100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (48 page)

Next thing you knew, cell phones went paparazzi and started snapping pics.

The three of us moved in tandem, like a snowball going downhill and gaining speed. While Ivy smacked anyone near, Justice cold-cocked Ivy’s jaw. I ripped her shirt, yanked Hello Kitty from her neck, and God help us all, Justice’s weave was in the palm of my hand.

Sweet Lord Jesus, how would I live that one down?

When Justice delivered one last whomping whack to Ivy’s face, she pulled me up, thinking our message had been delivered. Thing was, my knee gave out, and when I stumbled to recover, I caught my heel on Justice’s jeans and spilled flat on the tile, looking right up Ivy’s skirt. Oh, goody. I’d gone
Star Trek
, boldly going where men had gone before—or was that phrase “where no man had gone before?” Before I could correct my TV trivia, Ivy was on top of me again, Justice followed, and the three of us sprawled again on the floor like a bag of marbles.

“Darcy! What the…” someone bellowed, and when I say bellowed, I mean the whole foundation had to have crumbled.

An arm went around my waist, lifting me off the floor in one fell swoop. “Settle,
Jersey Shore
,” he growled.

I literally ran in air. My options were to pull this person with me or gnaw my arm off, continuing the pursuit. But this person was so strong it was game-over for Darcy. And there’s only one person I knew…

“What?!” I barked, craning to see his gorgeous face. This was said with supreme catty, righteous indignation. Now I didn’t normally possess supreme catty, righteous indignation, so I was dang proud of myself. “That high road thing,” I growled back. “That’s the old Darcy. The new Darcy—”

“Takes the low road,” he interrupted. Dylan literally had me tucked up under his left arm; me dangling like a football. When I tried to wriggle free, I was rewarded with an even deadlier, “Settle.”

My eyes landed on Jagger who’d split the crowd across from us. We got another “What the…?” from him, but like Dylan, there was too much shock and awe to add the profane ending.

“They were trying to kill me!” Ivy screeched at the top of her lungs when Jagger took her by the hand and helped her up.

“Wow, narcissistic
and
crazy. Winning combo,” I snorted.

“Shut up, Darcy,” Ivy yelled. “I’ll make sure to get you first.” I gazed at her with an evil laugh, giving her a promises-promises look. This is where I normally turned the other cheek. With Ivy, I’d run out of them.

Justice scooped her fuchsia hair over her shoulder, pausing to pick up the weave I’d smartly left on the floor. “Bring it on, beeyotch,” she chuckled. “That threat is as fake as yo’ boobs.” All eyes glued to Ivy’s chest. I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t make a habit of looking at Ivy’s boobs, but they did look a little more boobified than normal. “And next time, I won’t fight your style,” Justice laughed. “If you mess with my friends again, I’ll go dojo on you, and you’ll never speak again.”

“Yeah,” I added, “what she said.”

Dylan’s chest silently bounced up and down when I said this, like he fought a laugh. All I knew was I hit Ivy Morrison, and IT FELT GOOOOOOOD.

“Cane,” Dylan murmured. “Take Ivy and handle this. Neither of us want this to go any further, yeah?”

Dressed in dark jeans and a red sweater, Jagger appeared emotionless: no flirtatious smile, no suggestive wink, no promise to impress the “wow” out of you if you’d let him have his way. I met his eyes, still running in the air like a moron, but he had zero time for me. His gaze shifted to Rudi with an intense and vested interest.

See, I told you…

Jagger had good in him. Question was, was it the majority clawing its way out? Or the minority choking on its last breath?

With one nod toward Dylan, Jagger placed my shoe in my hand and grabbed Ivy by the elbow, leading her sniveling, cursing butt away.

Dylan gently set me down, and I tugged on my boot. Problem was, I was so pumped up, I couldn’t stand still. We were in trouble. There was no way around it. Our school had a zero-tolerance policy, and even though Ivy pulled my hair first, Justice and I finished it. My victory deflated a little, but honestly, not by much.

She’d had it coming since the dawn of time.

Dylan dragged a hand through his hair. “Tell me you’re okay,” he murmured. “I just caught the tail end of that, but it was enough to need a portable crash-cart.”

This was what my brain was thinking…

I hope you get zits. Like a dozen of them in all of the most prominent places. Only then could I find a backbone. With his jet-black hair styled on the left side, he was wearing his black VHS letterman jacket, red and white Asics, and well-worn jeans probably outlawed in the state of Utah. I’m sure something just as delicious hid underneath the jacket, but when the outside looked that good, who the heck cared?

Dylan’s eyes spilled unspoken emotions as Rudi and Justice smooshed us together like PB&J. Wrapping my arms around his waist, per usual, it didn’t matter we were in a public place, log-jamming the hall. We were just Dylan and Darcy. I melted into him, placing my nose and lips into his neck. When his thumb brushed underneath my sweater, my breath caught, I recovered, and when he did it again, I shivered a little.

