by A. J. Lape
The manager smiled pleasantly as Susan pitched a stack of long-sleeved, layering t-shirts and turtlenecks on the counter, along with some socks. “Who’s Cisco Medina?” the manager asked me. And that was the real problem.
I repeated the story to Lincoln, throwing in the part about Jim Bob and the panty-hating Sunni as comedic buffers. I’m not sure it provided entertainment. There was a brief lull in conversation, but that could’ve been the interlude where he rued the day he’d answered my call. He breathed deep, rehashing a blow-by-blow account to an extremely impatient Dylan. “Yes, son,” he repeated exasperated, “Darcy’s okay.” A long pause. “No, she didn’t find another head.”
If only I were that lucky, I laughed to myself.
“What can we do, Lincoln?” I interrupted. “I need you to believe me. I know what I saw.”
Lincoln blew out an aggravated sigh. “Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I doubt what you’re saying. I’m merely thinking. Let me log into NCIC when I get back home.”
“NCIC?” I repeated.
“National Crime Information Center. It’s a nationwide computerized index that gives law enforcement access to tags, pawned items, drivers licenses, warrants—”
“Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” I interrupted.
“Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” he chuckled.
Lincoln explained that each state has their own database and feeds information into a nationwide system in case suspects cross state lines. It’s available to people like him in the field, but it requires FBI clearance to access it.
“When are you coming home?” I pushed. I wanted this done like yesterday, and the last thing we needed was for Cisco, at the spur of a moment, to jump the border.
“Don’t expect us until around midnight, but let me make a few phone calls.”
Huh, wonder what all they had planned? Well, Darcy Walker, I smiled to myself, you have a full day planned, too.
Number one was to crack the code into that database. Number two? Eat a beignet.
14. DIRE STRAITS
MY LEGS WERE CROSSED, SITTING in the Lotus position in the middle of Dylan’s room. I prayed for patience but was denied. I was tired of passing emails back and forth, and regardless of the consequences, it was time to chat voice-to-voice with Mr. troyoncrime himself.
Anonymity be damned.
Or darned … I hoped that wasn’t cursing.
I punched in his number and waited … nothing but voicemail.
Ten minutes ago, Herbie phoned to say a bank representative informed him that Fix It, Incorporated was, in fact, one of the PI firms on his monthly statement. God love him, he didn’t ask if anyone else was listed, but I decided to cut my losses and leave that part of the equation to Troy. A quick scan of the phonebook did actually legitimize Livingston & Associates (who Gertrude said Howie worked for), but a telephone call only produced an automated message.
Who knew, maybe they were at “Howie the head’s” funeral.
Do you send flowers to stuff like that?
“Troy, it’s Jester,” I said. “Did you have any luck on the private investigative firms? I’m working an angle here,” sort of, “and that information will be invaluable. And guess what,” I paused, “I believe Cisco Medina is still in town.”
I think that covered all the bases. Disconnecting, I quickly changed the voicemail on my iPhone to, Jester’s not in the house. Please, leave a message after the beep. Then I recorded my own idiotic beep merely because I couldn’t help myself.
“Dire straits” and I were thicker than thieves, and patience had never been one of my virtues. Heck, I didn’t have any virtues, period! But sitting idly by didn’t gel well with my hyperactive tendencies. Where I’d planned to crack the NCIC database, finding a free moment was tantamount to getting lost in New York City during rush hour. Everyone was up everybody’s muffler all day, and short of taking my laptop to the bathroom with me, that idea remained wishful thinking.
I leaned forward thinking fifty push-ups might exorcise the fidgets from my body. After completing 25 in the army position, I started 26 cricket-style with my elbows pressed tightly to my side.
“Knock, knock,” someone said, rapping the door with their knuckles. Glancing up, I saw none other than Kyd Knoblecker. “Zander told me you were here,” he grinned.
Awwwww, and Zander’s days would be numbered like the dodo bird if Dylan discovered the mutiny.
I squeezed out a smile, resuming a count.
Kyd kicked off his flip-flops sidling closer, obviously thinking he’d get some real face time. Maybe that’s what I needed. Kyd was a psychiatrist … in a junior bridesmaid sort of way.
