100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  Dylan hovered overtop me, pulling me to my feet. “What in the,” bleep profanity, “happened?” I’m not sure how, but my mind successfully censored most profanity. When I didn’t answer, he repeated the question—profanity doubled.

  Gasping, I whispered, “D, you’re gonna make Jesus mad.”

  After Dylan helped me up and dusted off my pride, he murmured, “And how’s that?”

  I gave him a shrug like he was an idiot. “You’ve made it a three f-word conversation, D, not me. I was just trying to keep you from going up in smoke.”

  Rolling his eyes, he took my iPhone out of my hands. “Ben Ryan,” I told him before he could even ask.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Ben Ryan. The ‘Ben Ryan’ that hit you with his car?”

  “Aye,” I muttered.

  That was juuuuuust enough to morph Dylan into the Tasmanian devil. “Well, hello, Ben Ryan,” he seethed into the receiver. “Dylan Taylor here. Learn to fricking drive, and stay away from my best friend.” When he angrily smashed his thumb on the “end” button, I bit the side of my cheek to keep from crying. The last thing I needed was angry words—even if they weren’t directed at me. My hands reached back and pulled my black hoodie up over my head to hide, well…everything.

  Wow, I needed a TO.

  A time-out and a Coke—and I knew Coach had a well-stocked supply. “You’ll have to excuse me,” I told him. “I’m going to go bang my head up against the wall until I pass out or die prematurely.”

  Dylan grabbed my wrists, his amber eyes tenderly searching mine for answers. “Not so fast, sweetheart. Where are you going?”

  The silence in this place was deafening. A reluctant glance had me meeting eyes with just about everyone. I’d cued the gossip. Heaven help me, what was I supposed to do? Pick up my food and eat it?

  “Places to go, people to see,” I sniffed.

  Tears to cry. Brynn Hathaway to ink-in on my hit list.

  I file-thirteen’d my tray and left. I wasn’t entirely thrilled with my acting performance, but it got the job done. After I gave Dylan a rather long, suggestive hug, he reluctantly returned to his seat, and I was hot on the heels of Slapstick Wilson. He’d been hovering outside, but once our eyeballs clashed, he turned and hit the pavement. I chased him down the hall, following the swagger of his old, gray hoodie, beat-up jeans, and stained sneakers. After the third yell, I gave up and simply jogged after him to a darkened part of the building in the sophomore hallway. Sort of spooky, but no way in the world would it eclipse what went down in the cafeteria.

  I finally stopped, cupping my hands over my mouth, yelling, “I know you hear me, Slapstick!”

  Slapstick scratched the back of his neck, slowly turning. He smiled one of those teeth-gleaming grins your dentist would love. I wasn’t sure his smile held a lot of sanity, but I’d never know until we got a little more cozy. I walked twenty feet, careful step after careful step, my fear breeding like naughty rabbits. Slapstick was tons bigger than me, but I guess if things went south, I could always yell. Once we were within inches of one another, I extended my hand, “I’m Darcy.”

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged in a chuckle. “I’ve never seen someone so gaffe-prone in my life.”

  Talk about adding insult to injury. “Mind-blowing, isn’t it?” I mumbled.

  “I’d say. Are you all right?”

  Eh, over it. I’m not sure how you live down an incident like that, but it wasn’t my first go around with the cafeteria floor. Thing was, I didn’t have time to get all woe-is-me. Besides, getting my dignity back would take more than one single act or a hug from a stranger. Public humiliation was sort of my theme song.

  He clutched a copy of A Christmas Carol in his left hand. You couldn’t escape the irony. In Charles Dickens’s work, the main character, Scrooge, changed from a cold, penny-pinching recluse to the embodiment of the Christmas Spirit after a visit from the ghost of his dead partner. My ghost, however, didn’t have goodwill toward men on his mind. He stole the cold, hard-earned cash of his victims.

  “You’re a Dickens lover,” I said, nodding toward the book.

  “I’m learning to read,” he shrugged.