Make me a ’ho
was the first thing that came to mind, but “
Mmmmm
,” actually made it out of my mouth.

He murmured in my ear, “That’s right, sweetheart. There’ll always be something bigger between us than a disagreement or anything we could ever explain. Now if you ask me nicely, I’ll take you to the dance.”

Huh, wasn’t that a shift in dialogue.

We hadn’t talked about the Winter Formal, and I didn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved. To be honest, it was the first thing that popped in my mind when my feet hit the floor this morning. Well, after
I need coffee
.

“It is truly with a heavy heart I must inform you
that
will never happen,” I giggled, sidling even closer.

Not having a clue how, suddenly I was backed flush up against my locker, the silver metal handle biting into my backbone. Dylan still had one hand around my waist; the other hand spread wide against the locker up by my head, as though he held up something that threatened to crash down around us.

“You mean everything to me,” he murmured, leaning his forehead into mine.

My idiocy spoke for me. “Yeah,” it said, “me too.” My God, I was a moron.

“Did you miss me this morning?”

This time my lack of pride answered as I gripped the sides of his jacket, wondering why I wanted to unzip him and…well, explore. “Desperately,” it whispered.

Dylan was a naughty boy because I swear he said, “Go with me” in my ear a little more breathily than required. My kneecaps started sweating—wasn’t sure what that meant—but I knew it’d probably make Murphy and my health teacher mad.

“You’re a really bad person,” I told him. Dylan chuckle vibrated low in his throat, realizing exactly what he’d done as the hand around my waist was now halfway up my shirt. “Do you realize your hand is up my shirt?” I asked.

“I’m aware of that,” he murmured.

“You might give me cooties.”

“Maybe I’m in the mood to share.”

“Stop,” I half-heartedly demanded. “I can’t think when you do that. Besides, this puts the last in last minute.”

Dylan pulled me tighter with an even deeper chuckle. “Why don’t you try that answer again, sweetheart? You want this, and I want this. And yes, this may feel like last minute, but I honestly hoped you would’ve asked
me
.”

A million whoas and hold-ons looped in my brain, but I couldn’t seem to muster the required energy to execute the sounds. It’s like a marionette began to operate my mouth. “Will you take me to the Winter Formal tonight?” I asked.

The jerk breathed again in my ear, this time at a temperature resembling an erupting volcano. “I’d be honored, sweetheart,” he murmured, “and preface that with the caveat that if you’ll be good—and cut the
Jersey Shore
routine—I’ll take you to dinner.”

“You always take me to dinner.”

“This time will be different.”

“How?”

“I’ll kiss you goodnight.” Yowza. I didn’t do anything except stare at his mouth. “Cat got your tongue?” he chuckled. I think the cat ate my tongue, to be truthful. “I’ll pick you up at six, take you to dinner, we can dance the night away, and do whatever…comes naturally,” he whispered out on an exhale.

I swear, I wanted to crawl inside his body, walk around, and figure out his hold on me once and for all. But at the end of the day I was Darcy Walker. The Darcy who wanted to
try
to be in control even if it was a big stinking impossibility. Gently pressing my cheek to his, I pulled back—careful not to break contact—and slowly maneuvered my lips across his mouth, breathing heavily the whole way, ending only when my lips rested above his opposite ear. “Yeah,” I breathed back. “That sounds about right.”

Dylan’s voice caught, like he’d been deep-sea diving and his tank ran out of oxygen. “You’re evil-incarnate,” he struggled out in a chuckle.

Whatever headway I made, I then threw in an embarrassing and totally transparent, “My God, you smell incredible.”

Why was I obsessed with the way he smelled?

Dylan giggled like a little girl—high-pitched and unexpectedly humored. “Soap, sweetheart, but I’ll tell my mother you approve.”

Valley had one of those warning bells to alert you when you were within minutes of reaching tardy status. It blared with an ear piercing shrill, the stuff nightmares were made of if you hated the textbook and pencil gig. Dylan peeled my hands from his jacket, propping me up against the locker and casually checking his TAG Heuer like he had nothing better to do.

“What did you do to me?” I asked, shaking my head.

“I restored the balance of power.”

“More like tipping the scales if you asked me,” I mumbled to myself.

Sometimes I hated Dylan, especially when he exploited my feelings to get what he wanted. But wasn’t that the question? What exactly did he want from me anyway? While I tried to not pant like a dog, my stomach flippity-flopped into my spine with the realization of what we’d just done.

This sounded like a real date with real flirting that actually meant something…not just Dylan being Dylan.

