by A. J. Lape
After Sydney slinked back to her room, I made sure no one spotted me and crept inside like a cat burglar. The moon was full, casting a long shadow over the lake, and although my vision wasn’t perfect, I caught the light bouncing like a prism of broken glass. I heard movement outside. I couldn’t make out the exact source, but something scampered this way then that. Run, stop. Run, stop. As if tempted to stay, but something or someone made it feel unsure of itself.
Dylan lay on his stomach already asleep, hands up by his head hugging the pillow. He had that melt in your mouth thing going on, and the first thought that came to mind was “finder’s keepers, losers weepers.”
Dylan did offer, “payback”—a calling card—like he’d promised. After his “drive” with his mother, he waltzed through the door, loved me up in his usual way, and then wrapped me in his arms and legs, launching us both into the pool. We rolled around for an hour. He meant it as punishment; to me it felt like the foreplay of two porpoises.
Before I even uttered a word, Dylan jerked awake, instantly alarmed, rising up on his elbows. “Are you okay?” he murmured softly. Through the years, I’d always tried to sneak up on him. I’d tiptoe. Get my ninja on. Move with the wind to not disturb him. I’d never mastered the art of him not “feeling” me, as he said. On a night like tonight, I found that beyond comforting. Let’s face it, the Darcy Boat was headed for an iceberg, and God only knew how many people would drown with me.
Dylan threw back the sheets, and I quietly climbed in next to him. He seemed extra affectionate tonight. His feelings were palpable, his heart beating so loud I felt it touching my own skin. Sometimes Dylan’s emotions streamed so strong he didn’t even have to admit them. It could be a heartbeat; it could be anger he kept in check. Whatever it was, I’d simply peer in his eyes and what puzzled anyone else rang clear to me. Right now, he shot off nothing but 100 percent, no holds barred, affection.
My night just got a little better.
While he slowly ran his left hand up and down my body, I instantly got struck with a feeling of insecurity. I was wearing old, gray sweatpants and a holey white t-shirt. I’d found them at the bottom of a laundry basket—nothing but B.O., sweat, and ketchup stains. Fluffing the feather pillow, I rolled onto my elbow to face him, once again wishing I’d worn my glasses.
“What were you and Sydney talking about?”
His hand stilled on my back. “Do you really want to know?” he said strangely.
Yes was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “If it’s between the both of you, then no.” Wow, my nose must’ve grown two inches.
“Has Yankee’s latest visit been bothering you?” he asked quietly. “Maybe it’s time we have a conversation, sweetheart. I’ve needed to talk to you for some time, but I’ve not been able to find the appropriate moment or the words.”
He tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear and lowered his forehead into mine. Was she still bothering me? Was that the reason I’d snuck into his bedroom? If so, what could we talk about? He’d kissed her. And if I were to make an educated guess, a little bit of France was involved. That wasn’t you grossed me out and I’m just being polite behavior. It was wow can we do this again kind of stuff. Could someone like Yankee actually be his “everlasting?” That’s the word he used to describe the one Destiny chose for you. If she was, a part of me wanted to find her and gut her insides. I’d heard the stories about Dylan and girls—seen them firsthand with Brynn Hathaway at home—but now that I’d witnessed it again, any rumor would’ve been sufficient.
Curiosity, in this case, was a killer.
“Just hold me, D,” I whispered, trying not to cry. “For once, I don’t want to talk.”
Here Dylan and I were—in a dimly lit room, no chances for discovery—and I was suddenly at a loss for words.
He opened and closed his mouth two times, ending with a long-suffering sigh. “I love you with an eternal intensity, Darcy, and if that’s what you need, then okay … for now.”
I always felt like an ellipsis followed Dylan’s sentences … like there was something—or a dot, dot, dot—he knew that I didn’t.
22. INIQUITY ENGINEER
SATURDAY NIGHT HAD ARRIVED.
I stood in the kitchen chatting with Colton; the rest of the house surprisingly was sound asleep. How that managed to happen, I have no idea, but I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Colton’s hair ran every which way but sophisticated, and his clothes were so rumpled together it looked like he’d dragged them out of a garbage can. My guess was he’d already snoozed a few hours and was searching for coffee to relax him.
