100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (30 page)

Cue the stomach cramps.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, trying to break the ice, “I thought I knew you.”

“I’d like to get to know
you
,” White Van muttered.

If that was innuendo for an illicit invitation, I decided to play dumb and blonde. Stumbling three steps over, I hit a bumper and blurted out, “Did you happen to see who painted Coach Wallace’s car last week? It was parked beside yours. If you didn’t, maybe you’ve heard about it? Not much happens here that doesn’t hit the grapevine.”

“Or that
you
miss,” White Van interjected. I cocked my head to the side, confused. Even though I couldn’t place the face, my mind went crazy trying to identify the voice. Something about him seemed familiar, and my guess was it was a familiar that wasn’t pleasant
.
If memory served me correctly, he’d left the van idling and got out long enough to high-five the others. He’d either enjoyed it the most or was the type that delighted in others’ misfortunes.

My mouth did the usual—got more stupid. “If I remember correctly,
you
,” I clarified, pointing to him, “thought it was the funniest. You high-fived the others like it meant something personal to you.”

I think someone gasped. Shoot, it might’ve been me.

“We’re innocent,” White Van grunted. “Besides, wouldn’t it be stupid to make a spectacle out of something you’d just done?”

True, but his answer about being innocent was bogus. God only knew what he was capable of because my trust radar beeped like a sonova-you-know-what simply being within inches of him.

“Listen, Coach seems like a nice guy,” Red Mustang added, opening the door of his ride, “but you can’t fault someone for finding the humor. If truth be known, I bet you laughed too.”

He had me there.

Colorado got jumpy. He either needed a cup of coffee or was colder than me. “I just thought it was funny,” he shrugged.

White Van stalked forward slowly, his head dipped low, like he didn’t want me out of his frame of sight. “Let’s continue this discussion elsewhere,” he ordered.

He snagged my wrist, twisting it counterclockwise, pulling me toward that crappy white van. I wasn’t a fool. Triple-coverage was a no-way-out situation. I knew enough to scream but forced a sigh, feigning boredom instead. When he twisted harder, I realized the scared-girlie routine should’ve been my first route. Should I faint? Throw-up? Make a diversion? “Shoot…fudge…and…sonovabiscuit eater” fell out of my mouth in one long breath.

Right then, Chevy Colorado grabbed White Van’s arm. If he seemed jumpy before, he now acted like he was pregnant with an elephant, mid-contraction.

“Let her go, man,” he pleaded.

Instead of heeding Colorado’s words, White Van tightened his grip. My fear grew larger than a sci-fi monster, my eyes darting to Red Mustang for an assist. He nervously shook his head, like he wanted to help, but preferred not rocking the boat. He collapsed in the seat, leaving his door ajar. After a few beats, he turned the key over, slammed the door shut, and backed away.

I was in this alone.

God help me.

Alone.

I’d been in this situation before where things start to unravel, and you try to stop the bleeding anyway you can. A “please” didn’t get me anything more than a grunt, an “I know important people” got me nothing more than a raised brow. Unfortunately, I ignored my basic survival instincts and keep right on jawing.

“You’re guilty of something,” I whispered. “Did you paint his car or kill Nico Drake? How about that skeleton? Did you feast on the remains, or are you The Ghost himself?”

Talk about going for broke.

I received another heated gaze. Chevy Colorado suddenly grimaced like someone strung him up by the family jewels. He doubled over, coughed, and then shuddered, “Holy crap, here comes trouble.”

He and White Van glanced over my shoulder around the same time a bellowing voice broke the tension like a foghorn.

“Darcy!” it roared.
Thank you, hot boy gods
, I sighed in relief. Dylan barreled toward us like we were insurgents and he alone was the hit squad. His black hair blew in the wind, reminding me of a gothic wartime hero riding home in a blazing storm.
Dylan Taylor and angry were two words that didn’t match up perfectly together. My guess was these guys had witnessed the boom or heard of the legendary explosions.

“Darcy,” White Van repeated, dropping my arm with a crazed grin.

“And you are?” I somehow managed.

When he didn’t answer, I conjured up an equally twisted smile.

White Van muttered, “Toodles,” quickly jumping back in his ride. I zenned out for all of two seconds when my blood pressure dropped to woozy. Through his window, he painted his lips in one of those perverted, ruthless grins, made his fingers in the shape of a gun, and mouthed, “Bang-bang.”

I mumbled, “Okay,” to the spluttering trail of smoke he left behind. I didn’t know if that meant I’d accepted his challenge or accepted my fate. When Chevy Colorado peeled out on a screech, I slowly and reluctantly turned. Like I knew it’d be a mistake, but if the day was already bad…eh, I might as well take it to the lowest level of crap. Dylan wasn’t walking. Heck, he wasn’t running. It’s like he levitated through the air by some unknown force.

