No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  “Are you one of his?” he snarled. One of whose? I thought. “Answer me!” he barked.

  “I’m not anybody’s,” I answered quietly.

  “You’ve got that right,” he seethed. “You’re a distraction I don’t need, and there’s only one way to deal with you, girl. What body part do you not mind losing?”

  The cold blade bit into my skin. One move in either direction and my carotid would be severed in two.

  I was a dead woman. I wouldn’t have a first date; I wouldn’t go to the prom; I wouldn’t be able to do anything more than sleep in the dirt and ponder what everyone was doing topside. I should be screaming or begging for my life, but something about this man looked familiar, and for the life of me, I couldn’t place him. My pulse thumped in my mouth, and as I desperately tried to back out of the room, the cell phone attached to his belt buzzed at its highest setting. Still holding the blade to my neck, with one hand he unclipped it and checked the text message then swung a complete-180 into panic mode.

  “Out!” he barked to the room. Holy cow, Holy Jesus, Holy fat statue Buddha, I prayed. Suddenly, I flew Mach 1 inside a litany of profanity. When he turned and shouted out orders, I threw the door wide and sprinted back down the hall into the gambling room, headlong into a desperately-seeking-Darcy, Tricky. Bedlam had erupted. The table had been flipped over; everyone snatched up their individual chips, and crammed them into six designated boxes.

  I blew two air kisses to Aston Martin as Tricky jerked me back through the door by my wrist, taking a chair along with him. In four strides, we huddled at the only window in the hallway. Angry voices made their way up the stairs. The elevator hummed. People started thundering toward us like a herd of buffalo. One answer was obvious. Down. Balancing the chair over his head, Tricky launched it through the window, glass crashing and raining to the alley below like a hailstorm. Next thing I knew, he booted out the excess shards, and before I could protest, he wrapped his arms around my waist and plunged us two stories into the back of the truck.

  On occasion, I had good ideas. I clipped coupons and tried to stretch the dollar, but this might’ve been the worst idea ever. Tricky flipped mid-flight taking the brunt of the fall. The butter knife ripped my skirt down the seam, and suddenly my booty fanned the air. I’m pretty sure he felt up my behind, but after the mess I’d gotten us into, his imagination probably deserved the thrill. As soon as we caught our breath, he sprung to his feet, but when I tried to follow with equal fervor, I tumbled down into a bed of wet lettuce. My left heel broke off, and mayonnaise rolled down my elbow like a mudslide. Somehow, I had the sense of mind to ensure my hat was still intact … it was. God, thank The Gap, I said out loud. This was officially my lucky hat.

  Tricky vertically jumped out of the truck, lugging me out with superhuman strength as we stared into the bright headlights of a squealing Toyota Land Cruiser.

  24. TRAIN WRECK

  SOMETIMES THAT LIGHT AT THE end of the tunnel’s not the hereafter … it’s a train.

  We’d made it home in one piece, but as soon as Zander crossed the threshold, a whirly siren steamed like a locomotive while laser lights flashed like we were escaping Alcatraz. Good God Almighty, he’d set off the alarm.

  “Darn,” I mumbled.

  “Sh-sh-sh-shoot!” Zander shouted, hitting the deck. I didn’t need anyone to spell it out to me, the click of a 9mm handgun told me Lincoln was cocked, loaded, and aiming for a torso.

  Zander stuttered as a child. When that happened, all he could manage was “D” instead of Dylan. I picked it up over the years because I didn’t want the boy’s infirmities to be more pronounced than they already were. In general, he grew out of it, but occasionally it cropped back up when he was scared. Problem was, the boy just yelled, “Shoot” when Lincoln had a gun. My guess was he opted against profanity, but in this situation, it might’ve been best if he let the four-lettered alternative fly.

  “Don’t even take another step, you sonova—” Lincoln cursed. “Hands on your head or I’ll shoot, you” blankety blank … bleeping … blanker blanker.

  I laughed out loud … what an impressive line of expletives. Thank the Lord I had one of those laughs that belonged in a truck stop or brothel. Lincoln figured it came attached to me and ditched the anger.

