No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  I’m not sure what the prerequisite was for working in vice crimes. Killing easily? Selective consciences? Disguises out the yin-yang?

  “You’re 15, right?” he asked.

  “Almost 16.”

  “College in a few years?” Most of my efforts in life were self-imploding. College sounded like rubbing your nose in everyone else’s success.

  “I already have a PhD in bull-crap detection, Paddy. I don’t see a need for another degree.”

  Paddy chuckled then mumbled a surprised, “Hunh. Then you really need to think about your future.”

  He had no idea that’s ALL I ever thought about. I was in high school. At least once a week some teacher told you that what you did today mattered. What grades you made, what choices you made, what friends you hung around with. They drilled into our heads that everything counted … even the things you didn’t want to count. Talk about pressure, it was practically crippling.

  “Lincoln and I could use you,” he continued, “and you’ve given our colleagues something to rib Lincoln over. He’s one man who’s hard to fool.”

  No, his heart beat like pure snow, and mine beat so black it was scary.

  After Paddy and I cut the call, I cleaned and organized the house, then finally conked out only to be wakened when Howie’s head—escorted by my two dead crabs—crawled up my chest, hissing the name of his murderer. Scared senseless, I brewed a cup of coffee, and instead of it relaxing me, I became so jacked-up it left me in a state of suspended animation. Like always, my first instinct was to find Dylan. I slipped a white terry cloth robe over my black Angel-sleep T and stole off to his room, rubbing what I knew were bloodshot eyes.

  Dylan gave me a drowsy smile as I knelt by his bed and caressed the hand lying outside the sheets. I painstakingly swallowed. He was brutally handsome and vexingly perfect. The kind of beauty that could make a girl commit hara-kiri because she’d lost her mind. “Hey,” he whispered.

  “Hey,” I whispered back, dropping a kiss onto his hand, “I can’t sleep.”

  “Neither can I,” he lightly laughed.

  “Can we talk for a minute? Please?” Although physically tired, when I looked in Dylan’s face, there existed a natural and satisfied serenity about our relationship. I highly doubted either of us would ever find that comfortable feeling with anyone else.

  Easing quietly under the blankets, I disrupted him as little as possible before he had a chance to kick me out on my psychotic tail. Dylan rolled over to his side, tucking me into his chest, crooking his arm under my head as a pillow.

  A small ray of moonlight, peeking free from the clouds and bouncing off the lake, illuminated his room. There had been a thunderstorm earlier, no stars were in sight, and the land of sunshine had become a gloomy shade of gray.

  Like my mood.

  “What’s bothering you?” he murmured. Dylan’s voice rumbled in a sleepy sort of way … cute … it sounded too stinking cute.

  Oh, where to begin? “Everything, I guess. I’m worried about things I can’t control. I organized the refrigerator, alphabetized the spice collection, color-coded Sydney’s nail polish according to the spectrum of the rainbow.” He laughed. “I polished Lincoln’s gun, Jackal—”

  “Oh, God … don’t tell him that,” he groaned. I didn’t plan on it. Another few moments elapsed with us both simply listening to our breathing. He finally asked, “What can’t you control?”

  “School,” I answered. Cisco Medina, I omitted. Everything Hector told me. Did Fix It, Incorporated really exist? Where was Howie’s body and were there really aliens, blah, blah, and imbecilic blah. Not to mention, what the heck was Lincoln working on?

  “And?” he tenderly pushed.

  I blew out a sigh. “You’re going away someday while I stay home. I don’t ever want to be without you, D. I worry sometimes.”

  And I need you to love on me.

  “Shhh,” he soothed. “That’s crazy talk. I’ll never leave you, sweetheart, and I’ll never move somewhere that makes you uncomfortable. We’re a team.” Whoever wound up with Dylan would be one lucky girl; I had plans to kill her. But I knew the best friend creed demanded I love her as much as I loved him.

  My chin quivered, and I hit the skids immediately. I didn’t want to cry, but Dylan could pull my emotions to the surface quicker than anyone. “Promise me,” I begged.

