No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  The house blew iceberg cold, and I snuggled deeper under my covers with a chocolate chip cookie in my cheek, reading Atlas of the Stars. Answers with my situation weren’t coming in a rush, and tonight felt like another snoozefest.

  Until Alexandra bounded down the hall...

  Bringing holy hell along with her.

  Her black hair swung nimbly around her shoulders, her red silk robe moving like she’d been propelled by the wind. But nothing—not even a runaway car—moved faster than her mouth.

  All I understood was, “Lincoln … blah, blah, blah, Greek stuff; Children … blah, blah, blah, more Greek.” And a wagging finger with what I knew definitively as, “Blah, blah, blah, Greek profanity.” Funny how my mind could pick out the swear words, even though I barely understood anything else.

  I was dirty, so what.

  Lincoln mumbled a curse as the ripples on his naked chest tensed, anticipating an argument he sensed he’d already lost. He had three distinct scars on his torso from bullet holes; one on the right breast that traveled straight through; the other two were abdominal wounds, the bullets dug out during surgery. It’s as if all the blood gushed to them at once, reminding him he had a job that might not always be worth it.

  Although he placed his hand over the receiver, I heard Paddy laughing in the background. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Alexandra!” Lincoln yelled back. “Slow down!”

  I couldn’t help but stir the pot. “You go, girl!” I giggled.

  Funny, they both ignored me.

  Lincoln haphazardly tossed his cell phone onto the cushion next to him, pushing off the couch. “Slow down!” he screamed again.

  His command only gave Alexandra’s temper a shot of adrenaline. It was common knowledge, Grandma’d had a low boiling point when she was younger, but the woman had chilled and depicted the epitome of manners. But if her feathers ever got ruffled, life as you knew it would come to an abrupt and painful end.

  Lincoln motioned frantically to take the discussion to the kitchen, and Alexandra followed like a spitting cobra hissing at his heels. He switched on the chandelier hanging over the bar area, like he figuratively tried to shed light on what he didn’t understand. Funny thing was, one light flickered not quite able to embrace the current. For a split second, he focused on the bulb, willing it to work, but when Alexandra angrily grabbed his wrist, he jumped like he’d just dodged a landmine.

  I picked up his discarded BlackBerry, drawing my knees to my chest. “Hey, Paddy,” I explained. “We’re in the throes of another World War.”

  Paddy chuckled while the argument ratcheted to an even nastier decibel. “I’d rather use sandpaper as toilet tissue than go toe-to-toe with Alexandra Taylor.” Paddy then said, “Hold on, doll.” What the heck, I didn’t have anything else to do.

  Paddy began speaking with someone else, and something told me—barring brownies falling from the sky—to block out the entire world except for him. “What?” I heard him ask them. I plugged my left ear with my finger, while gluing my right ear even tighter to the receiver.

  The guy Paddy conversed with screeched, “Tell Lincoln the problem has traveled east!”

  Paddy’s voice went raw. “Blessed Mother,” he whispered in prayer. “Lincoln has to call me, doll. Like now, like yesterday. Oh, Jesus,” he prayed again. “This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.” This man said something else incomprehensible, and Paddy’s breathing careened erratic. “I’ve changed my mind, Darcy,” he said nervously. “I’m going to hang on.”

  I yawned, feigning sleep … hoping beyond hope he’d continue to unwittingly dispense information. All at once, both conversations took a turn for the worse, and more questions than answers filled the air.

  “I don’t know how to deep-six this thing!” Paddy screamed exasperated.

  “It’s too late to deep-six anything, Paddy! He needs to sleep with one eye open!” the other man bellowed.

  “Oh, God,” Paddy whispered again. “Darcy, put him on … now. Pull him away from her, tackle him to the ground, do it, doll. This is beyond the pale. Beyond,” he emphasized.

  The moment I opened my mouth, Alexandra let loose the biggest string of Grecian obscenities imaginable, and Lincoln cursed, “Damn.”

  Paddy recited part of the Rosary. “Ummm,” I sputtered.

  “Not possible?” he completed in a sigh. That certainly was one way to term “divorce court.”

