were they ex-convicts, pedophiles, or sociopaths. When I joked that they were in the witness protection program for assassinating Viscount Henry Ainsworth of the British Highlands, both belted out a laugh and kissed me on my way.
Not before Lincoln gave me a wicked grin, acknowledging it wouldn’t go over well with his grandson. What the heck, I’d told him, I’m a verb. Plus, in the back of my mind screamed the fact that I’d called a grieving mother, promising the impossible.
My conscience dealt with a lot … not delivering, I couldn’t stomach.
Five minutes later, Zander and I stood stoically in front of the Knobleckers’ door.
Seven cars lined the drive: two Cadillac Escalades, a Dodge Viper, some sort of souped-up European contraption, a red Corvette, a black Maserati, and last but not least, a silver Maybach. Several professional athletes lived in this community, and Kyd made friends fast. He was personable, fun loving, and always ready for a nighttime pick-up game. Thing of it was, that’s when Kyd did his best work. Turn the lights down low, and Kyd, the womanizer, came to the forefront.
I rang the doorbell, wondering if God himself would answer the door in his robe. You know how life’s made up of the haves and have-nots? Serendipity’s made up of the haves and have-mores. Herbert Knoblecker won the Powerball when it hit $250M in Louisiana five years ago, and his home indisputably ranked as one of the largest have-mores in the neighborhood.
Giving my underarms a quick sniff, the socially awkward part of me halfway turned to bolt when the door opened with a sharp-dressed Kyd.
All I could think was, Down, libido, down.
“Wow,” he whistled. “You look scrumptious.”
“Yeah, my brother thinks so, too,” Zander grumbled.
I elbowed him in the ribs. This wasn’t the time for him to protect what he assumed was Dylan’s domain. We were on the job—anything was acceptable when you were on the job. You could beat yourself up over it later.
Kyd’s hair lay slightly damp and clung to the sides of his face, framing cheekbones that could cut you. With a brisk headshake, he finger-combed it in place over a face that would never be ordinary. For some unknown reason, I gulped down a burning desire. Kyd, no doubt, was a good-looking guy. Let me amend that: a very, very good-looking guy (he deserved two adverbs). Maybe I needed to rethink that no-kissing-of-the-family clause because my lips suddenly begged for something to do.
“What are you thinking?” he murmured. “Your face blanked out for a moment.”
“Just thinking about my bylaws,” I mumbled.
Kyd chuckled. “I love the way you think. It’s just so—”
“Warped,” I finished in an embarrassed giggle.
“No, Legs,” he said softly. “You’re one of a kind.”
No, that was him, I thought. Kyd had adorned himself in blue and khaki plaid shorts to the knees and a navy t-shirt. On his feet, however, were $100 flip-flops.
Lord have mercy, mine were the Walmart special.
Placing his hand on the small of my back, he steered the three of us toward the party. We followed him through a maze of antiques, traditional brown leather furniture, and expensive light fixtures. Everything shone brilliant and glittery and would probably take my father’s weekly salary simply to replace a light bulb.
When we made it to the kitchen, we stepped around several ladies dressed in black who were li
ghting up chafing dishes filled with dirty rice, red beans, bourbon chicken, gumbo, and jambalaya while throwing fresh seafood in ice buckets.
Kyd opened the sliding glass doors.
First thought? Gasp.
Second? Run for the freaking hills.
About 40 people fraternized and sipped beverages, smiling 1000-watt, beautiful people smiles. In the left corner, a jazz ensemble picked out a ragtime funk that included a trumpet, clarinet, and trombone. A bow-tied pianist hunkered over the keyboard while a drummer and guitarist rounded out the rhythm section. A soloist growled through his song, making eye contact with anyone that would gaze his way. It looked like the French Quarter 2.0, and by the smells of the cuisine, everyone was destined to leave five pounds heavier. Red, crab-shaped lights outlined the porch while fire-breathing tiki torches lit up the black-bottomed pool. The ambiance felt fun, festive, and stimulating to all five senses … perfect for a party.
Even more perfect for a bloated stomach.
Zander made a beeline for three girls his age.
“Look who’s here, Daddy,” Kyd bragged, as he led me to his father.
Wearing three pounds of gold necklaces and a pinky ring that weighed five, Herbie’s loafers squeaked like a rusty door hinge as he waddled toward us. Tonight felt like freaking Africa, and his off-white linen shirt was peppered with perspiration while his matching shorts stuck between hairy thighs.
I took a long, hard look at Herbie. Maybe I liked him so much because he reminded me of me. He came from humble beginnings, and God knew I understood the term of being humbled. You always searched for the opportunity to prove that you belonged and weren’t an oxygen poacher from the movers and shakers. Kyd and his sister had assimilated well as the nouveau riche; Herbie, however, still made mistakes. And Herbie would definitely benefit from that speech “Less is more.” Right now, he looked like a cross between a nervous pimp and sweaty rapper.