He swooped down, tickling his nose in the crook of my neck. I breathed deep. No one had ever been that close to my carotid artery other than Dylan, and Kyd acted like he was considering a bite. “What perfume are you wearing?” he growled.
“Dryer sheets,” I mumbled.
“Tasty,” he murmured.
Why did I attract fastards? I’d jumped from Liam Woods to Kyd Knoblecker. Both were taken. And honestly? That was offensive. I should tell Kyd to hit the road—or bite my big, white booty—but I needed him … and by God, I guess I was a user.
Change the subject, Darcy.
“You’re friends with Hank, right?” I asked.
He propped his back against the bed, crossing his legs at the ankles, picking up the controller for Dylan’s Xbox 360. “Good friends.”
“What happened between him and his ex-wife?”
Kyd shot bad guys on Call of Duty Black Ops 2 as I slowly neared the forty mark. “Lola gambled a lot and basically blew through everything they both had. Hank’s job situation has always been shaky, so even though they had joint custody, guardianship to the grandparents was the route they took when Lola lost her rights. Hank can see him whenever he wants. So although it made him sad, he could deal. It’s a shame. I actually like both of them.”
Huh, I had no idea Kyd knew both parents.
I took a deep breath to finish out the last ten. “Where does she work?”
He gave me a shrug. “I don’t know. She’s great with numbers, and that’s what got her into trouble in the first place. Lola gambled with powerful people in town, and sometimes she gambled for them. That’s all I know.” No doubt, that led to her losing custody of Cisco, I surmised. The newspaper article claimed she placed him up as ante during a high stakes poker game. She was either grossly negligent or overly confident she could win him back.
Kyd laid down the controller as I finally tapped out at fifty, huffing and puffing, lying supine for a few seconds. After a few beats, I resumed the Lotus position and ripped open a bag of chocolate chip cookies, lying next to me. There was only one left, and in a bag of roughly thirty, that meant I’d polished off twenty-nine and somehow avoided a carbohydrate coma.
After the last bite, Kyd took my hand, his eyes growing heavy-lidded, flickering with what I thought was … want? Neh … couldn’t be. The boy had Mary-I’m a freaking goddess-Cartwright. That wasn’t even close to Darcy Winston Walker—yeah, my middle name was a cigarette—but flirting aside, he legitimately looked like he desired me. That little voice in my head that screamed “he’s a lying rat fastard” couldn’t peel itself away from his face. Kyd’s sandy blond hair played a nice contrast to his golden tan. Dressed in an old white T and black athletic shorts, he was a card-carrying member of the jocks of the world. Sure, I was a mutual jock, but my brain spoke nothing but nerd.
He held my fingers to his lips, speaking into them. “Come here when you graduate. We can do University of Florida, Florida State, University of Miami,” he rattled off. When I tried to tear my fingers away, he narrowed his eyes, slightly tightening his grip. “Don’t pull away from me,” he begged in a whisper.
Verrrrrrrrrrrry interesting.
For some reason, that felt like a veiled comment about Mary.
I withdrew my hand, wanting a love triangle like I wanted a punctured lung. “I’m a hom
etown girl, Kyd. Plus, college is probably out.”
He snorted, “You’re joking, right?”
“Ha-ha,” I lied.
“Then I’ll join you,” he said convincingly. “My parents are going nuts because I haven’t made a decision yet, and I should already be enrolled.”
I snorted, “You’d leave paradise and move to Cincinnati?”
Kyd took a deep breath, acting like a boy desperately in love. Focusing all of his energy on me, he scooted closer—so close that the heat radiated from his body like a Bunsen burner. “I expect I would go to Podunk, Alaska if you were going to be there.”
Podunk was out because I couldn’t leave Marjorie. I remember the shock when out-of-the-blue circumstances left me flying solo. It felt like I had an anchor around my neck while someone pushed me overboard.
Kyd dropped his eyes to my chest, his gaze tearing into me. Yup, he was a fastard. Fastard, fastard, fastard. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it the, um, head?”
Not even close, perv, I almost laughed.
