100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (3 page)

I leaned up against a column and retied my shoe, pausing to glance down at the curb. Holy Moses, it was a criminal’s dream. Lying in the snowy gutter were two dirty Visa check cards and one social security card. I blinked twice for the image to register. Snatching them up, I shoved them in my coat pocket and pulled my zipper to my chin. I felt the buzz of my iPhone in my back pocket. Since Murphy considered an iPhone electronic overkill, I worked for a month to purchase one all on my own. This month’s ringtone was “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” I fished it out and realized the caller was my Uncle Shepard, AKA Rookie Johnson. “Hey, Rookie,” I greeted.

Rookie possessed one of those deep voices that woke every cell in your body. He worked as the Hamilton County Prosecutor—the head honcho responsible for bringing criminals to justice. For future reference, that could come in handy, but so far I was only on the recreational side of his personality. “Hey, Darc,” he murmured, “are you on your way over?” I was spending the night with him while my father and little sister were out of town. Overnights usually meant ice cream for breakfast, but it also meant he’d grill me on the particulars of my love life. I had no love life. The thing with Rookie, he’d let you express your opinions with impunity. Lawyer talk for no judgment…at least not verbally.

“Yeah,” I answered, sunshine in my voice. My cell beeped again, alerting me another call was on deck. I sighed deeply when I clocked on the number.

“Hold on a sec. It’s time for my daily Dylan Interruptus.”

I heard Rookie chuckle when I clicked over to my best friend. I wanted to say, “What’s her name, Romeo?” Instead, “Hey, D, I missed you,” tumbled out of my mouth. I hated when my mind and mouth didn’t work together, and frankly that was the majority of the time. Dylan’s mere presence, once again, deluged me with too many emotions to count. The biggest being attraction. We had a cat-and-mouse game going that’d grown old.

Something had to give…and give soon.

“Talk dirty to me, sweetheart,” he murmured.

I rolled my eyes to this occasional greeting. “Nuclear waste, Wall Street, Congress,” I muttered. “That’s all the dirty I’ve got today. Let me call—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” he chuckled staccato. “Not so fast; I’ve missed your voice. My watch says your shift is over, so whoever you’re talking to can wait.” I didn’t like ultimatums. In fact, they made me want to do the opposite, but when Dylan issued one, it sounded sort of…
well,
hot
. “Let’s go to dinner, sweetheart.”

Currently, I lived on impure thoughts—food was kind of an afterthought.

“Nah, I’m good. Listen to this sound…
beeeeeeeep
.”

“Don’t hang up,” he murmured quickly. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment. I didn’t know you were into kinky, but it’s not like I’m objecting.”

“I’m into a lot of things. Just not with you.”

I added a diabolical
bwahaha
laugh.

I could hear Dylan frowning. He breathed; I breathed. I shook the ice out of my shoe again, but when Claudia laid on the horn, it shocked me back to reality…or my default setting.

To risk another frown on an otherwise perfect face, I sighed, “I’m teasing, and I missed you,” blah, blah, and more codependent blah. I succumbed to another laugh and then looked to the right while I stepped off the curb. I briefly wondered if we’d still meet up tonight and barely realized a small part of me—unfortunately, the smallest—screamed I was danger bound.

2. Fatal Attraction

I
t’s like we’d been frozen
in time.

My head slowly shifted to the left when I realized I’d stepped out in front of a moving vehicle. Sometimes people say they have out of body experiences, where their mind actually steps outside their physical entity and observes the world around them; I think I had one right then. I’d slipped outside my skin and watched myself spill to the pavement and splat like an egg. My phone crashed several feet ahead as my right hand took the brunt of the fall. I even threw in a forward roll before the car squealed to a stop. Somewhere in the distance, I heard rapid Spanish and the ground echoing with frantic footfalls. I landed flat on my back, spinning and facing the car with half my body underneath. A different series of bumpity-bumps hit the air, and I didn’t know if my brain rattled around or another part of my body broke in two.

When I made an effort to stand…God help me, I tumbled down.

Down, down, down, into what I quickly surmised was an open manhole.

Holy shiiiiiii-
, I almost cursed. I screamed my I’m-Jamie-Lee-Curtis-and-Michael-Myers-is-after-me scream of
Halloween
. I was freaked way the heck out because my guess was…

I was dead.

All I could hope for was they spelled my name right on the tombstone because God knew I’d been misrepresented before. Last summer, I went undercover and helped the Orlando Police discover the whereabouts of a little boy who’d been missing for six months. I had a knack for solving problems or seeing things no one else saw, and when I read of his plight, I inserted myself into the details of the case. To make a long story short, I used a code name of Jester. I liked to think Jester was the bad girl, not Darcy Walker. Call me the Queen of Rationalization, but it’s the way I made peace with my impulse control issues. To the best of my knowledge, Jester was still only known by a handful of people, but when the newspaper credited things to Darcy Walker (successes that came via Jester), I’d erroneously been listed as Darky Walton.