Like me, it calmed him down.
Unfortunately, I had to account for my whereabouts as he found me inches from the door. I knew he hadn’t changed the security code to something complex. I’d staked it out the last couple of nights, and it appeared to still be three letters. I hoped that maybe—just maybe—he’d left it the same or spelled Leo backwards. A quick glance at the door showed the light still green and good-to-go. As luck would have it, he hadn’t even activated it for the evening. I fought a smile because it appeared things were already in my favor.
Grabbing a white mug from the cabinet, he slid it under the Keurig and brewed a cup of Fog Chaser, still in his sleepwalking stupor.
“I’m going next door to take Oinky for a walk,” I explained.
“Sounds like a fascinating evening, dear.”
“We’re going to paint each others’ nails then tromp nude down the street while we rub our hooves together.”
“Then let the Wookiee win.”
“Huh?”
“May the force be with you,” he slurred. Star Wars, I laughed ... his favorite movie. I choked back a giggle as he took one, long sip. When Colton went on vacation, so did his brain. When Colton sleepwalked, his brain practically flatlined.
“Where’s Dylan?” he mumbled.
“Around,” I sort of lied.
“Just as long as he knows.” Not yet and hopefully never.
After I reassured him that Dylan defined omnipresent, he shuffled over to the black cookie jar on the counter, removed the lid, and plunged his hand inside, placing a Benjamin Franklin in my palm. Why he felt Oinky and I needed a hundred bucks was beyond me, but Colton had one eye closed during our entire conversation.
When he stumbled back down the hallway, I shoved my bucket hat on my head to match my black miniskirt, halter top sweater, and strappy sandals. Black represented formal affairs, and this getup was about as formal as my tomboy tendencies would allow. But I knew my ensemble wasn’t complete. I needed a weapon, or weapons. I couldn’t take Lincoln’s gun for reasons of the obvious, and anyway, that seemed more wrong than what I’d planned. Yes, I had Kyd, but at the end of the day, he might just be another pretty face.
In my opinion, I needed to prepare to live or die by my own two hands.
I rummaged around in the kitchen drawers and came out armed with a turkey baster and a butter knife. Neither would inflict mortal wounds, but they would buy some time and placate the angel on my shoulder who screamed I was stupid. Slipping the knife snuggly inside my waistband, I situated the blade running parallel to my right leg. When I took one step, it slid down my hip, pinging loudly on the tile. Quickly snatching it up, I grabbed a rubber band on the countertop, knotted it around the handle, then safety-pinned it to my skirt. When two aggressive jumps left it firmly in place, I figured I was good to go and ditched the turkey baster.
I tiptoed down the hall to retrieve my purse and iPhone from Dylan’s room. We’d finally zip lined over alligators today, and I must say, I didn’t see enough reptilian debauchery for my liking. They were supposed to be mating, for God’s sake, and we didn’t see crap except for a few open jaws. We ended the day boating, and Dylan (thank God) fell into bed bone-tired. He lay in the same position he’d been in an hour ago, facedown, hugging a pillow under his right arm. Dylan didn’t technically snore, but he sure did breathe heavily when exhausted. I told him twice of
my plans with no answer. Maybe that’s why I consciously left my things in his bathroom. If he woke, it would be a sign to stay home; if he didn’t, I’d interpret that as a green light to continue on. Well, fret not, my fellow deviants, he hadn’t moved a muscle, and I was geeked up and ready to go.
Stepping up to his bathroom mirror, I pulled my cosmetics bag out of my purse and slid red lipstick on my lips. Taking a few swipes at my lashes with black mascara, I next patted on a minimal amount of pink blush. Lastly, I pumped body spray in the air, danced into it, then gagged two times ending with a snort. I tried to enhance my best assets, but a good chance existed that I looked like trailer-trash Barbie.
You can plan and think you’ve got your bases covered for all scenarios, but occasionally you run into a plot that blows your plans out of the water. What I did better than anyone was think on my feet. As I made my way back down the hallway, an unexpected someone proceeded to mess with my plan.