Kyd was obviously still reeling from Howie. I’d successfully tucked him away in my Things Not Meant to be Understood File. Word on the street, though—according to Lincoln and his inside connections—claimed that Howie had gotten into trouble with gambling debts. I found it interesting that he and Lola had the same pastime.
My stomach started to pitch when Kyd kept pushing the issue. He said I appeared to be experiencing some serious post-traumatic stress and was in danger of snapping at some weird, inopportune time. Oh gosh, I so didn’t want to go there … not even in my subconscious. “Trust me, I’ve experienced worse than Howie,” I muttered, and I wasn’t referring to the dead man I found in the spring.
I was referring to my mother.
Kyd immediately got his shrink back on, drool dripping like a leaky valve. I wasn’t even pseudo-ready for this conversation and doubted I’d ever be.
Dylan had a putting green outside his room on the lawn. I grabbed a pair of balls and two putters from his closet and tossed one of each in Kyd’s direction. The testosterone in me needed to kick some serious gluteus maximus. Plus, I needed to break the hormonal mood and the walk down Horror Movie Lane I had no desire in resurrecting. Putting was generic enough, right?
We stepped outside the french doors, seeing who could get closest to the hole in one shot, eight feet out.
Kyd broke into a smile. “Ladies first,” he charmed.
I dropped the ball, lined it up, and sank it in one easy stroke. I stood back up with a cocky laugh. “Taking candy from a baby,” I bragged.
Kyd crossed one ankle over the other, balancing his weight on the club. “If I make this shot, you have to answer a personal question, same for me.”
“Okay,” I shrugged, but evidently he hadn’t learned the first time.
Kyd squatted down, taking a dominant eye’s view. He then stood aright, gripped the club, and followed through on a putt that did a quick 360 of the hole before it bounced inside with a thunk. “Do you love Taylor?” he asked, standing aright.
Dylan made me feel unconditionally and irreversibly loved—unfathomable and unsurpassed. There was no hesitation in my answer. “More than anything.”
His confidence deflated like a hot air balloon when you released its air. “Ten feet out this time,” he frowned.
I expelled a ferocious snort. “You’re stacking this in your favor, Kyd. I didn’t even get to ask a question when I scored the first time. If I sink this one, I get to ask two.”
Kyd said, “Sure.” The cocky gleam in his eyes wasn’t convinced I could make it, and frankly, I wasn’t so sure, either. Suddenly, my palms dripped with sweat because I didn’t know what he deemed personal. I bent over gripping the club, swung through, and watched the ball slowly travel to where it teetered at the edge and finally plopped in.
“Nice shot,” he groaned.
I did a face-rubbing victory dance. “First question,” I said. “Do you love Mary?”
He answered easily with a nod. “Yes.” Huh, funny way to show love, I thought. “Question number two,” I added. “What do you want from me?”
Kyd drew in a sharp breath, dropping his eyes to his feet. “That’s the burning question,” he sighed.
I narrowed my eyes, wondering why the boy acted more confused than me. “Line it up,” I said.
Kyd sank the ten-foot putt like his life depended on it. Except, he didn’t immediately come up with a question. His eyes narrowed then softened, tightened again, and I got the feeling he’d insert more psychobabble. “Love can be a confusing emotion, Legs. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between friendship versus attraction versus out-of-this-world.” He paused to sigh, his eyes drowning with emotion. “Do you understand?”
Sounded simple enough. “Yeah,” I answered.
“Are you in love with Taylor?”
Boy, he went for the mother of all mothers, didn’t he? I laughed and held up two fingers. “That’s two questions, Kyd.”
I wasn’t sure I even knew the differences between the two anyway. The gist of it, I suppose, settled around whether you’d like to make-out with someone. I thought about that for a while and figured if I made-out with anyone, Dylan would definitely be my first choice. Trouble was, I didn’t understand “making out,” either.
Kyd balled his fists, and I almost heard him count to ten. “How is that two questions?” he barked.
Whoa, strung out to die, he was. “You asked if I understood, and I answered yes,” I explained.