26. Winter Wonderland

“J
ester, it’s Jaws. Listen, babe.
I called in quite a few favors because I was concerned about you. This ghost guy, he’s sick. My contact has an address for him, but Jester, I want to go with you.” Big breath. “I’m not sure what your goal is here. To put him in jail, get back what was stolen, or if you intend to cut the head off the snake. If your intent is to do the latter, then I definitely insist on going. Either scenario,
do not go
unless you’re accompanied by me.” An even deeper breath. “Listen, babe. I’ll call when I can do this but just so you know, I can count on one hand the number of people who know what I look like. That’s how serious this is. Don’t make me deliver a postmortem lecture in the morgue—because let me make myself clear. He likes to kill.”

Dial tone.

I’m not sure what was more disturbing. The message itself or the fact Jaws felt I was capable of cutting the head off the snake. Whatever the case, this sounded like the break I’d been hoping for.

Can you just say,
HOLLAAAAA?!

If I was going to joystick this situation, then two things could be accomplished: I could nab The Ghost, and by goodness, I could paint a face to Jaws. For the time being, I decided to pull on my teenager and wait until Jaws contacted me again. Pulling on my teenager didn’t exactly leave me as fired up as Jaws’ message, however. In fact, I was Thursday’s child…that depressing kid full of woe.

After I woke from a power nap, I jumped into a cold shower at five o’clock. I squeezed on Bath & Body Works Dark Kiss and let the stream of soap slough down my body all the way to the drain. As though it washed away all of my self-deprecating, self-conscious, and let’s be real—self-imploding tendencies.

I’d turned in my science project today, all but convinced my efforts deserved a Nobel Prize. Vinnie helped film last night, the dramatic climax having me pull Mr. Himmel’s egg out of a peanut jar, totally uncracked and pristine. When I fired up my laptop to show Mr. Himmel, his face went all kinds of psycho. Wouldn’t you know he’d be allergic to flipping peanuts? I swore on a stack of Bibles I had zero clue. I think he bought it, but I’d never know until grade cards went “live.” Anyway, the YouTube video had gone viral, and watchers were LOLing all over the comment thread.

This day was…crap to the max.

A huge blow to the school’s female population, the place was abuzz today that Dylan was taking me to the Winter Formal. I hadn’t said a word; Dylan was the big-mouthed town crier. Girls either high-fived me or brushed me off so bad you’d think I had head lice. But why didn’t I want to go? Was this his Good Samaritan gig to close out the year? He had a tendency to go all soldier with that “Never Leave a Man Behind” creed, and maybe he felt he’d be leaving me in his wake. Even if his heart desperately wanted something—and it would inevitably hurt me—I think he’d deny his own happiness to keep me smiling.

Perhaps that’s why I had difficulty placing the two of us in a dating category. Sometimes life with him was a tease. Flirt one day, the next best buds. But this didn’t feel like a tease. The intense turmoil, unending questions, and scary desire lit him up inside the same as me, rattling our foundation, upsetting what we considered norm. The one thing I knew about Dylan was he wasn’t the type to lie—I just didn’t know if I wanted or could accept his truth, no matter how small or massive the consequence.

I camped in the shower for fifteen minutes, trying to dial down my I’m-so-nervous thing. Once sufficiently pruned, I toweled off and slid into a white terrycloth robe. Next I applied blush and a light pink lipstick, swiping my lashes twice with black waterproof mascara. Digging around in my cosmetics bag, I found eye shadow in a gray duo and lit up my eyes.

Finding some Chemical Romance on my iPhone, a quarter-sized dab of mousse went to my cowlick, and I blew my hair out straight. I pulled on black hipsters and my new black Miracle Bra. I rummaged through my closet, hoping my clothes would speak to me. It was amazing once you applied the word “date” to an event, you automatically thought twice about what you’d normally wear. Dylan and I had been hanging out for years. Now that our evening would be something different, I felt inept to make even the smallest of decisions. Should I go slutty? Sophisticated? What kind of girl did Dylan go for anyway? I ultimately decided to go regular chick and give my new jeggings a whirl, along with the fuzzy black Hanukkah sweater that hit me at the hips. Once I stepped into my black leather ankle boots, I slid the open-heart dangly earrings in my ears. Sigh. Let’s be honest. I wasn’t “Best in Show,” but this was the “Best Darcy” I could come up with.

Oy. Vey.

The clock said five fifty-nine when a frizzy-haired Marjorie opened the door and jumped into Dylan’s arms. One look at him and I temporarily went to badgirlville. I felt giddy, like right-before-you-walk-down-the-aisle kind of giddy. My emotions were all over the place—from the jitters, to out-and-out fear, to the thank-you-Gods that Dylan decided to be dumb for the evening. Garbed in black slacks and a cashmere sweater, Dylan was a canvas of perfection all the way down to his Italian loafers. His long limbs moved with confidence, bringing along a well-formed chest and flat abs. His hair lay in a sophisticated side part, showcasing a strong brow and cheekbones. My hands ached to slide through each tendril and freaking pull. Seriously, the guy’s body really kicked-A.