  Learning to read? I thought. Shouldn’t that have happened in first or second grade? I found it interesting he said it so nonchalantly. Most would take that secret to the grave, but I figured if he could carry the brunt, then I’d be big enough to bury the shock. “You claim we needed to talk,” I said. “Start moving your lips.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “That’s actually my line. I understand you put out word you’re looking for me.”

  Apparently, he didn’t have time for games. Good, my style too.

  I exaggeratedly pecked my index finger on my watch, sticking with the Veronica Mars routine. “Time is tick-tocking away here, so I’m going to show you my cards. I hear someone from our school, in Valley’s backyard, is an identity thief. I know you have a record of stealing credit cards. Are you involved, or do you know who is?”

  Not one of my better openers because he looked like I’d just smacked him. Eh, my interrogation techniques could use some work. I’d offended him and sounded like a narrow-minded monster all at the same time.

  Lo and behold, he burst into laughter. “Dang,” he chuckled. “You truly are the gutsiest chick I’ve ever met.”

  I mentally smacked myself, still hammering away at the point. “I’m sorry that didn’t come out right,” I apologized, “but answer, Slapstick. I don’t have all day, and if I don’t put some gas in my tank, I’m going to die of starvation.”

  He held his chin up a fraction of an inch, his hazel eyes cutting into me like a sharp knife. Slapstick, regardless of his outward appearance, was a darn good-looking guy. His muscles had just the right amount of definition, and you could see the bulk of his legs through his old jeans. Some lucky girl would one day land him and beautify her gene pool. “Why do you care?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I was offered a reward,” I answered honestly.

  Both his eyes furrowed, looking like a buzzard’s on a rotting opossum. “If there’s a reward, then that makes you a snitch.”

  Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. “I’m not a snitch. I’m simply a good American. We were built on the principle it’s okay to love your money,” I said. We were also built on the principle it was okay to rebel. But if truth be known, I was bored. I was bored and had only a few weeks to make myself feel like a superhero.

  “Once you get it, you owe me ten bucks anyway,” he smiled.

  “I can do that,” I smiled back. “So are you involved or not?”

  There was a brim of sadness marking his eyes, like he was tired of people thinking the worst of him. “Whenever I’ve stolen, there was a reason,” he said quietly.

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Yes, I did. You weren’t listening.”

  I tipped my head in concession. Shoot, I wasn’t getting anywhere, and I had a feeling Dylan had already issued a BOLO to anyone that would listen. “What about a guy named Damon Whitehead?”

  His face grew colder than the Tundra. “I know him enough,” he said, “and to answer the question you haven’t asked, I don’t know what he does in his spare time.” I wasn’t sure I believed him. They had the same foster parents for two years. He was merely loyal or that home had simply been a place to lay his head.

  I blurted out, “Are either of you associated with someone known as The Ghost?”

  Slapstick looked at me like my head was a doomsday clock. “You need to watch yourself, Walker. You’re skating on thin ice.”

  “So I’m onto something?”

  “How long do you want to live?”

  “As long as you, I suppose.”

  “I tend to value my life. You seem oblivious or overly reckless.”

&n
bsp; Once upon a time, that might’ve offended me. Now it was something I’d heard so often it went in one ear and right out the other.

  I regurgitated everything I knew about Tito’s identity being stolen as Slapstick watched, astonished. I also threw in my desire to find out who vandalized Coach’s car. His face said he didn’t have feelings about Coach Wallace one way or the other. I then shared the names who Coach “thought” might have possible motives. Slapstick snorted and chuckled, “No way.” Add that to Bean’s assessment, and I mentally crossed them off the list permanently.

  A teacher stepped outside into the hall, giving us a look like we were required elsewhere—you know, SOP for the normal students.

  Slapstick followed me to Coach’s office where I entered the room whistling the school’s fight song. I immediately opened the refrigerator.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Open Coke. Drink can.

  After I did my just-get-calm ritual, I offered Slapstick a drink, but he declined. While I explained the Nico Drake situation landed me in detention, I knocked back another can and wolfed down a stale piece of Wonder Bread that hopefully was mold-free.