  “Dammit,” he cursed, blowing out a sigh. “Get in here, Darcy.”

  I pivoted around, palms up, smile wide. Lincoln lowered his hand and did a click-click with his gun, activating Jackal’s safety. Zander crawled into the house with his hands behind his head, fingers threaded at his nape. I limped in behind him, still wearing one heel, smelling like rotten mayonnaise … and a darn mattress.

  I probably had bedbugs.

  Lincoln fingered in a code and turned off the light show.

  “I told him it wasn’t safe yet,” I shrugged in explanation when he turned around.

  Zander got impatient and wouldn’t wait for me to go through all of Colton’s possible password changes. He boldly typed “Leo” into the alphanumeric keypad, and as expected, got busted by the hometown fuzz.

  Amateurs, I grumbled to myself. I was working with stinking amateurs.

  Like a stampede of wild horses, the rest of the family finally made it to the party. Colton thundered to the door clutching a handgun in some sort of SWAT position. Susan and Alexandra crept slowly behind. Dylan exploded past all of them yelling, “Darcy, where are you?” with nothing more than a baseball bat and dauntless determination. I burst into laughter … inappropriate laughter. I was probably riding coach on the next plane home—heck, probably in the belly of the plane—but I couldn’t help it if my sense of adventure was different than everyone else’s.

  A quick eyeball of the crowd produced no Sydney. My guess was she didn’t care.

  Primarily speaking, Dylan’s family remained impervious to what most recognized as dangerous. Even among the females. But what initial relief they’d felt when they discovered the source, was eclipsed by a maternal I’m-going-to-make-you-pay. Both women wore white silky nightgowns looking textbook angelic but with a visible demonic edge. The males stood in their underwear. Hard to take people seriously when they’re standing in their underwear.

  Grandma Alexandra immediately started speaking rapid Greek, collapsing at the kitchen table. They weren’t words of affirmation; the phrases were laced with Grecian obscenities. Before I could say anything, Susan angrily snatched Zander off the floor and shoved him into the chair next to his grandmother. Zander and I stole a glance at one another as we attempted to look grief-stricken and remorseful. It didn’t work. We’d either killed our consciences or were one step from some serious mood medication.

  Dylan’s chest heaved erratically, and his left hand still gripped the bat—like it begged to take a swing at someone just to release the tension. Lincoln’s body relaxed even further, peeling away its stress, when he saw the state his grandson was in.

  “It’s only Darcy, son,” he explained to him, touching his forearm. “Relax.”

  Dylan had no inkling to relax. In fact, he took a gander at Lincoln’s gun and acted like he wanted to grab it and blow a hole through his chest you could walk through.

  Dylan put the barrel to Lincoln’s chin. “Let me tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to get that…” bleeping “…gun out of Darcy’s face!”

  His mother shrieked, “Dylan, your language!”

  “The safety’s on, son,” his grandfather said calmly, “and it’s lowered to my side if you haven’t noticed.” When that didn’t morph Dylan into Mr. Nice Guy, Lincoln slowly placed his gun on the kitchen table, palms up in surrender.

  Dylan’s father likewise lowered his gun, setting it on the table. “Watch your mouth, Dylan,” he warned.

  “You watch your gun!” Dylan bellowed louder, having to have the last word.

  Colton’s eyes lingered on his son’s, and with a headshake, he shifted his gaze and bore a hole into mine. “Where in God’s name have the two of you been?!” He re
alized the condition of my shoe, his mouth dropping. “And what in the,” bleep “happened to your shoe?!”

  Guess it was cursing night … no one sent me the memo.

  I held out my right foot. “This shoe is Rock. This one,” I explained, holding out the other, “was Republic. His heel fell off. I’m the Yoko Ono of the Rock & Republic dynasty.”

  No one found it funny … except Lincoln and Alexandra. His eyes briefly twinkled, she stifled a laugh, but the joke quickly fell flat when Susan’s glare guillotined the mood. She didn’t just guillotine it; she sliced me in two and fed the scraps to the neighborhood dogs.

  Darcy, Darcy, Darcy, I said to myself. You might’ve gone too far.