I mean, get it right or leave me out altogether.

Mofos…there went my fifteen minutes of fame.

I mouthed my name twice, carefully enunciating the syllables, throwing in the correct spelling. Trouble was, no one was around to hear. I heard another squealing stop and what sounded like a car door slamming shut.

I lay prostrate in the bowels of the city’s sewer. Gutter trash. As I drug myself up to a standing position, it felt like I swam in an oil slick. My hands were slippery with white, peppery slush, and the cold water drenching them cut like a bee sting. A full moon filled the round hole I’d fallen through, and the first thing to register was a flashlight and a pair of legs, dangling until they dropped down beside me in a coordinated jump.

When our gazes connected in the sewer, I realized it was a guy—he was emotionally distraught, screaming toward the open manhole to call 911 to a male shadow who accompanied him. I grabbed my head with both hands because his words came at a rapid-fire pace like a machine gun. Dropping to my knees, I curled into a ball and closed my eyes. Yup, I was dead. Off to the Sweet By and By. No one wanted to die in the sewer in front of The Double-B, but it looked like the method of my demise as I met my Maker.

I heard, “Niña, niña! Rise!” Oh God, it was Claudia…or Satan must be Spanish. Claudia had been schooled at some weird school in Puerto Rico for spiritualists.

Her supposed claim to fame? Raising things from the dead.

I opened one eye and trained it on her voice. She’d bent herself and one boob in the hole, training another super-powered flashlight on me. The guy in the manhole with me squatted down, and my other eye went to his body like a magnet. Taller than average, he had coppery-colored hair, a square-cut jaw, and intensely focused silver eyes. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket zipped to his chest with a white button-down shirt…starched, just like his khaki pants. Immediately, I knew he was one of those boys who left tongues hanging and drool dripping, girls falling in a heap at his feet. My eyes took the slow boat to China as they slid up to the manhole. The guy huddled next to Claudia held an outstretched hand for us to grab.

I could do without more metaphysical mumbo-jumbo in my life—I had enough of that with Dylan—but I found myself memorizing the lines of Silver-Eyed Boy’s face. Like they’d magically been made indelible in my brain. His hair fell in long layers, his bangs lying slightly past his brows. As he shoved them off to the side, I caught another glimpse of silver. This was one of those times you felt like you had your television—or in this case, your ears—on mute. I couldn’t hear anything above my own heartbeat. He squatted down to see if I was breathing. But my eyes were open…
weren’t they?

His lips moved.

I opened my mouth, but my voice went bye-bye. I’m not sure where. It just packed up and made me look like a moron. I fought to catch my breath before trying to sit up, but when the world swam in crushing waves, I lay back down.

“Easy there, angel,” he murmured softly. “I’m so sorry I hit you.”

Angel. No one had ever called me “angel” in my short, trouble-filled life. My answer came slowly…then I realized it didn’t come at all. After a few more wordless seconds, “Shoot” finally came out of my mouth while a whole lot of expletives rattled around in my brain.

No shiz, I sounded like an idiot.

The frigid air blew so brutally that the breath coming from his mouth was a visible, white air. I sucked in a big gulp, trying to catch it as if my life depended on it. Did I have bad breath? I’d had five hotdogs, for God’s sake. I probably smelled like a gas station vending machine.

Gently pushing my hair off my face, his smile quirked up cockily at one corner. “And who, pray tell, are you?” he asked.

His voice robbed me of speech. He had a slight British accent that rang smoothly, pouring out like a steady, warm stream of sanctuary. My heart did a cartwheel, and it felt like a herd of wild horses bucked uncontrollably under my sternum. I wanted to kiss him. Sweet Lord Almighty, I wanted to kiss the guy who nearly killed me with his car. Maybe I was depressed about the holiday season. Maybe I was depressed about my best friend and his probable date. Maybe I was depressed I’d never had a boyfriend, and sweet sixteen had come and waved its depressing butt goodbye. Or maybe I had a major case of the stupids going on because this was the second “car accident” I’d had, and I longed to kiss the guy who did it.

Before an answer came, he took my right hand and placed it in the outstretched palm of the other guy hanging through the manhole. I grabbed ahold, and in a one-handed strength, he pulled me up to where I promptly sprawled out ungracefully on my arse. My yoga pants hung below my hips. I felt cold air on my butt cheeks. The blood drained from my face as I quickly yanked them up, telling myself not a doggone person saw a thing. This brought up a huge philosophical debate. If you’re not humble in life, then life will thrust humility on you. Been there, done that, even had the t-shirt. Falling on your arse after you’d been hit by a car and fell into a manhole was humbling.

