No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (14 page)

God help me, this wasn’t a good sign. It was an OCD frenzy.

Lincoln now mumbled low. I found that odd since he was in a room alone—at least he thought so—until it occurred to me he must be delivering one last threat he didn’t even want the walls to hear. With a breath heavy enough to knock over an elephant, he looked to the ceiling—like he was praying for guidance—and slowly shook his head.

“Then on with the original plan,” were his final words. He disconnected, carefully laying his cell phone next to his coffee cup while he buried his face in his hands. Things didn’t look good for him—or perhaps they didn’t look good for the other person, and Lincoln knew this was a do-or-die situation.

Serendipity Golf Course is built on a rolling terrain and is known for its fast greens. In other words, you hit the ball, and it rolls like a mother. That was okay by me because I felt as hyper as a Mexican jumping bean. We toured in a cart, but half the time I hoofed it to my ball just to get rid of the excess energy. That’s what happens when the hyper have a case of the nerves, people. The energy latches ahold, and your brain functions on constant misfire.

A pack of gum and eighteen holes later, I still couldn’t erase Cisco Medina from my mind. How in the world was I going to make good on my pledge (to
troyoncrime
) to provide new information? I longed for some sort of omniscient clarity but found comfort in the fact that I was a verb.

On even holes, I decided I could make a difference in the world. On odd holes, I concluded I was an idiot. Since we ended at an even eighteen, I took that as a sign from the universe to motor on. Plus, I’d beaten all of them. I finished even par on a course I hadn’t played since spring. A narrow defeat, but you know what, I knew my limitations. Dylan led the pack until all three guys decided they would play from the professional tee box. Let’s just say they weren’t ready for the circuit. Clubs took flight, profanity scorched my ears, but that’s what happened when your ambition was bigger than your club size.

Or jockstrap.

I’m thinking that was the
real
problem.

Feeling somewhat like a champion, I then obsessed. Unfortunately, it never ended well when I was obsessed because the preoccupation never went away until it was laid to rest … or someone beat the crap out of me.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Dylan pitched our bags in the trunk of his mother’s pearl-white Mercedes SUV. Both of us wore khaki shorts and white golf shirts; my hair in a ponytail, his underneath a tan ball cap. He glistened with pure masculinity with dang little perspiration, while I was in full-on sweat mode, smelling like a salt mound.

A shower had to wait…

Kyd had a connection to Cisco’s father. If I didn’t act now, opportunity would dissolve like my makeup had on hole two. As we prepared to say our goodbyes, Kyd acted like a sugarholic with a brownie … he couldn’t and wouldn’t let go. Call me a manipulator, but I decided to strike while the iron burned hot.

I lovingly touched Dylan’s arm, throwing in some bedroom eyes with a come-hither wink that crumpled my contacts. “Let’s eat here, D. I’m starving.” That happened to be the truth. Lunch consisted of half an apple, processed cheese, and a cold cappuccino. As I faked crippling hunger pangs, I topped it off with an extremely suggestive bear hug and an innocent smile—well, at least my attempt at one.

He tenderly ran his index finger down my nose, sliding a muscled arm around my waist. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I love you and want you to be happy.”

Dylan brought out the heavy artillery … I love you.

When his gaze burned over me, I knew that statement was also for Kyd’s benefit. Still, I didn’t know how big of a deal I should make of the declaration. I mouthed “Always,” realizing this was one of those cross your fingers and hope for the best situations. As uncomfortable as it might be, I needed Kyd to answer some questions. Sure enough, Mr.-Do-the-Right-Thing turned on the charm. “Would the both of you like to join us?” he asked.

That was like waving a T-bone in front of a hungry Rottweiler.

Kyd took a tiny step in my direction, flirting. “I wasn’t ready for the day to end,” he sighed.

I rolled my eyes in my brain.

“I’m in,” Big J added.

We made our way over to the clubhouse, containing a gazillion square feet of throw-your-money-away opportunities. Dylan threw his arm around my shoulder as we hustled into Bogeys, one of the more casual dining rooms. Even at “casual,” I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider. Dylan was my link to this side of living. This would never be me. Even if I woke up with dollar bills coming out of my boobs, it would never be me.

