by A. J. Lape
Colton sighed deeply, shook his head with a frown, then located his wife and sauntered away.
“The last thing I’ll ever be is your brother, Darcy,” Dylan bit out. “We need to have a little talk.”
I inwardly shivered. “A walkie-talkie?”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed into beady, snake-like slits. “A walkie-talkie,” he repeated. A walkie-talkie was basically when Dylan forced me to listen to whatever he thought I needed to change in my life. The practice evolved from battery-powered walkie-talkies we had as children to the teenaged shut-up and listen.
As I stumbled to keep up with his stride, Dylan pulled me onto his lap in an empty chair in the corner. He told me not to leave without telling him, not to jump without asking how high, and not to kiss anyone I wasn’t related to. Then he stared; he stared for a good thirty seconds and started up again, whispering the biggie of all biggies, “You hurt my feelings, sweetheart. You really, really did.”
Darn him, darn him to heck.
As I offered the mother of all mea culpas, something even worse happened. Have you ever been punched in the face? Like really punched? No? Me neither, but I swear the universe made a fist and launched one right in my jaw. Kyd’s sister, Yankee, literally plopped down on Dylan’s other knee and inched me out in an attempt for both.
I felt like bursting into song … (NOT).
Dylan bristled but was nonetheless mannerly. I snorted at his convenient display of propriety, though. In my opinion, he should’ve spit on her, but I got the feeling most boys couldn’t control themselves when two girls moved in their lap. When I attempted an escape, his hand grabbed onto the bottom of my shorts and tugged me back in place.
Dylan’s fingers were warm, demanding, and almost sensuous. Crud, that might be the first time ever the word “sensuous” entered my brain waves.
“Hi, Yankee,” Dylan murmured. “How are you?”
She gave him an overly sweet smile. “Wonderful, now that you’re here.”
Cue the barf.
Cupid’s arrow’d struck Yankee when she turned fourteen, and apparently, the chubby little cherub still released his bow. But where Dylan was concerned, Cupid seemed to have an unlimited supply of weaponry. Yankee had a turned-up nose, her lips were full, the bottom one slightly fuller. From what I gathered, she was the cheer captain, too. I wasn’t even the band geek. You had to be talented to be a band geek. I could barely play the air guitar.
Yankee also looked like she hung with the wheatgrass and carrot juice crowd. About 5’4” and maybe—maybe—90 pounds, her weight was distributed in all the appropriate places. Enter Darcy Walker: Neanderthal tall, loudmouthed laugh, so-so features with a dirty-blonde head, and boobless torso. Plus, my body would die of shock if it consumed wheatgrass and carrot juice.
She’d dressed in a black tube top, heels, and a white micro-miniskirt. In short, it looked garish, but from what I’d observed, teenaged guys lived for garish.
“Hello, Darcy,” she smirked snidely, finally acknowledging my presence.
“Yippee-ki-yay to you, too,” I mumbled sarcastically. “Would you like the other knee?”
She looked at me like I was a circus freak. “How thoughtful of you to offer,” she smirked. I had a feeling she’d take it anyway.
I wriggled around again, but Dylan slid his hand up my shorts, locked onto my thigh, and roughly sat me back on his right leg.
“That wasn’t necessary,” I grumbled angrily.
Dylan placed his lips underneath the curve of my chin. His breath blew hot and angry with an immediate demand that you pay attention to it. “I beg to differ,” he murmured.
That tickled, but I was determined to not let him know it. A broken longneck bottle lay at our feet. Yankee picked it up, the prism of light caught in the reflection of the tiki torches. She and I locked eyes, lost in a world of territorial dispute and cold innuendo. “What do you plan on doing with that glass?” I silently ask her.
“I’m not to be messed with,” she mutely responds.
My heart palpitated twice. I’m not afraid of this girl. I just wish it were socially acceptable for me to drown her in the pool.
I frowned at Dylan, whispering, “Are you aware another girl is in your lap, Romeo?”
“Hmm,” he murmured, leaning into my ear, “and what, pray tell, would you like me to do about said other girl sitting in my lap?”