  Dwarfed by his towering frame, I was drawn in even deeper when Slapstick talked about the book he was reading. Slapstick had a soft spot. I’m not sure why he always wound up on the wrong side of the law, but if he’d get his head out of his rear end, he could actually land a girl and turn into something.

  “You’re not what I expected,” I admitted, downing my second can as we made our way to the junior wing.

  Slapstick paused for a moment, debating something in his mind. “You’re exactly what I expected, but I don’t work for free, Walker,” he muttered.

  “I wasn’t aware I’d offered you a job.”

  “Yes, you were,” he countered.

  Ugh, I guess I was, but this was my gig. I wasn’t being selfish. Half the buzz was realizing I could figure things out on my own. But a flip of the calendar in my brain reminded me time was my enemy. I added him to the list with Bean, wondering if I’d invited the devil over to play.

  11. Science Experiments

  “That thing in your purse…with the apple on it…you pick it up when it broadcasts that grandma got murdered,” Dylan murmured.

  “Uhh…”

  “Let’s just go with the thought that your phone is broken.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good thought,” I mumbled. Dylan stalked through the door, proving once and for all if he wanted to talk, he wasn’t above driving over in the dark to speak his piece. It was Friday night, and he’d just played in VHS’s basketball game (he scored a career high forty-nine points) but acted as if his dog had died. I’d bragged all over social media to anyone that’d talk to me; evidently, Dylan didn’t see his success quite as extraordinarily as I did.

  Murphy couldn’t make it to the game. Apparently, some lowlife scum hacked into his bank account and bought a used four-wheeler in Hyannis Port. I didn’t know Massachusetts had hillbillies, but Murphy burned up the phone all evening, cancelling credit cards and cursing his luck.

  First my Twitter was hacked; now Murphy’s bank account.

  A little too close for comfort.

  As a result, Murphy mandated I stay home because he feared there’d be a repeat of the Nico Drake incident, and he wouldn’t be there to settle the score. I was bummed because it was the official end to being grounded, so my only recourse was to cheer on the team via the school’s website’s live-feed. And down Coke…lots and lots of Coke.

  It was a little past ten, and my hands shook from too much caffeine. Murphy and Marjorie had fallen asleep in his bed an hour ago, and I’d been doing the usual…channel surfing the Adult Channels Murphy didn’t know were free this month. I considered it research since he still hadn’t dispensed the standard “birds and the bees” conversation. Plus I was feeling a little unloved—and even raunchy love sounded good at this juncture.

  Dylan seemed tense when you’d think he’d be on cloud nine. As he sauntered to the couch, his back was extra straight and stiffer than normal. Not the normal ease in which he carried himself. I traveled behind him, tiptoed up, and helped him shrug out of his school jacket. I gently pitched it on the recliner as he fell into the couch. I stood in front of him with my hands crossed defensively at my waist, realizing I didn’t look like anyone’s dream girl. Ready for bed, I sported a Victoria’s Secret mint and white leopard pajama set. The hem had frayed on the shirt and the bottoms had Coke stains dotting one leg where a can exploded. Add a lop-sided messy bun, smudgy glasses, and hotwired nerves, and I looked like a hobo who’d fallen off the train.

  “You’re quiet, D? Would you like something to eat? Drink?”

  He inhaled and expelled a deep breath. “I’m good, sweetheart. But I’m beat. Lie down with me. One of my favorite things in the world is lying next to you and doing absolutely nothing.”

  Could. He. Be. More. Perfect.

  Well after midnight, a scary movie on TNT hummed low in the background, and Dylan and I lay cocooned under a fake fur blanket. He looked amazeballs in dark jeans and a navy henley. All I knew was, by the way it hugged his muscles, it screamed money, stud, and fertile ovaries I needed to keep in check. Earlier we’d had popcorn, and I’d pulled off his shoes—doing all of those coupley things that showed you loved someone. When I relaxed back onto his chest, I’d nodded off twice. When I woke this last time (okay, when I snored myself awake), Dylan was sleeping, and I knew we were moments from his mother’s please-don’t-be-dead call.