  “I told you I was going to see Oinky,” I explained.

  “You told me no such thing!” Colton roared.

  I fished my hand inside my right shoe, pulling out the perfectly folded one hundred dollar bill that, miraculously, hadn’t fallen out. “You gave me a Benji and said, ‘May the Force be with you.’ ”

  “I did not,” he snorted. “What self-respecting man says, ‘May the Force be with you?’ ”

  I held up both hands. “Hey, I’m not here to judge. If you need to go all Obi-Wan Kenobi once in a while, then more power to you.”

  I couldn’t swear to it, but I think someone snickered. “You were sleepwalking again, Colt,” Susan sighed, and then turned to me. “And, Darcy, I wouldn’t call your explanation to a sleepwalking man exactly forthright.” Unfortunately, I had to agree.

  Lincoln scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his beard, looking at his son sympathetically. “Ah, Jackal, I had no idea you still did that.”

  Colton mirrored his father’s mannerism, likewise rubbing a hand down his jaw. “I do it when I’m troubled. Obviously, I’m troubled.” Sleepwalking claimed the best of us. Last winter, I bunny-hopped down the driveway at 5AM when I failed an English test. Murphy only pulled me back in the house with a promise of carrot tops and clover. No lie, people. I didn’t even tell Dylan, the story was so freaked up.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” I whispered in a giggle.

  “Darcy, you’re exactly like Willow,” Colton grated, ignoring the joke. “You both go off half-cocked then one of the Taylor men are left playing cleanup.”

  I mumbled, “You’re just angry at Willow.”

  His back straightened as he screamed, “I’m furious with Willow! You’re merely the closest person right now with a semblance of rebellion.”

  Spoil sports. They’d ruined my perfectly profitable evening by inserting guilt.

  God help me, I HATED guilt.

  Dylan’s voice dropped two octaves, “Don’t push it, Dad,” he threatened. I’m not sure where Dylan went for a few seconds. While everyone exacted their piece of Darcy Walker, he’d checked out. I met his gaze, and the terror inside his eyes nearly toppled me. I’d scared him, and his amber eyes raced in all directions, questioning how he could roll back the clock and take back whatever was to come.

  As much as I tried not to, I nervously giggled, “My hero.”

  Dylan’s eyes cut to me angrily. Slowly and steadily, he placed his right hand on my chin, lifting it a fraction of an inch. “Don’t hero me yet, Darcy. Don’t think you’re going to smile your way out of this or even laugh your way out of it. You’re going to stand there, shut the frick up, and do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  As I turned to slump down the wall or crawl back to Cincinnati (I hadn’t decided yet), the collective gasp of the crowd told me they’d seen my red-hot panties, peeking through the busted seam of my skirt. My word, this skirt was practically shrink wrapped even without a rip, and I’d just shown them my right butt cheek. I had no other choice but to burst into tears or own the embarrassment.

  “Walkie-talkie?” I winced, turning around. The air blew at 80 degrees tonight, but my arms and legs suddenly erupted into goose bumps.

  Dylan’s mouth dropped open to speak—one agonizing millimeter at a time—but his mother barked overtop him. “I’m performing the walkie-talkie!” she fumed, motioning to Zander and me. “In my room! Now!”

  I was within minutes of getting the old heave-ho back to Cincinnati. This family had been kind enough to take me on vacation, and for some bizarre reason, I remained hellbent on breaking all the rules. I didn’t understand it, and God knew they didn’t.

  I whispered, “Can’t Dylan come? I’ll tell him anyway.”

  Dylan’s mother pointed a furious finger at me, speaking very slowly. “This … is when … you shut your mouth, Darcy. I’m trying to keep you … and my son … alive.”

  Dylan’s eyes grew wide and terrified; as though he contemplated exactly what atrocities his mother would be capable of. Laying the baseball bat down on the table, he shakily ran both hands through his hair and closed his eyes physically in pain. Running to Dylan would always be a conditioned response. Involuntarily, I hobbled over behind him and circled both arms around him, whispering, “I’m sorry” into his bare shoulders.