“Hold her down while I drown her.”
Dylan lightly laughed. “Now, sweetheart, that would make me an accessory to a major crime.”
“So?”
“So I think you can’t stand it when I’m not 100 percent yours.”
I snorted, hitching my chin up a notch. “In the spirit of us telling each other what we think,” I muttered, “you can’t stand it when everyone is not 100 percent yours.”
Another light chuckle. “Ahhh, sweetheart, you wound me.”
Dylan murmured in that sexy-as-heck voice that only he could produce. I slid my eyes over angrily, telling him to kiss-my-big-white-arse. He threw his head back, laughing.
“You’re only doing this because you’re mad at me,” I pouted.
“I’ve been mad before, and it’s never held any historic or intrinsic value.”
I opened my mouth then closed it, even more irritated than before. We listened to Yankee brag about her clothes, brag about boyfriends, and brag about bragging. Then thankfully, Kyd zoned in on my predicament and rescued me from his sister who was obviously a narcissist.
He whistled in my direction, and before Dylan could protest, I pushed off in a harried frenzy. I meandered through some Fortune 500 types, witnessed Zander kissing a brunette behind a plant, goosed Grandma Alexandra, and smacked Dylan’s mother on her tight, little behind. Big mistake … she pulled me by the elbow over to the corner for a speech on proper decorum.
I almost laughed; Murphy quit giving that speech years ago.
All I knew was sometimes my impulses were larger than my desire to dodge any punishment meted out. When she viewed Zander rolling around next to us (seriously, he went horizontal on some chick), she let out an “Eeek,” and I counted it as my chance for escape. Tripping over my own feet, I stumbled headfirst into Big J’s knee and a plate of crawdads. Even though they were dead, their pink creepy-crawly feelers still latched onto my hair. I wanted to faint, scream like a girl, or yell for the male with the most testosterone to save me, but even I had standards. When I danced around to dislodge them, I knocked Big J’s iced tea out of his hand, which rolled down my back, soaking me to the bone.
What the mother of God…
Big J gasped, pulling me up, gaping at his empty cup, horrified. “I’m so sorry!” he apologized. Bending down, he fingered a crawdad out of my hair and pitched it onto his empty plate.
“That’s okay,” I grimaced. “I have klutzy tendencies. Accidents are normal for me.”
He tipped my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Babe, you’re about as normal as a two dollar bill. And you are?”
Kyd plucked a napkin off a server’s tray, trying unsuccessfully to dry me off.
“It’s Darcy,” Kyd answered.
Big J’s mouth dropped wide. “Dylan’s girl?” he verified. Not anymore, I thought.
Kyd laughed, “She’s about to become my girl.”
I gnawed on my lower lip.
“Is that right?” Big J asked oddly, addressing me. “I always thought something was going on between you and Dylan. I texted him earlier. Why don’t the both of you play golf with Kyd and me tomorrow afternoon?”
Kyd acted as if he’d been given the keys to the candy store. I didn’t particularly want to play any sort of game with Kyd, but I wasn’t above using his amour to introduce me to Hank Henry. Besides, Kyd had a girlfriend. His cheating, fastard butt ought to know better.
Kyd commenced with the begging, bending down on one knee. “Say yes, Legs. Let me go to bed with a smile on my face.”
If I said yes, perhaps I’d run into Hank Henry
in the clubhouse. If I said no, then let’s face it, I’d be stupid.
We were standing next to a dessert tray. Leaning over, I picked out the fluffiest beignet, deciding to savor the moment. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I grinned.
After your basic I’ll-meet-you-here, nobody-be-late conversation, I decided to clean up and answer nature’s call. Cramming the beignet in my mouth, I strolled inside the house and hoofed it down the tiled hallway toward the bathroom. Moments from peeing down my legs, I abruptly stopped, hearing a voice I recognized murmur nearby. I peeked inside Herbie’s private office—one foot in the hallway, one foot pushing the door slightly ajar.
Lincoln.