I’d had my fill.

Next thing I knew, Silver-Eyed Boy squatted next to me and slid my matted hair off of my face again. Before I could say a word, the door to the bookstore blasted wide with Mr. Belinski walking fast. I wouldn’t actually classify it as running—a turtle ran faster than Mr. B—but he motored nonetheless.

“What the pork!” he screamed, acting like a badass mofo. Then he abruptly stopped, staring in dumbfounded fear, as he slowly registered what’d happened. Once Mr. B saw Claudia’s sweating brow, he bellowed like a walrus during mating season. But his violent outburst—and believe me, it was
violent
—only amped her up more. She began praying double time. So fervently that one of her boobs fell out.

But wait…it gets better.

It didn’t just fall out; it bounced up and down like she jumped on a trampoline. You see, Claudia sometimes fell out of her clothes. People did that when they refused to admit they needed a larger size. Not only did she need a dress two sizes bigger, but a bra that’d house the hooters of a hippo. I coughed and pointed, but Silver-Eyed Boy didn’t even notice. Mr. B, however, thought he’d hit the mother lode.

Whatever. Who cares. The woman tried her best to grab my soul out of Death’s hands.

“Oh, God, let me help you up,” Silver-Eyed Boy gasped, like he’d totally forgotten his manners. My trembling hand reached forward, but as soon as our skin touched, he stumbled backward as if he’d been branded with a hot iron. I fell back onto my rear end, again with a thud.

Gee, how romantic
…

The other guy sprang to my side, barking, “Dude!”

First impression? Total opposite of Silver-Eyed Boy. This guy’s torso seemed thicker, older, but with curly, black hair, and a hoodie sweatshirt. Where Silver-Eyed Boy had a playboy look about him, this male seemed more sensitive and quiet.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Silver-Eyed Boy wanted to bolt. What was the look he gave me? It was a grave look of concern punctuated with something else. The cocky smile fizzled out in a snap—as though he felt he’d done something wrong—or better yet, wronged someone else.

He stepped back even further, running into the bumper of his own car. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I just felt something I don’t understand.”

I’ll tell you what
I
felt…a whole lot of mother-trucking embarrassment.

A rush of emotion took me by storm, and before I collected my thoughts, I blinked back a rush of tears. Oh, my. I hated to cry, and public crying was even worse. I’d done the public thing a few times during school, and it never ended well. Girls either helped you hide, or they gossiped and made it worse. Guys tried to remain oblivious. It was easier to ignore what you didn’t understand.

He glided forward like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I fixated on his burgundy penny loafers, noticing they’d been scuffed around the edges. Thing was, they had dimes in them. Even if he needed to make a call from a payphone, he couldn’t, not with twenty cents.

Private school pedigreed.

I should sue…

He bent down on one knee with a brutal groan. “Oh, please. Don’t
cry
.”

“I’m not
crying
,” I whispered.

“You’re
crying
,” the other guy sighed.

My hands fisted into his jacket as he pulled me up. My legs edged closer and closer. I didn’t mean to…he didn’t mean to…but somehow our bodies molded together like Velcro. Wow, he felt strong…lanky, but fit and strong. My brain had already registered I found him attractive, but here it went and did it again. In fact, my brain said he felt pretty dang incredible. Somewhere in the back of my mind, reason told me to try and get my dignity back, but I figured that possibility had long gone.

He whispered into my hair, “You’re going to be okay.” He then paused, murmuring, “I promise.”

Only if you’re with me
, I begged in my brain. My guess was I’d be a prime candidate for a head transplant if it were ever AMA approved. Mark my words, I’d be embarrassed tomorrow, but it was like some sort of fatal attraction.

I mean, shouldn’t we talk this over? Get the finger pointing out of the way and come to a conclusion exactly who was in error? My eyes bounced over to his car. The headlights shined on us, capturing the shadow of sleet flying through the blowing wind. The temperature had dropped significantly. When sleet happened in Cincinnati, it usually meant the bigger flakes were on their way, but then again, it could be part of a weird weather pattern that’d decided to hang. Cincinnati’s weather was one big tease. My eyes trailed to the hood to see the make of the car, a brand new Audi A4 in metallic beige…spotless. No Darcy-dents anywhere.

I laughed, not able to escape the irony. Most girls my age were holed up with their girlfriends, confessing if their boyfriends had made it to first or second base (whatever that was). But noooooooo. Not me. I’d gotten hit by a futher-mudging Audi.