  “Pinky promise,” he murmured into my shoulder. “Rest, Darc.”

  “It’s just…”

  Dylan chuckled in my ear. “You’re not ready to rest yet.”

  “I always miss you,” I explained. Dylan and I didn’t say anything for a while, and it didn’t feel weird. We had a wonderful relationship. There was never any awkward silence or excruciating subtext … we could just be. I was the first to speak. “Why is talking in the dark just so…”

  “Intimate?” he murmured.

  I would’ve chosen “raw,” but intimate worked. “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe because all you have are your thoughts. It’s just you and the other person’s—”

  “Heart,” I now interrupted.

  Dylan released a soft sigh, pulling me even tighter to his body. “My thoughts exactly,” he whispered. “The face draws you in; the heart makes you stay. And you have a warm and beautiful heart that I love very much.”

  All I could think was ditto, ditto, ditto.

  Dylan ripped me in two. Every. Single. Time.

  “Do you think you’ll ever feel as close to anyone else as you do to me?” I asked quietly. A dozen heartbeats went by, and Dylan grew so quiet I feared he’d fallen asleep. “D?” I said. Nothing but nothing. “Are you awake?” I rolled over, tenderly touching his face with my fingertips. My hair tumbled and splayed across his chest, and for whatever part of his body had been asleep, Dylan now appeared wide awake.

  A hush drew out between us, and a sense of urgency filled the air. Something else entered the room—something neither of us understood or was comfortable acknowledging. Finally, he murmured, “I’m not asleep, sweetheart, and no. I don’t think I’ll ever feel as close to anyone as I am to you. You’re amazing. The most beautiful thing in my world and the most intense, honest, and fulfilling relationship in my life.”

  Honesty might currently be lacking, but I could wholeheartedly agree on the other adjectives. Trouble was, we said things you usually only claimed about your “significant other.” These weren’t the things you said to your best friend.

  “I feel the same way,” I agreed anyway. “That’s why I don’t ever want it to go away.”

  I got another beat of silence from Dylan as I stroked the hair at the base of his neck. Dylan claimed it relaxed him, but he suddenly seemed tense. He gently pushed his head into my hand, as though he couldn’t get enough of the feeling. With a deep breath, he murmured, “We don’t have anything to worry about. Close your eyes, sweetheart, and rest for a while. I’ll make sure we’ll always be together.”

  All at once, sleep won its battle. Maybe those were the words my subconscious waited to hear. I crawled even closer to where there was barely any space between us, like I longed to connect with the one entity that would always complete me.

  Sydney and I were lying poolside while I ran my finger around my diamond belly ring. It sparkled like a prism in the sunlight, and frankly, I felt so dang proud of the purchase I could barely contain myself. No, it didn’t go over well with the Taylors, and it went over even worse with Murphy … until he’d discovered I’d swindled a crook. Then he became so impressed, he hung up and bragged to his friends.

  Murphy … Father of the Year.

  While I watched Dylan flip burgers on the grill, an unexpected waft of entitlement filled the air, and without even turning my head, I sensed Yankee Knoblecker had slithered onto the premises. She wore a teensy-weensy pair of shorts with a poison-green belly shirt that showed off a six-pack stomach. Her smile was totally saccharine, and in my opinion, offensive to all powdered sugars of the worl
d.

  She marched by us like we were the hired help, eyes locked on Dylan’s—um, hamburgers—the entire way. Sydney and I stole a look at one another, and I had a sick feeling we were going to witness firsthand the tactics Yankee’d employ. As Dylan obliviously jammed away to Van Halen’s Beautiful Girls, Yankee turned him around, tiptoed up, grabbed his t-shirt in both her hands, and (gasp!) kissed him.

  She kissed him, I whispered to myself.

  And it was swoon-worthy … slow and torturous and deep with intentions.

  Dylan’s one arm hung limp, while the other still held the spatula. Bright side? At least he didn’t spank her with it. Yankee sidled even closer to where nothing lay between them but Dylan’s shirt and her lack of one. After what felt like forever (it was 24 point something seconds, people), Dylan briskly shook his head, shocked and tongue-tied.