His body was hunched over the corner of a wooden desk the size of a compact car. One hand spread wide over its ornate surface; the other braced his weight on a corner. The time rolled at eleven something at night. Not even close to the midnight meeting I’d assumed meant West Coast time, but evidently, some pre-planning was in the works. He grumbled “Paddy” over and over. Unfortunately, Paddy did more talking than listening, which made it virtually impossible to piece together the specifics of what I knew contained a juicy backstory.
Dressed in dark clothing, Lincoln appeared unrecognizable in a darkened room. But Lincoln was one of those people that threw off about ten feet of personal space when you were around him anyway. If you were good at reading vibes, you could’ve been blind and still detected his presence. Powerful people threw off energy without saying a word; it spilled over everything else.
Lincoln muttered, “Surely, he’s kidding.” The only thing I could figure was the man making demands, still conducted some outrageous bargaining. The conversation was emotionally charged, to say the least, but even though I had my ear to the door, I knew I needed to get closer.
Inching the door ajar, right then Lincoln shot straight up, moving to peer out the window for a view of Maison de Saule. Maybe he wanted the comfort of home, or maybe he knew he’d never really be on vacation one way or another. He put two fingers in the blinds then released them, muttering a threat. “Tell him this, Paddy. Tell him if he doesn’t do as we’ve suggested, he can never count on us to bail his sorry ass out of any problem again. He has to pick a side, and he’d better choose wisely.”
Wonders never cease, I thought. Why was it bad guys always hooked up with other bad guys even if the good guys were offering a way out? From my perspective—and that included little information—this man just committed a major boneheaded move and possibly suicide.
“Is that right?” Lincoln laughed sarcastically. “Tell him I could care less about his life span, or if his neck is sliced from ear-to-ear. The only reason I’m negotiating in some back channel diplomacy is because of what it will provide me. Either way, what he has is mine, no matter what right Cardoza thinks he has to it.” There was a huge awkward silence, and I took that as my cue to leave. Pivoting on my flip-flop, I was jolted back to the conversation by the biggest cursing-like-a-sailor incident the world had ever known. No, seriously. It was like South Park on steroids. Eff this, effity that, the f-word taking on all parts of speech. “Is that so?” Lincoln sneered. “He should be more scared of me than Cardoza, and tell him if he mentions my family again, I’ll disembowel him personally.”
9. LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER
BOBBY GERBER CALLED CONFESSING TO the accidental deaths of Frick and Frack. He claimed he wanted to see if they could fly … the moron. He climbed on the top of my dresser and threw them in the air. They unexpectedly collided with the ceiling and cracked open when they crashed to the ground. I mean, really … shouldn’t that have been obvious? And what kind of freaking centrifugal force did he throw them with? The recount sounded so bizarre I didn’t believe it to be a fabrication or something else more iniquitous. MacArthur? He happened to be a nosy little gerbil that liked to bathe in blood, apparently.
At least that was cleared up, but it made me recycle the hermit crab tears. Ugh, I hated crying, and I hated crying at bedtime even more.
I stumbled out of Sydney’s room and crept quietly down the hall. It was close to 3AM. I still assumed the “Midnight tonight. He either talks or he’s dead,” text referred to Pacific Standard Time.
Whose days were numbered, and who was the hit man?
After I listened to Sydney’s rundown of her tumultuous day with bound-to-get-his-heart-broken, I knew the only way to make the 3AM EST date was to consume caffeine … and binge eat. So I’d alternated between stale doughnuts and shots of espresso.
The espresso went through me like motor oil.
After half a dozen trips to the restroom, I finally saw a dim light click on down the hall in the den. I eased over the cool marble flooring, past Colton’s office and the laundry room, and hid behind a white pillar until my vision adjusted. The house was full of structural pillars. It added to the Greek and Romanesque mystique. This one happened to be the largest—about eight feet in circumference—so my guess was if it went down, the place would crumble like a house of cards.
In the middle of the room, Lincoln perched on the edge of the white leather couch, his elbows resting on his knees. Gum wrappers were iglooed at his feet and a cup of coffee balanced on the edge of the ottoman in front of him. He must’ve been sitting in the dark for hours because this was the first time I’d noticed signs of life … and believe me, I’d been looking.