  Glancing over at Lincoln and Alexandra, interrupting them would be the equivalent of running into a burning building. My brain literally flipped, and what little enjoyment I had earlier was snuffed out by the mind-blowing conversation of Paddy and this other male. They gave a quick rundown of two other cases they were working besides Turkey Cardoza, and they didn’t sing, “For he’s a jolly, good fella,” about either of them. My ears transfixed on each detail—drugs, murder, burglary—and I speculated whether Paddy’s behind-the-scenes saga had anything to do with Lincoln and Alexandra’s argument.

  For some reason, I knew the answer was yes.

  The only name I could make out time and again was “Pixie.” God only knew what or whom he referred to because when I dumbly asked, “Who’s Pixie?” Paddy recognized I’d been eavesdropping and shut that portion of the convo down. Really, sometime soon I needed to convince my foot to stay out of my mouth.

  Paddy asked this man again, “So you’re sure the problem’s moving?”

  “It’s already moved!” he barked agitated. “That’s what the note said, and they want Lincoln. The person that squealed is scared beyond comprehension, and the verbiage actually sounded like a little kid.”

  Who wanted Lincoln? The “problem” or the “person” writing the note? I thought. I prayed this person made it to see another sunrise, but honestly, I wondered if Lincoln would. I found myself muttering, “Please, God. Let them both live” over and over again. What circumstance set Lincoln off in the first place? Paddy wanted a female to do something Lincoln objected to. What on God’s green unholy Earth could it be? Could she be the female informant in the Cardoza case?

  My eyes bounced back to Lincoln and Alexandra as a barstool screeched across the tile, careened by Lincoln’s PO’d foot. Alexandra clutched her long red robe tightly to her chest, as if attempting to shield herself from what they were debating. Lincoln had both hands on her shoulders; his posture hunched over and in jeopardy by a back that looked like it couldn’t carry one more thing.

  Then it’s like the lights went out on their conversation altogether. They were in a vacuum. I read his lips, “I’ll take care of it, Lex. I love you, and I promise I’ll take care of it.”

  When Alexandra’s voice rose to an even mightier volume, Lincoln’s agitation returned like a stubborn cold. “I have absolutely no idea, Alexandra!” he bellowed.

  Alexandra spouted more Greek mumbo-jumbo, and Lincoln threw up both of his hands, rambling he needed Jackal to decode. He marched swiftly past me down the 200 yard trek to his son’s bedroom, stopped to shake his head, glanced at the cell phone in my hand, then turned on his heels to battle with Alexandra once more.

  The aberrant nature of their argument alone was disconcerting. Since I’d known them, they’d always been loving and a hot-chocolate-by-the-fire kind of cozy. Right now, she acted like she wanted to take his LA-issued gun and bullet-hole his butt. The word that came out of her mouth next left Lincoln’s blood pumping at hyper speed. A word that brought a cold brush of dread with it. “P-PPixe,” she stuttered. “PP-Pixie.”

  After one long blink to register the word, Lincoln’s pallor faded to a ghostly white. He took off in a dead run for his son’s room, leaving a sobbing Alexandra in his wake.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  Oh, boy, Kyd’s timing resembled a hemorrhoidectomy. The time would never be right even though circumstances told you the process was inevitable.

  “Hey, Kyd,” I mumbled.

  “Listen, I’ve missed you, and I need to speak with Dylan. We need to clear the air. I don’t like t
he way we left things.”

  Wow. Wow. Wow. That insinuated they’d already had a conversation. “Have you already spoken with him,” I asked, “and furthermore, you’re still living?”

  Kyd choked on a laugh. “No. He sort of throws off anger even from across the street … and frankly, I deserve it. I’ve already apologized to Mr. Taylor, and the fact that Dylan didn’t contact me lets me know he’s doing that for you. But the way I know him, he has to be dying inside.”

  I unzipped my cosmetics bag and tripled the eyeliner, swiped my lashes with kohl black mascara, rolling on a healthy coat of Don’t Tell Mom. I suspicioned Kyd had spoken with Colton which honestly piled on the guilt. I shouldn’t have placed him in that situation, but when I went after big game (and you had a gun), you were either hunting with me or I’d take your weapon.

  I groaned, “Can we do this tomorrow?”

  Kyd went bull-headed. “I’d rather do it today.”

  Some dead space filled the air as I made another circle around my eyes, making them raccoon and smoky dark. If I didn’t turn this off, there’s a good chance he’d walk across the street. “Now’s not a good time,” I exhaled.