  But it wasn’t like he spit out her lipstick.

  “You like?” she smiled up to him. “It’s what the shirt said to do.”

  Seriously, some people have no shame!

  I felt responsible. He wore a t-shirt that said “Kiss me, I’m Greek.” Colton strolled into breakfast wearing it, and Dylan whispered he wanted it. Times like these, I wish I had no skills because within minutes, that shirt was mine. It had been as simple as telling Colton he looked like a drooling Jabba the Hutt.

  Dylan gave her a half a grin and a quick one-handed hug, mumbling something that was best I didn’t hear anyway. Yankee blushed, but kept her bony arm around his waist as he flipped over the burger I now didn’t want at all.

  “Stupid shirt,” I mumbled.

  “She bothers you?” Sydney stated as a question.

  “PUH-LLLLLEASE!” I joked.

  Sydney purred out a laugh. “Dead give away, Darcy. You always joke when things get uncomfortable.” No kidding, and seeing the clock strike midnight on this day couldn’t hurry up quick enough. I worried about Cisco, more convinced than ever that Lola was the key, and now had to watch my best friend lock lips with a hard-bodied munchkin. I needed to think of something to make this day profitable because it was only noon and already smelled like failure.

  I chewed my pinky nail. “She doesn’t bother me,” I lied. “He just deserves better.”

  “You’re better than her,” she rasped. Maybe in a perfect world, I thought. Sydney reached down beside her chair for a sip of the sweet tea she’d left there. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I’d avoid that conversation like the plague. Yankee’s hair was perfectly-perfect while mine still had a green sheen. Appearances suggested she didn’t sweat, and I’d only been outside ten minutes and perspiration had mustached underneath my nose. Plus, my legs were stuck together at the thighs. When your legs stick together at the thighs that usually means they contain some extra meat. But who was I kidding. Dating? I didn’t understand anything about dating. I was knee-deep in emotions I couldn’t begin to fathom.

  While Dylan politely—and almost too easily—spoke with Yankee, I snuck inside and snatched two doughnuts, then slipped out the front door to visit the Knobleckers. Besides, I didn’t want his stupid hamburger when I could talk Herbie into grilling a hotdog. A girl has to have standards, and right now, I hated cows.

  My conscience told me this was tit-for-tat, still I found myself looking for Kyd. When I discovered he wasn’t home, Oinky and I hooked up and currently shared hotdog number two. Oinky was a peculiar little pig, but the fact that he grunted his approval at whatever I confessed caused me to initiate him into my brotherhood. He couldn’t communicate that my actions were bat-poop crazy.

  And that maybe … loose emphasis on the maybe … I had feelings for my best friend.

  “Is this kosher?” I asked Herbie.

  “Ya Jewish?” he asked surprised. “Ya never struck me as a Jewess.”

  With hotdogs, I was. But right now, I merely asked out of Oinky’s well being. I might’ve made him a cannibal of his own species. “Just curious,” I answered.

  “Ballpark frank,” Herbie grunted proudly. “Do you want all meat?”

  Not really. It tasted just as good, granted in a different way. I guess I was a hotdog snob. “No, it’s great,” I said.

  “I’ve got some cow tongue in the freezer, if you’d like somethin’ else.”

  I had an eeeuw moment but shivered it off.

  “Maybe later,” I smiled. The three of us sat at a fancy picnic table in the back of his house. Herbie’s banana-yellow board shorts fell a good six inches below what nature intended as his waist. I still wore a brown bikini but had thrown on a white mesh cover-up. Modesty dictated I dress more appropriately, but once again, it was Herbie. I’d seen this man’s fungus-ridden rump. We were close enough to wear our birthday suits if we so chose.

  I gave Oinky a bite then returned it to my mouth. “On second thought, I’m going to throw that tongue on the grill,” Herbie grunted, turning toward the house. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Okay, I needed to leave. I’d never seen a cow tongue, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to smell one. Still trying to make this day successful, common sense told me I needed to get inside the apartment where Cisco Medina lived.

  “I need to get inside that apartment, Oinky. Like really, really bad.”