My legs struggled as though they’d frozen solid, which was odd because I sweated bullets big enough to down a dinosaur. While the wind whipped through Dylan’s black hair, as bizarre as the last few minutes had been, I still had the desire to run my fingers through it.

Darcy, Darcy, Darcy
, I told myself.
You really ought to find some self-esteem
.

Dylan reached me first, saying, “What the”
bleep
“are you doing out here? I felt you leave the building.”

If I’d doubted beforehand our cosmic connection had severed, it was times like these that erased any misgivings. I felt him; he felt me. Sometimes it was a trying experience; others it came in handy. When he saw my knees knocking, he took off his coat and draped it around my shoulders, wrapping his arm around my waist for extra warmth.

“I-uh,” I said. “Umm,” I started again. “Well, it’s like this,” I exhaled.

I felt a little light on my feet and fell into him. I swear, right when I’d planned to ’fess up and ask him to beat the big, bad uglies to a pulp, he stopped, holding up his palm. “Did anyone hurt you?” he asked tenderly.

“No,” I said truthfully. “We were just talking,” I half-lied.

In a rare out-of-character moment, Dylan accepted my answer and didn’t push for particulars which told me he hadn’t seen what White Van had attempted to do. “Then let me start again,” he murmured. “Sweetheart, we’re out of sync. I know you’ve had some bad luck lately, but maybe we can do something to cheer you up. Guess who just got a text from your aunt?”

Oh, God, no. That meant one of two things. Red wanted him to rat me out on something, or worse yet, she wanted him to take me…someone help me…shopping.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Shopping was okay when I was in control.

Not when someone was trying to morph me into someone else.

When I winced, he grinned, “The occasion is Rookie’s party. You’re an honored guest and have an unlimited shopping spree under my fine eye. Come on, Darc,” he winked. “Let’s get these last two classes in. I’ll blow through practice, and then we’ll go stimulate the economy.”

My uncle hosted a holiday bash each year for all his hoity-toity friends who helped him get elected. For some insane reason, he felt it was a good idea I was on the invite-list. There was no need to protest. They’d already made a unilateral decision I was going. I didn’t have the energy anyway.

Dylan led us back up the steps in a run, not even broaching the subject why I’d been standing outdoors, barely clothed, talking to total strangers. That seemed Grade A Stupid to me, but Dylan sometimes operated under the auspices I’d been behaving.

God love him. Sometimes he was an idiot.

After one class (our sixth periods weren’t together), we met up going to seventh period English. While we navigated our way through the crowd, Dylan got sidetracked talking to Grumpy and Finn. Grumpy had his cell phone half hanging out of his back pocket…so I picked it while we were walking. When he turned around with a huff, I basically barfed up my entire day, starting with Brantley McCoy and Nico Drake’s dead body, ending with my run-in with the three guys in the parking lot.

“Does Taylor know this?”

“No. Does that make me a bad person?”

“It doesn’t exactly make you humanitarian of the year. He’s like the nicest person I know, Walker.” I pulled my books closer to my chest, trying to dematerialize. “You’re honestly taking this reward seriously?” he continued in surprise. I gave him a sullen nod. “Red Mustang, huh?” Another nod. “I know him. I’ll talk to him tomorrow about Coach’s car.”

“Throw out Nico Drake’s name too.”

Grumpy’s gaze went hard as granite. “And why would I do that?”

“Do you remember me asking Slapstick and Damon about The Ghost?” Another granite gaze. “Well, just do it. And ask them about the creepo guy in the white van. I don’t like those guys, and I don’t know why.”

At least that’d be something. I attempted to explain the word patience to my brain as Grumpy scratched his brown mop-head. Looking over his shoulder for privacy, he whispered, “Listen, Walker,” while we dodged in and out of the crowd. “I’m getting desperate here, and the dance is knocking at my door. At this point I’d take the closest air-breathing mammal who looks halfway monogamous.”

Shoot, I’d forgotten about Clementine. Well, not totally, but I hadn’t given her high priority. I told him, “I’ll work on it.”

“But it has to be
her
idea, Walker. A guy has to keep his reputation.”

Once again, I muttered, “I’ve got you covered.”

“And if not her, then I’ll take Ivy…if she’s still single, that is.”

Gross. Grumpy needed his head examined.

I didn’t want to be an intergalactic killjoy—that was his shtick—but we needed to have a heart-to-heart about his choices in women. Trouble was, he’d probably want a heart-to-heart about my choices of recreation. As a whole, he was a well-adjusted guy, but around the holidays he was like everyone else—no one was immune to that feeling of desperation. That feeling you’d be all alone and that peace on earth stuff would choke the life out of you.