  “I don’t care. I really need to apologize to him. It’s bothering me.”

  “Would you like me to quote that verbatim or paraphrase in a way that doesn’t make you sound like you have boobs?” I smirked.

  I actually stopped to stare at myself in the mirror … that was pretty, darn funny. I’m now officially the funniest person I know. I preen like a freaking peacock.

  “My God, Darcy, quit joking,” he sighed. More silence. “For someone that’s easy going and perpetually happy, Dylan can flip very quickly into dark, brooding, and unbearably tormented. Why would you say that is?” When I didn’t respond, he added quietly, “I think whatever you are sets his world in motion.”

  I burst into giggles. “What are you, the love doctor?”

  Kyd sounded tired, or perhaps tired of me. “Exactly what are you to one another, Legs? And if I legitimately take you on a date, will he and I still be able to be friends?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. I didn’t know what we were. Lincoln and Alexandra’s argument bothered me so much I snuck into Dylan’s room at 5AM, asking for his take on the tension. I even mentioned my suspicions about this person named Pixie. He murmured, It’s probably something to do with Willow, sweetheart. Then he ran his fingers through my hair, said Mmmm, you smell good, and kissed me on the mouth. Kissed. Me. Kissed me, I said. And it didn’t qualify as a peck, either. We’re talking a good sixty seconds of Holy Crap. That’s Awesome. I even moved my lips a few times and lightly touched his cheeks, crossing my fingers my technique wasn’t repulsive. Right at the moment it started to get interesting, he moaned into my mouth and rolled back over. I sat there massaging my lips … toes curling … dumbstruck. In fact, I had to crawl out of the room on all fours because my legs wouldn’t work.

  Dylan had never full-on kissed me before, and I honest to God think he was dreaming. He’d come close to my lips one other time this past spring when he kissed me on his return trip from Maui. I’d concluded something strange blew in the air that day, or maybe he’d been hungry.

  “You act like it would bother you if the two of you weren’t friends,” I said. “I’m not trying to be confrontational, but you goad him, Kyd. And honestly, that bothers me. I love him and am loyal to him. One nation, under God, indivisible, and all of that other Pledge of Allegiance stuff. Don’t ever forget that.”

  I’d needed to say that for some time, and frankly, you could only make peace for so long before you had to draw the battle lines. Dylan and I would always be on the same side no matter what Fate or circumstances lined up against us.

  Kyd slowly exhaled, “I’m very aware of your relationship, and not all of our conversations have been contentious. Dylan’s extremely easy to talk to with very little, if any, judgment.” He went silent for a beat. “What’s going to happen when you date someone?”

  Nothing good, I guess. Dylan had always been take-no-prisoners where I was concerned. Me dating? Kyd’s legs would be stumped at the knees with his ribcage as bookends. Did I hold that against Dylan? Not in the slightest. I’d already planned to gut his girlfriend. Regardless, should I even take Kyd seriously? He gave me the impression he over-thought things, possibly dealt with anal retention, and misplaced altruistic love. Then again, call me a happy verb. I didn’t pause to think about anything more than if dessert came before my meal or afterwards.

  I lined my lips again. “Umm, our relationship is what it’s always been.” Confusing. “And dating is a gray area we’re working out as we go.”

  Kyd and I disconnected after I swore that I’d call as soon as the sun woke up. A minute later, I thumbed in Troy’s digits and left a message for him to be at Cowboys at midnight. Right when I shimmied into a white sundress, Sydney entered the restroom waving a black lace push-up bra along with a red and black plaid cropped top … and when I say cropped, I mean right below the habaneros. It felt like someone took a baseball bat to my forehead. The length fell roughly six inches but frankly wasn’t as eye widening as the accompanying twelve-inch frayed jean skirt. First impression? Hoochie momma in the making.

  After she excused herself, I dressed and shoved my feet inside red cowboy boots that hit me lower calf, giving my hair another squirt of freeze spray for a retro style of big hair. When I clomped into the den, Sydney stopped chomping her gum, instantly overcome with the brilliance of her creation. Tweaking my appearance, she unbuttoned the top two buttons to where the lace peeked through—like come and get my Barely-Bs.

  Zander sauntered by, earbuds blasting a tune, crunching down a bag of Cheetos that littered across his bare chest. “Sweet,” he grinned.