  Oinky grunted in approval as I whipped out my iPhone and commenced to dial.

  Phileo in Greek means “brotherly love.” It can be biological, or it can be symbolic of a strong affection one has toward someone you’re not related to. To me, phileo meant an “I’ve-got-your-back” type of love, and right now, I needed that “lying-for-your-sibling” type of thing.

  Kyd answered on the first ring. “Miss Legs,” he growled suggestively. “What can your brother do for you?”

  “I need to speak with Tricky.”

  Kyd went wordless. “And the reason for that?” he asked flatly.

  He’s your brother, Darcy, I said to myself. Tell him the truth. “I need some help breaking and entering.”

  Kyd broke into laughter. “Neptune’s your man, but what exactly are you up to?”

  “It’s for a good cause. I’m sorta fixing something.”

  “So it’s philanthropic,” he chuckled.

  “Think of me as Florence Nightingale.”

  “Right.” Then he paused, and a very weird vibe stretched between us. “Exactly where is Taylor?”

  Oinky looked at me, I looked at him, and we both knew that could pose a problem. “Not with me,” I replied. “So if you run into him, you need to … you need to,” I paused with a grimace, “you need to … lie.”

  Kyd moaned like he’d just downed an aphrodisiac. “Legs, that will be my pleasure.”

  After giving me Tricky’s number, Kyd promised he’d call back tonight. Possibly a mistake, but my experience with Kyd said he’d crash the evening anyway.

  I pecked in Tricky’s digits while I patted Oinky on the head. “Tricky, it’s Darcy,” I greeted when he answered. “I need to break into an apartment.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “What part of town?”

  “An apartment complex off Conroy Road.”

  “Do you need any help?” That certainly was one good idea.

  “Would you?” I could hear Tricky mumble something to someone as he paced.

  “Absolutely,” he finally answered. “But now isn’t the best time. I’m playing basketball up by the club, and by the way, your best friend is here looking for you.”

  H-e-double hockey sticks; mother-trucking son of a ball buster. “Dylan?” I shrieked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Pray, Darcy. For God’s sake, drop to your knees and promise your firstborn son.

  “Does he know you’re talking to me?” I grimaced.

  Tricky let out whispering laugh. “I’m not an idiot, babe. Of course, he doesn’t know. Do you want to speak with him?”

  Heck no! I stole a look over toward Maison de Saule. No one had to tell me this was on the list of “thou shalt nots.” Heck, it was probably on t
he list of “thou shalt nots” for people that didn’t even read the Bible. But that’s the funny thing about lying—you tell one and the second doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. I swiped the bun crumbs off the table into the grass, bouncing my legs nervously up and down. “I need you to occupy him,” I begged, “then lie.”

  I felt my soul grow blacker by the second.

  “I’ll try. He’s not exactly what I’d call pleasant.”

  Er, no kidding. I didn’t expect him to be. “Can I call you when I arrive so you can walk me through the process?”

  “My phone is on. Be careful, though. I recently did a job over there and ran into a guard dog.”

  Figures … and an idiot like me wouldn’t consider that a deterrent.

  “I was not the lion, but it fell to me to give the lion’s roar.”

  Winston Churchill

  20. NINE LIVES

  WHEN I LOOKED AT AN aerial view of the park, only one apartment complex was in sight. So if Cisco’s grandparents lived near the park, chances were good it had to be that one. If I got into their apartment, I hoped to determine their pattern of behavior. Bills they needed to pay, people they needed to see, blah, blah, and senior citizen blah. I’d look for anything out of place or out of the ordinary. Hopefully, that would lead to Lola, and if Hector was right, Lola might know exactly where her son was.

  As I showered, Dylan knocked on the bathroom door saying he’d like to speak with me. I told him I had a headache. I didn’t have a headache, but women seemed to work that line successfully throughout history when they needed some “me” time. Apparently, Tricky wasn’t successful, but asking him to stall Dylan was like asking a T.rex to chew on a twig when he wanted to chomp on a side of beef.

  He’s lucky he made it out with all his limbs.