17. Social Mores

B
asketball practice dismissed early when
the cops busted up the party. Dylan, Finn, and Grumpy evidently were on the menu regarding Nico Drake. Can you say,
Instant PR problem?
Evidently, Dylan’s father had gotten a heads up they’d like to question the three, and since he was in Europe, his superstar attorney dropped everything and met them in AP Unger’s office. It was a short meeting, but when the cops discovered I was on-site (seriously, I’m not sure why I wasn’t on the invite list initially), after a quick call to Murphy, I opened the floodgates and told them what I thought: Nico was a douchebag, threatened girls, felt them up, didn’t know that no meant no, and given that his actions were deplorable and probably deserved death, I’d come to the conclusion I wasn’t sad he was dead—even though I had been initially.

I then confessed I felt better for getting that off my chest…

Superstar Attorney dove across the table and slammed a palm over my flapping gums. Dylan dropped an f-bomb, immediately demanding I shut up. AP Unger said, “Ditto.” I didn’t look at Grumpy and Finn. I chose to believe they were silently laughing rather than paralyzed with shock. Thankfully, the four of us had alibis, but I’m pretty sure the cops left with me on their radar. That’s what happens when you’re unstable. The trained can sniff you out.

But a funny little thing happened in that meeting. Everyone wanted to know the name of the girl Nico had accosted. Uh, yeah…me too. AP Unger divulged her name as freshman art enthusiast, Madison Flannery. Well, guess who was now Madison Flannery’s new best friend? I raised my hand in my own demented mind.

Dylan and I had just picked four dresses off the rack at Nordstrom’s Department Store, on the quest to find the holiday dress my aunt insisted I buy. I’d already test-driven three and stared at myself in a long-sleeved, siren-red mini. It fit me like a glove with textured fringe on the bottom. Falling mid-thigh, the fringe added an extra illusion of length.

I giggled over the changing room door, “Come and feast your eyes on the goods, Big Man.”

Dylan chuckled, “Darc, when are you going to realize we’re not six years old anymore? I can’t see you in your underwear.”

“You see me in a bikini every summer.”

Pause. “True, but we can’t. Come out, and let me see it.”

“I can’t get it zipped.” 

“Aw, Darc, I can’t do that either. The females near you won’t appreciate the intrusion.” Debatable.

I frowned, throwing both arms over my back, attempting to grab the little hook and pull north. “Do you zip Sydney’s dresses?”

He didn’t answer right away. I took that as confirmation enough. “That’s different. She’s my sister.”

I played with the fringe and wondered what Murphy would think…I knew. He’d wonder where the rest of the dress was. “You don’t love me like you love her.”

A smile was in his voice. “I love you differently than anyone, sweetheart.”

Before I could talk myself out of it, I blurted out six words that proved I had no pride whatsoever. “Would you zip Brynn Hathaway’s dress?”

There was an undertow of shock in Dylan, him sounding offended without even voicing a peep. He shifted around, mumbling things I couldn’t unravel. “Why in the world would you say that, Darcy? You know what I’ve asked of you, and those feelings haven’t changed.”
I stared in the mirror, realizing I’d broached a subject I wished I could immediately take back. Guys didn’t like desperate girls. I didn’t know much about relationships, but everything I saw on TV showed them running for cover when the girl became clingy.

Thank God Dylan granted me the gift of silence.

After some self-loathing, I mumbled, “I apologize. That sounded whiny and desperate. And every bit of research I’ve conducted claims whiny and desperate are major turnoffs.”

He chuckled deeply, “Come here, Darc, and let me get my hands on you. You’re the only crazy blonde I want in my life.”

I stole one last glance in the mirror. It’d been a long day. Not only did I have raccoon eyes but hair that looked like it belonged on a chinchilla’s butt. I looked inebriated, and the strongest thing I’d ever consumed was cough medicine with codeine. Holding the back of my dress together, I unlatched the door and took a step. There’s no sexy way to walk with socks rumpled at your ankles and an unzipped dress you’re trying to hold together. You just hope your butt and naked skin score some points. Trying to walk like a sexpot, I tiny-stepped it to Dylan who sat on a red leather sofa, scrolling through his BlackBerry.

He’d cleaned up well. He still wore the same clothes as this morning, but his “Ranger” hat covered his modern-messy hair. The swallow in his throat alerted me he struggled with the assignment; that brought on a deep feeling of sadness. We’d definitely crossed the barrier into male versus female, appropriate and inappropriate, no turning back.