Zander groggily stepped into my path.
If only I had some chloroform…
“Whoa,” he whistled, “you look delish. Are you taking me with?” This could go one of two ways. I could tell him the invitation included me only—which it did—or I could tell him I’d planned for him to join me and to hurry and get dressed. Since rebels liked to drag someone down with them, I figured it wouldn’t be a hard sell.
I simply agreed, “Yeah.”
“Really?” he squealed. “Where to?”
“To a party with Kyd and Tricky.” The boy acted slap happy, bouncing all over the walls—especially when I informed him that Dylan didn’t make the invite list—and our blood clause demanded a silent oath he’d carry to the grave. My iniquity engineer side surfaced—just sin, sin, and more sin—but I really didn’t see another recourse.
Zander ducked inside to change and seconds later stepped outside wearing a Cincinnati Reds shirt, baseball cap, matching athletic shorts, and black Adidas sneakers.
Everything that reeked of tourist.
We were screwed.
Winding his fingers in mine, we took off toward the clubhouse armed with a butter knife, bonded by our pure idiocy. Ten minutes later, I concluded heels weren’t appropriate for a walk on pavement. My feet somehow squeezed into a pair of Sydney’s Rock & Republic four-inch size sevens when I wore an eight. One heel wobbled, and the other might’ve given me an ingrown toenail.
Kyd and Tricky leaned up against his silver Toyota Land Cruiser, eyes agape that I had Zander in tow. Seriously, they should be agape, but bringing Zander happened to be one way to distance myself from Kyd’s romantically challenged relationship with Mary. One look at him, though, and the bad-girl in me had to wonder. Kyd was meticulously groomed, and no doubt existed in my mind why Mary had fits of jealousy. Wearing dark shorts and a long-sleeved striped oxford, rolled and pushed to his elbows, his expensive tan loafers topped off a male you didn’t see everyday. He seemed almost too perfect, his blond hair waving gently in the breeze. Although attractive, Tricky appeared the exact opposite tonight. Sporting all black athletic gear, his brown hair hid underneath a black ball cap, hiding his face. Tricky looked prepared for “another day at the office.”
“We’re dead,” he mumbled.
“Probably,” Kyd grinned.
“Vamoose,” I giggled.
Once buckled inside, we listened to Zander spout off the mascots for every college and university in the country. Like my Grandfather Winston, Zander held a plethora of meaningless trivia but barely made the C-list like me. Unfortunately, I now couldn’t rid that group of animals and inanimate objects from my mind. I never quite understood the complexities of my brain. Sometimes my obsessions could be blessings; others, an overwhelming distraction.
Twenty-five minutes later, we rolled into the Orlando OBT area … one of the nation’s notorious red light districts. Perhaps that’s why many crimes were easily overlooked; you kind of expected it. Orange Blossom Trail is a section of US 441 that runs north to south through the Orlando area and boasts the fact it’s one of the 25 most violent places to live in the United States. It’s a tourist trap and infamous as the city’s “ghetto.” Figures. And here I was, a minor contributing to another minor’s delinquency.
Ballsy.
Stupid.
Kyd must’ve heard my gulp from the back seat. He looked in the rearview mirror, kept his left hand on the steering wheel, then reached back and tenderly touched my knee. “Say the word, Legs, and we’ll turn around.”
My mouth couldn’t do anything but produce another swallow.
Old hotels lined the streets while red, blinking neon signs alerted you to strip clubs. As we drove further south, we moved directly into the section called Whorelando. On one corner, a prostitute slinked; on the opposite, illegal drug trade transpired. A black Beemer idled as a gray-hooded drug runner handed him a baggie full of pills. People weaved in and out of the crowd like the process was as normal as walking down a nice area in Cincinnati. Apparently, assimilation was easy once conditioned to your surroundings.
Kyd pulled onto a side street and turned off the Land Cruiser. We’d parked in front of an old metal warehouse that had a newer, red side-unit attached to its side. Appearances suggested the building had been built for functionality and not for aesthetics, but here in OBT the idea of beauty wasn’t thought of in terms of architecture. It mostly walked on two legs, was up your nose, or in your arm. The building stood three stories high and threw off the vibe that only idiots would venture inside. It appeared barren, other than a dimly lit section on the middle floor.