While we waited to be seated, Dylan chatted with Big J, and I took the opportunity to dive-bomb Kyd with questions. More specifically, I needed him to introduce me to Hank Henry. First, I had to get past Dylan, though. As awful as it sounded, one surefire way to drop his defenses—short of jumping rope nude—was to hold his hand. If his fingers were wound in mine, he stupidly assumed I was in a heeling position.

I slipped my fingers in his, and yes, …
I batted my eyes
.

Made me want to puke.

Dylan sighed a blissful sound, as though I defined the perfect female. As he pulled my fingers to his lips, I shut down the guilt and swung my head to Kyd. “Do you know anyone that works here?” I asked.

Kyd lifted a shoulder in a shrug and watched Dylan’s lips on my palm, not making secret his desire to de-tongue him. “Just about everyone,” he clipped, “but you’re the only one I really want to know.”

(cough, bull-crap, cough)

“Herbie and I talked about Hank Henry,” I told him, ignoring his words. “It’s horrible what happened with his son, and it’s wonderful what your father’s doing.”

Kyd lost the flirtatious attitude. He checked his watch, almost as if he was trying to cut the current line of questions short or was supposed to be somewhere else. He explained, “Daddy likes to do nice things, but unfortunately, he tends to trust people too easily. In this case, he got it right.”

I agreed. “Herbie said Hank works in the kitchen. Is this the particular one?”

Kyd motioned toward the silver double-doors, swinging in the rear. “He does. He’s simple, Legs, and I feel sorry for him. I try to run interference whenever I can.”

Bingo for Darcy
, I smiled.

Kyd and I pored over the details of the case, and I unfortunately didn’t gain any information that I didn’t already have. But hearing the heartbreak firsthand left me a little empty inside. At least more empty than normal.

When we were seated, Kyd ordered fajitas; Dylan ordered a cheeseburger and fajitas. Plus, he’d probably have the remains of my five-layer nachos. Big J ordered the entire menu.

Twenty minutes later, I’d devoured my food like a caveman and picked at the scraps like a chicken in the farmyard. I longed to be in the kitchen, and short of masquerading as a cook I hadn’t found a path there yet. “Is your meal, okay?” Dylan asked. He wiped his mouth with a white napkin, angling my chin toward him.

Wow, I had a hard time looking him in the face even when I was “sorta” up to no good. My answer came slowly as I gave him a genuine—although guilty—smile. “It’s awesome, and it’s Mexican,” I smiled. “What more could a girl ask for?”

Then, I threw in a quick hug.

As I scooped black beans onto a chip, Kyd expelled an audible gasp, closing his eyes with an “old ball and chain” expression. I zoomed in on Mary Cartwright, the absentee girlfriend, slithering over to our table.

Just when you thought your day was boring.

“Here comes Mary,” Kyd warned almost as an afterthought. He stopped constructing a fajita, dropping everything at once, like his appetite had been flushed down the toilet.

“More like Typhoid Mary if you ask me,” Big J whispered to Dylan. Yeah, I agreed with the pun. Mary looked like she had death on her mind … mine.

Mary was suspiciously absent at the party last night. I found it weird, but by the expression on her face, she found it even weirder. Obviously, there were nuances to anyone’s relationships, but “not inviting” your significant other to an annual shindig couldn’t be a nuance in a healthy one. Dressed in a thigh-high, pink mini, and a tight t-shirt that said, “Make Love, Not War,” Mary was nothing but a contradiction. Her long curly blonde hair and sky-blue eyes represented the classic princess … a shapely princess … she, however, was the evil witch queen.

Big J fingered in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, scrolling through texts, acting as though this was status quo. All I knew was I needed a boob job and some Rolaids.

Mary stopped in front of Kyd, hands on her hips, sneering, “Hey, Kyd. I’ve been trying to contact you all day. I know you must have an excellent excuse for ignoring me.”

No lie; his hands shook like cellulite legs on a treadmill. After hesitating, he mumbled, “Sorry.”