His BlackBerry was cradled between his neck and left ear, a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. It was quiet—like horror movie quiet. The quiet you hear right before someone jumps out from the dark and knifes your life away. After a few moments of holding my breath, Lincoln shifted his weight into a fighting stance, leaning forward as though he was ready to throw his entire weight into something or someone … enough weight to silence them permanently.
“So he gave you very little in the face to face?” he asked frustrated. He went silent for a bit. “Well, we already suspicioned as much, Paddy. That information doesn’t really place me one step ahead of Cardoza.”
More talking on the other end.
Lincoln finally snorted, “That doesn’t frighten me, either, and I’ve been itching to get my hands bloody, too. In fact, I want to frigging take a bath in it.”
My brain scrambled for a second, then I looked at my fingers, counting every digit twice, moving on to the wrinkles along the knuckles. As Lincoln raised his voice and growled, “I don’t care who or what stands in my way,” I counted the prints on the wall and panes in the glass windows. When I finished, I started with my breaths: in-out, in-out, slow-and-easy, times that by four.
God help me, this wasn’t a good sign. It was an OCD frenzy.
Lincoln now mumbled low. I found that odd since he was in a room alone—at least he thought so—until it occurred to me he must be delivering one last threat he didn’t even want the walls to hear. With a breath heavy enough to knock over an elephant, he looked to the ceiling—like he was praying for guidance—and slowly shook his head.
“Then on with the original plan,” were his final words. He disconnected, carefully laying his cell phone next to his coffee cup while he buried his face in his hands. Things didn’t look good for him—or perhaps they didn’t look good for the other person, and Lincoln knew this was a do-or-die situation.
Serendipity Golf Course is built on a rolling terrain and is known for its fast greens. In other words, you hit the ball, and it rolls like a mother. That was okay by me because I felt as hyper as a Mexican jumping bean. We toured in a cart, but half the time I hoofed it to my ball just to get rid of the excess energy. That’s what happens when the hyper have a case of the nerves, people. The energy latches ahold, and your brain functions on constant misfire.
A pack of gum and eighteen holes later, I still couldn’t erase Cisco Medina from my mind. How in the world was I going to make good on my pledge (to troyoncrime) to provide new information? I longed for some sort of omniscient clarity but found comfort in the fact that I was a verb.
On even holes
, I decided I could make a difference in the world. On odd holes, I concluded I was an idiot. Since we ended at an even eighteen, I took that as a sign from the universe to motor on. Plus, I’d beaten all of them. I finished even par on a course I hadn’t played since spring. A narrow defeat, but you know what, I knew my limitations. Dylan led the pack until all three guys decided they would play from the professional tee box. Let’s just say they weren’t ready for the circuit. Clubs took flight, profanity scorched my ears, but that’s what happened when your ambition was bigger than your club size.
Or jockstrap.
I’m thinking that was the real problem.
Feeling somewhat like a champion, I then obsessed. Unfortunately, it never ended well when I was obsessed because the preoccupation never went away until it was laid to rest … or someone beat the crap out of me.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Dylan pitched our bags in the trunk of his mother’s pearl-white Mercedes SUV. Both of us wore khaki shorts and white golf shirts; my hair in a ponytail, his underneath a tan ball cap. He glistened with pure masculinity with dang little perspiration, while I was in full-on sweat mode, smelling like a salt mound.
A shower had to wait…
Kyd had a connection to Cisco’s father. If I didn’t act now, opportunity would dissolve like my makeup had on hole two. As we prepared to say our goodbyes, Kyd acted like a sugarholic with a brownie … he couldn’t and wouldn’t let go. Call me a manipulator, but I decided to strike while the iron burned hot.
I lovingly touched Dylan’s arm, throwing in some bedroom eyes with a come-hither wink that crumpled my contacts. “Let’s eat here, D. I’m starving.” That happened to be the truth. Lunch consisted of half an apple, processed cheese, and a cold cappuccino. As I faked crippling hunger pangs, I topped it off with an extremely suggestive bear hug and an innocent smile—well, at least my attempt at one.