  What a train wreck.

  Five minutes into the walkie-talkie, community security interrupted, and an Orlando plainclothes detective sat in the living room. Lucky me, I thought, because I feared Susan Taylor more than OBT. According to Lincoln, he’d called this detective to run fingerprints in the Medinas’ apartment, and he just happened to be in the area when Alcatraz lit up. Regarding the Medina case, as suspected, no prints were distinguishable. But the detective admitted the scenario suggested something unscrupulous. Well, Roger that. All the same that didn’t provide anything more than I already had.

  I took a seat next to Dylan while Lincoln, Colton, and Detective Monroe Battle sat on the couch opposite us. Susan served coffee and cookies, but as I attempted a smile of appreciation (wrong move), I was rewarded with a look like I’d get the wooden spoon treatment later.

  Figures. I deserved it.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t care.

  “You went where?!” the detective shrieked.

  “OBT,” I answered again.

  “Alone?” he verified.

  “I can’t drive,” I said. “Not legally, at least.”

  African American, Detective Battle stood six feet with curly black hair, bedroom eyes, and 10 extra pounds above his waist compliments of fast food drive-thrus. His mustache was peppered with gray, and I guessed his age right around fifty. In jeans and a Miami Marlins gray t-shirt, he appeared tired but not overly tired. Like Lincoln, perhaps he required little sleep simply because his job wouldn’t allow it.

  “So you really jumped out the second floor of a three-story building?” he chuckled.

  “Umm, yeah. We kicked out a window and went airborne,” I unfortunately giggled. “How about a woohoo for Darcy?” I inappropriately pumped both fists high in the air.

  “For some reason that makes total sense,” Colton moaned in sarcasm. “I suppose I should congratulate you for not getting shanked by a mattress coil, but I have to remind myself you’re quite the dumpster diving virtuoso.”

  I pulled down my hands, folding them neatly in my lap. “Actually, we dived into a flat-bottomed truck with trash in it,” I corrected sarcastically.

  “I stand corrected,” he snorted, his voice dripping with even more sarcasm than mine.

  Everyone rolled around in trash once in a while, right?? Frankly, diving into that dumpster last spring remained the top bullet on my resume.

  “Uh-huh,” Lincoln said evenly. “Why don’t you tell me who you jumped out with?”

  I stole a glance over to Dylan whose eyes were invisible, buried deep inside his hands. Dang … he’d already figured it out. When I mumbled an embarrassed “Um,” Dylan unexpectedly cocked me with his knee, meeting my gaze, demanding I answer.

  For a moment, I couldn’t do anything.

  Dylan was crazy good looking, with a face that made angels weep and a body that burned nothing but nuclear. Lately, I’d tried not to notice his attributes, but when his mile-long legs were as lethally shaped and
powerful as his, you couldn’t deny the male in front of you. Yup, I wanted to hug every inch of his godforsakenfreakingfine body. Plus, he smelled divine when I smelled like … well, trash.

  Nice legs, I mumbled in one of our silent conversations.

  He rolled his eyes.

  This is some weird crap going on between us, D. We probably should address it.

  We need to address a lot of things, he countered coldly.

  I coughed on my own tongue, instantly losing all desire for the dissecting of our souls.

  I’ve changed my mind, I muttered.

  Do I honestly look like someone who gives up when there’s something I want? he snorted. “Answer the question,” he demanded audibly, “and you and I will discuss what’s between us later … in private.”

  I blushed (I think), or maybe I was having a voodoo hot flash. Everyone in the room had that look like they’d just lost a few seconds of their life, wondering what had gone down that they couldn’t put a visual to.

  “Kyd and Tricky,” I whispered. Kyd informed us on the ride home that he dialed 911 reporting “terrifying screams” he’d heard coming from the building. When Tricky and I didn’t present ourselves, he said he knew Tricky would go for the window. Evidently, they’d choreographed that kind of cut and run before.

  “Tricky Neptune?” the detective asked. Stretching forward, he selected an oatmeal raisin cookie from the tray on the ottoman and took a big nibble off the edge. “Neptune always does it up in style.”