  I crawled on top of him, my hand stroking the planes of his chest as I continued to tell him how proud he’d made me. “You’re such a stud, D, and you smell wonderful. Normally, you smell like dirt,” I joked, “but tonight you smell so good…I love you.”

  I couldn’t swear to it, but I think he growled.

  Dylan slowly ran both hands up and down my back, murmuring, “Always,” which was the standard response when the other uttered the L-word phrase. This was one of those classic Dylan and Darcy moments where the love felt bigger than words. Our hugs could go on for five seconds or five minutes, but he always left the duration up to my discretion. But something suddenly short-circuited the mood. He stiffened, his shoulders tightening, his arms quickly squeezing and falling to his sides.

  For once, he broke the hug first.

  Out of the blue, he grabbed my hand, holding it to his heart. “You do realize it’s not normal the way you’re touching me, yeah?” he murmured.

  It’s a scientific fact once someone says something like that you immediately get defensive. My hand instantly stilled. I attempted to jerk it away—heck, I wanted to cut the dang thing off—but Dylan tightened his grip, holding my fingers in place. I couldn’t look at him. No, no, for freak’s sake, nooooooooo. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, sweetheart. Give me your face,” he murmured hastily, putting a gentle hand to my chin.

  Couldn’t do it. So I buried myself deeper inside his neck.

  Dylan did an ab curl, attempting to capture my eyes. “Darc, look at me.”

  Slooooowly. Slowly, I met his amber gaze. Dylan acted as though something dark and painful lived in his head. Some demons I didn’t even know he battled. “Does this make me like a slut or something?” I whispered.

  Sweet Lord. I didn’t know whether to be mortified…or proud.

  His temper took off at warp speed. “For God’s sake, no, Darcy. You’ve only been with me. Let alone do anything else that qualifies in the slut territory. Don’t say that.” No matter his words, I still shot up, pushing myself away. Far, far away from the heat I didn’t understand. “We’ve got some things to talk about, Darc,” he exhaled.

  Dylan set us both up, our thighs barely touching, careful not to get too close. I got the feeling he protected himself. Still wrapped snug and tight in the fur throw, Dylan wrapped it tighter around m
e, like he tried to make sure I stayed warm before he left for the evening. “Here lately, I feel like I’m hanging onto you with bloody fingernails,” he sighed. “You mean everything to me, Darc. So much that it…”

  “…hurts,” I completed softly.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “So what had you so busy you couldn’t pick up a phone call from your best friend?”

  So Broody Dylan made an appearance because he thought I’d been blowing him off?

  Well, let me give a synopsis of what I’d been doing. And let me tell you it’d distract the President of the Freaking U.S. of Unholy A. When Dylan called, Vinnie and I were on the phone—plotting our next adventure. I’d given him the information Finn had provided—the addresses and photographs of the people in the detention rotation for the past two years, plus a list and photo ID of those tardy on the day Coach’s car had been vandalized. Vinnie said he’d be home tomorrow for a short trip to see his grandmother, and we’d stake each of them out. Our plan was to see if any of the teenagers living in those homes resembled Motor Oil Hair and Coffee Blot Boy. It was a major long shot, but Vinnie was my good luck charm. If anything, it’d be a starting place and a way to widen the net. If I widened the net, God only knew what I’d reel in.

  Dylan blew out a sigh, all but convinced I’d ignored him because of some deep-seated reason I refused to address.

  I dropped the blanket and took his hands, leaning forward as though I was about to hear a secret. “What are we talking about here, D?”

  The subject matter gnawed at him. He gazed to the ceiling, blinked twice, got up, and immediately sat back down. Rubbing the back of his neck, he inhaled and exhaled like he was in the middle of an asthma attack and couldn’t find air. Honestly, I’d never seen him so rattled, and his lack of control made me almost jump on the crazy train with him.