  “Slut,” Sydney purred.

  “Shiii-,” Dylan mumbled.

  Colton delivered a well-made slap to the back of his son’s head.

  Lincoln barked out a warning for Dylan to get with the program. A muscle ticked in Dylan’s cheek. From top-to-bottom I looked easy; Dylan aimed for hard-to-get. I cradled his face in my hands, almost as if a precursor to some major lip action. He clasped his hands over mine, holding them tightly in place. “I should be the least of your worries, Grandpa. Vamp it up, Buffy,” he winked. “Play the part.”

  Frankly, I didn’t know what a Buffy entailed, but my guess was it included that lights-are-on, but-no-one’s-home thing going on in your eyes.

  On the couch in front of us sat my houndstooth bucket hat and a black suede Stetson. Dylan chose my lucky hat, dusting off imaginary dust, placing it on my head like I’d break if he shoved too hard. His mother and grandmother stood ramrod straight in the kitchen by the doorway. Alexandra looked guilty of killing something; Susan gave a tight smile like she’d skinned it.

  Not one of my smarter moves, I dispensed a pinky wave and hotfooted it to Colton’s Bentley.

  Lincoln and Colton were loading an arsenal for a foxhole of soldiers into his car. Lincoln carried his 9mm, Jackal, in the left side of his pants. While he handed a GLOCK 23 to Colton (who had a conceal-to-carry in several states), he hiked up his khakis and strapped a .38 Smith & Wesson to his right ankle as Colton placed a .223 rifle next to a 12-gauge shotgun, slamming the trunk lid shut.

  “Locked, loaded, and gunning for bear,” he told his father. Colton appeared different than I’d ever seen him. Over the years, I’d called him “Door Number Three” because a sales job was the last thing he’d wanted to do. Other than keeping tabs on his sister, he basically chose the career because he couldn’t stomach sitting behind a desk all day. “Door Number Two”—a police officer—obviously still ignited a passion in his blood.

  “Which one’s mine?” I giggled.

  “Ha-ha,” he said humorless.

  When I named the gun brands, he raised a smirking brow. “And you know that how?” he murmured.

  “I’m a Walker … Kentucky DNA ... Trust me, I know.”

  “Oh, God,”
Dylan prayed again, running both hands through his hair. His father cast a downturned look in his direction, debated a thought, then let it slide.

  “I need to make another call to your father,” Colton said to me. Colton and Lincoln both made several calls to Murphy, reminding him he had veto-power at any time. Murphy contemplated it a few hours ago but spent most of the conversation apologizing that I was … well, Darcy.

  Dylan bent over cracking his back, then stood aright, and rolled his neck. He’d dressed in typical Florida fashion with a white golf shirt and khaki shorts, sporting light gray Under Armour sneakers I’d never seen before. He should be happy-go-lucky at his age; instead, he looked like he’d rather share a meal with maggots.

  Lincoln let his eyes roam up and down his grandson’s body with a grin. “I’ll take care of her, son.”

  Dylan gave a somber nod as Lincoln dispatched details he’d hammered out with Detective Battle. Since this was Battle’s home turf, he’d be calling the shots from a van in the parking lot after he planted a receiver underneath my blouse, inserting an earpiece in my right ear. Several plainclothes officers would be rocking away with us on the floor. Dylan would accompany me in—his father and grandfather? Didn’t have a clue what they were doing.

  I didn’t ask … they sure as heck didn’t tell.

  Lincoln retrieved Jackal out from under his loose fitting white oxford, checking the magazine before slipping it back inside his gun with a click. “Get close to him, dear,” he murmured. “Find a weak spot and push. Do you understand?” The gist of the assignment pretty much meant body-to-body; I got it, the goal was to not gack all over him.

  29. WHAT’S IN A NAME?

  THURSDAY NIGHT BROUGHT OUT THE serious dancers at Cowboys. It was Ladies Night, and patrons were bumping and grinding and doing things so obscenely animalistic it looked like something straight off the Discovery Channel. As we pushed through the crowd, whatever apprehension Dylan felt earlier dissipated with each blare of the dance mix. His shoulders bobbed which in turn helped me to soak up the party mood. As he reached for my hand, I squeezed his last three fingers, and for some insane reason leaned forward to feel what all the fuss was about.