Suddenly, I felt grossly overdressed, completely out of place, and an overwhelming guilt for bringing a 12-year-old boy along. I suppose I had no regard for my life. Perhaps I never thought anything presented a big deal because I’d already lived through every child’s darkest fears … abandonment. Something like that aged you on the spot and killed the instinct that told you when you needed an adult’s help. I somberly exited the car, and Zander crawled afterwards like a nervous spider while I absently picked a few stray hairs from my sweater.
“You’re scared,” Kyd said, tracing a finger down my jaw.
“I’m not scared,” I clarified, “I’m trying to figure out what to do.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You have no plan?” I never had a plan.
“It’s a work in progress,” I shrugged.
Lining the right side of the street were a navy Mercedes CLS-Class, a BMW 3 Series silver convertible, an army green H2 Humvee, a green BMW Roadster convertible, and a red Porsche Turbo. On the opposite were a white Cadillac Escalade, a beige Ford Bronco, two black Chevy Suburbans, a black Aston Martin, a silver Bentley, a taupe Toyota Celica, and an old blue Honda Accord whose rims looked more expensive than the car. Next to the Accord sat a vehicle that resembled the Pinto rattletrap that Elmer Herschel climbed into with the gothic girlfriend. But why would a lummox like Elmer Herschel rub shoulders with close to a million dollars of foreign and domestic automobiles? All the license plates were the normal seven-figured letters and numbers combo except one vanity plate labeled with a single X on the Red Porsche Turbo.
I said the numbers over and over along with the makes and models of the cars, trying to burn them into my memory. Tricky mouthed them out loud two times then acted as if he was bored. Tricky, by reputation, had a photographic memory. I suppose I did, too, except I could never settle down long enough for that information to gel into something useful.
Kyd put his hand out like a stop sign as Zander and I attempted to make our way toward the back entrance of the building. “Hold on, Darcy,” he demanded. “I feel like it’s my duty as your brother to say something.”
Zander immediately groaned, rolling his eyes. “You sound like Dylan.”
Kyd shrugged with a frown. “Perhaps we’re alike.” Doubtful.
Reaching out to touch his hand for reassurance, I found it flexed and rigid … just like the rest of him. “I’m simply piecing some things together,” I told him. “There’s
no need to worry.”
Kyd grabbed me by the arm, dragging me to his side. “Give us some privacy,” he said to Tricky and Zander. Both stepped about six feet over. “I don’t want you hurt, Legs,” he murmured. “Lola Medina’s nothing but trouble. She always has been, and here I am dropping you off in a seedy area as your brain runs amuck. I need more information, and for the life of me, I can’t determine how you conned me into doing this. I’m having second thoughts, and as strange as it sounds, I honestly feel a bond with you.”
Introducing Kyd, Romeo extraordinaire.
His eyes burned a light, drowning green. Almost tearful, like my pain filled him up so much that one step inside would pull us both under. Why was it that the guys who were players, always knew how to talk to girls?
I gave him a lot of teeth, trying my best to look like a flirt. “It’s the brotherhood,” I grinned.
“Stop it,” he warned. Heck, maybe he was like Dylan. “I care, and I have this drowning feeling you don’t care enough about yourself to even think about your safety. What happened to you, Legs, that makes you not consider whether you’ll live or die?”
How in the world should I respond to that? I exhaled six years worth of disappointment and frustration but realized all that did was give me a headache. “To answer your question,” I said tightly, “life happened. Sometimes, life doesn’t give you a choice or ask permission. All you can attempt to control is how you respond to what it throws at you. What’s going to happen is going to happen, Kyd. I appreciate the concern, but Zander and I will be fine.”
Mother blankety-blank-blank, I cursed in my mind. I needed to take up cursing or find an outlet to release the guilt-slash-stress people inflicted upon me.
Zander jumped up three times in anticipation as I gave him a high-five. Dang it, I didn’t know what we were doing but had a pretty good feeling I’d figure it out once we’d made it inside.