Kyd gurgled some strange sounds, acting as if I’d just kicked him between the legs. “I’m guessing you can haggle well because you’re constantly working things to your advantage. Your turn,” he said in a clinical voice. “Twelve feet. If you miss, just remember you have to answer.”
I walked off twelve feet, lined the ball up, flexed my knees, and carefully tapped it toward the empty cup. The ball took the lip and rolled down the hill into the lake.
It was a little past the witching hour.
Earlier, Grandma Alexandra and I took a stroll outside attempting to right the things that were wrong in our lives. She wanted Willow home; I wanted Cisco Medina home. Neither of us possessed the immediate power to make those things happen.
Like always, when the physical exercise didn’t tame the beast in my brain, another option was to read. Right now, I lay on my stomach with my chin propped in my hands, reading Atlas of the Stars on the couch. For the last few hours, I’d missed Dylan terribly, and my mind worked double time questioning: one, why he’d left without so much as a note; and two, how many hearts he’d broken in the span of a few hours.
Sure, we’d spoken briefly, but let me emphasize briefly. It was more a recap of what I’d seen regarding Cisco and him responding, “I see.”
And let me ask … what in the mother did “I see” mean??
I longed to regurgitate the day, first starting with Kyd. Kyd was all over me like white on rice. He’d tried to kiss me three times and—gasp—I kinda-sorta almost let him. No, I didn’t answer his question about being “in love” with Dylan. I hoodwinked him into thinking I’d tell him later when I better understood myself. Just thinking that statement made me laugh because a huge possibility existed that might mean never.
“Hey,” Dylan murmured, swaggering through the door on cue. My eyeballs stuck on pause, as muscled leg after muscled leg elegantly strut its way toward me. Who was I kidding? Kyd could have his rice. One of Dylan’s killer grins shot me right back into desperation. His dimples were deep, and when they were accompanied with sleepy, bedroom eyes, well, let’s just say I understood why good girls sometimes had bad thoughts.
“Hey, yourself,” I grinned back. I swung my feet happily back and forth like I was looking at Santa Claus.
Dylan touched his heart with a wink. “Hey, hey to you, too. I didn’t expect you to be up, but I’m happy that you are.”
Susan and Alexandra fell asleep hours ago, Sydney was connecting with her newest vict
im, and Zander snored underneath the pool table, holding the eight ball in his right hand. Honestly, I couldn’t explain how my eyes remained open. I was operating on three hour’s worth of sleep, but couple that with my Cisco-high, and I might not sleep tonight anyway.
Dylan wore royal blue athletic shorts and a new Florida Gators t-shirt carrying what I knew—without asking—was a duplicate one for me. The color was gray with a big, green, smiling gator in the center.
I moved my plate of cookies and chocolate milk out of the way, making room for him to settle down.
“I missed you and wanted to talk to you,” I explained. Dylan collapsed next to me with a sigh, and I automatically slid over to hug his neck.
“Ah, honey, I missed you, too,” he squeezed. “You’ve been behaving?” Not really. There was still no word from Troy, and it wasn’t for a lack of trying. It didn’t bother me in the least to wear him down until he listened. I couldn’t do that with Cisco, however. I had no idea which rock to turn over first.
Dylan dragged his BlackBerry and wallet out of his pocket, laying them on the glass end table beside us. Although, he planted a quick peck on my cheek, darkness settled over me, and I was reminded of the sense of foreboding I had this morning—the sense that the day wouldn’t end well.
Sheesh, it felt like a break-up was coming.
15. FASTARD MAGNET
DYLAN SIGHED, BRIEFLY CLOSING HIS eyes. “Darcy, we need to…”
Right then, his BlackBerry vibrated, and as I leaned over to retrieve it, the picture of an unbelievably cute blonde flashed with each ring. She had big blue eyes, a smile even bigger, and my guess was the rest of her attributes were bigger still. At the end of the day, Dylan was a guy. Guys liked boobs. Guys liked butts. It was a law of the universe.
“She’s pretty,” I whispered, reluctantly placing it in his palm. He declined the call, but not even ten seconds later his cell jingled again. Another girl. Redheaded. And by the flirty look in her eyes, she had an attitude (and the skills) that knew how to make a guy smile.