Mary narrowed her gaze with an air of judgment, flipping her hair for good measure. I must say, I’d only seen that in the movies. Way more dramatic in person. “Very monosyllabic,” she huffed. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Sorry actually has two syllables,” I dumbly mumbled … thankfully she didn’t hear.

“We were playing, Mary,” Kyd muttered.

She let out a snarling humpf. “Is Darcy your
plaything
?”

I snarfed Coke through my nose. “I plead the fifth,” I coughed. Besides, I’m not even sure I knew what that meant but was certain it included naked bodies. My word, was no one virginal anymore? Kyd handed me his napkin in apology as I sopped up my chin. Trouble was that napkin had a jalapeno nestled inside. I sneezed three times then coughed twice.

Mary’s tone grew even more condescending, nearly peeling the skin right from my body. “Are you here as my boyfriend’s date?” she repeated, leering at me. “God knows he’s always had a thing for you, but I’d assumed he was going through a dumb phase.”

Maybe I should choke the life out of her. Unfortunately, my vocal chords paralyzed, so I couldn’t defend myself with words, either. I was in over my head. I looked to Kyd (no help), then at Dylan who calmly wiped his mouth, and slowly laced his fingers through mine. Like a lion, he was fiercely loyal. In one instant, he poured all of that hot-blooded animal magnetism onto Mary. My temperature shot up. The room swayed. I swear, if there’d been a nun around, she would’ve dropped her robe and begged,
Make me a bad-girl, Dylan
…
please
.

“Hi, Mary,” he murmured.

Another hair flip. “You approve of this?”

Dylan didn’t care what anyone thought of him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up on your emotions quicker than you could feel them. He lifted my fingers to his lips.

“No worries, Mary. Darcy will always be my date, and if you’re to be angry with anyone, be angry with
me
. I invited Kyd and Big J, and by the way,” he winked, “you look lovely tonight.”

She did look lovely, and thankfully, Dylan had the skills that could diffuse a stick of burning dynamite.

“Is this true, Kyd?” she snapped, scanning his face.

Kyd didn’t say anything; instead, he swayed like a bulldozer had run over him. Dylan rose up, casually pulled a wooden chair from an empty table, scooting it between Kyd and me. “Have a seat,” he said to her. “It would be nice to catch up.”

Mary twirled the gold chain around her neck, gushing to Dylan as she sat down. “It’s great to run into you. Yankee told me she visited with you last night.” I just bet she did.

He smiled graciously and listened to Mary’s latest egocentric escapades as I excused myself to find the restroom. The clock said 7PM. Darcy still had nada. Not knowing what to do, I decided to march into the kitchen. I mean, how bad could that be? Granted it was a lofty goal, but I guess if you were in the shooting mood, you might as well shoot for the moon.

I squeezed between two tables, making my way to the rear of the restaurant. Once I pushed open the doors, my nose was blasted with the smell of food and too much heat contained in one place.

So much for being a cook…

My conspicuous lack of expertise in a kitchen was evident. I knocked over a tray of ice water, bent over to help the server, then rose up, and cracked my head on his elbow. Scrambling to pick up the broken glass, I subsequently tripped yet another server, fool enough to stand by me. Before I could mutter “Sorry,” minestrone soup dripped down my white shirt from yet a third party.

Someone held out a towel and dabbed at my arms. “Girl, you’re a walking disaster,” he chuckled.

Yeah, I was a keeper. When I smeared a carrot into the fabric, I gave up figuring I was making it worse. “I guess you’re not going to hire me now, are you?” I laughed.

“I’ll just tell the boss it was me. I’m not the most coordinated of individuals, either. I’m Hank Henry,” he smiled. I blinked. Opened my mouth. Then did the whole ritual again three times. Lo and behold, I stared speechless into the face of the man I’d been searching for … call me lucky.

Or destined for a bullet of some kind.

Hank looked nice enough … but what did I really know? There was a lumberjack look about him: big, burly, and getting by on his own brawn. His face was round like Cisco’s, with light blond hair, clothed in head-to-toe Serendipity black. On further review, I didn’t think he was the “bullet kind” because even though he had a ready smile, his eyes were undeniably sad—like they’d seen more pain than any one person deserved.