by A. J. Lape
Let me know now, I thought. Let me know, so I don’t die a slow and agonizing death, questioning. Questioning if I’d put more into the relationship than he had—more love, more loyalty, more crying into my pillow because I missed him. Dylan was the type of boyfriend who would drive across town to give me fresh-baked cookies from his mother, who wrote love letters when the art was lost decades ago, who made me the wallpaper on his phone and computer, and who let me bawl like an idiot when PMS had me in its grip. But was that activity merely clever cover-ups?
Brunette Starlet and her wicked bikini wanted him regardless…and was prepared to break the Tenth Commandment acquiring them.
With an indignant scoff, she gave her hair a violent toss—like she couldn’t believe how ridiculous it was for Dylan to not pursue her. “I wish he was a cheat,” she muttered. Her eyes trailed off, an aggravated sigh in the midst of them. “Not that I haven’t tried. Hell, everyone’s tried. He’s unbelievably sweet and gives one hundred percent of his attention when you talk, but to the best of my knowledge, he’s never strayed. Or, it’s possible he’s just a really smart cheat and does it on the down-low. God knows there’s a lot of that going around.”
I swallowed. True. Dylan wasn’t an idiot. For godsakes, his grandfather was a cop. He knew all about covering his tracks. “What’s his girlfriend like?” I asked, fighting nausea.
She rolled her eyes. “Cliché,” she mumbled. “Tall, blond, probably not smart.”
I hated this ’ho.
My lips circled the straw. “Oh, yeah?” I said, taking a small sip. “I heard she was going to be a police officer. She should at least get points for civic service.”
“Jeez, maybe I’ll get lucky, and she’ll get shot.” Okay, rude. “But seriously, how smart can she be?” she muttered, giving her hair a proverbial hair flip. “She has to know girls are all over him. I mean, I see it myself. Plus, he’s going places. Who doesn’t want to go along for the ride? I could stay home. Do nothing. That would be the perfect life. Or maybe he’d let me be his sidepiece. Like literally. I’d def be down with being his roadie concubine.”
So much for women’s lib.
Truth was, Brunette Starlet, tapped into my deepest fears in a couple of sentences. Of course, others found him attractive. And of course, his upward mobility was just as attractive to the gold digger type. I had the overwhelming need to look in a mirror—compare myself to these two and see if I came up lacking.
Blond Looker finally found her voice, popping a hip out in jeans that upholstered a butt so tight I would’ve sworn she had a basketball down her pants. “He’s just got the greatest smile,” she gushed. “I had a class with him freshman year, and three years later, I still get butterflies when I see him.”
Dylan’s smile reminded me of a California sunset on the Santa Monica Pier. It was infinitesimal. I somehow swallowed down the bitch-bomb on my tongue and kept listening.
That conversation was ten minutes of pure hell, but both knew quite a bit of campus dirt. To my chagrin, neither had heard of Mark Malone or had any gossip other than what I already knew. So quick summary? Batting zero.
Sliding into an empty seat at the bar, I regrouped, talking to a basketball player beside me. I’d met him once Dylan’s sophomore year. A seven-footer, he was black with muscles that should be included as one of those ancient wonders of the world. I poured on the charm, hoping the Black Widow look kept my true identity incognito. “Hey,” I said.
He gazed down at me with bedroom eyes, grinning. “Helloooooo, beauty. Can I freshen up your drink?”
I took a short sip through the straw. “Nah, I’m good. Speaking of good, though,” I said, angling toward him, “do you know how those people are who were stabbed last weekend? Are they going to be all right?”
He swiveled his body toward me, ready to dish. “They’re all going to make it. Scarier than shit though. I never liked York, so it didn’t surprise me.”
I gave him my doe-eyed look of innocence. “Did you know York well?”
He downed his drink in one gulp, motioning for number two when the bartender’s eyes drifted to his empty cup. “No. I ran into him a couple of times in the gym, but he’s kind of like a rotting compost, you know? You smell his stench a million miles away.”
I lifted the straw to my lips once more, taking another small sip. “Wasn’t his target Willow Taylor? That’s just so scary.”
He grimaced and fidgeted with his white oxford. Like he needed to distract himself from the horror playing in his mind. “Jesus, when I heard he attacked her, I wanted to gut him myself. She’s in here a lot. Classy lady and might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Well, there’s one other,” he digressed, sighing wistfully, “but she’s been hard to snag. Anyway,” he muttered again, leaning into me, “regarding York, I think he was trying to hurt Taylor by hurting her. They’re related, and York hates Dylan Taylor like he’s the Antichrist.”
“Why hate on Dylan Taylor?” I asked, wanting to hear what others thought about my boyfriend.
The guy next to Seven-Footer pitched two fingers toward the server to bring two more orders of hot wings. “Because he’s Dylan Taylor,” was his reasoning.
Dylan didn’t fulfill expectations. He shattered them. My eyes ping-ponged between them because I wanted all innuendo spelled out. “What does that mean?” I said, calling up the doe-eyed stupidity again.
Seven-Footer murmured, “It means he’s the best Florida football has ever seen, and York’s ego took a nosedive. York was a walk-on anyway, so he had a chip on his shoulder to begin with. But Coach Scott is a redeemer. Got the biggest heart in the world and will give anyone a second chance. Giving York one?” He exhaled a grunt. “Let’s just say, I heard Coach Scott isn’t sleeping too well.”
I’d had my own secret relationship with Coach Woody Scott senior year. I personally phoned and told him Florida was Dylan’s dream school and to step up the recruiting efforts. He showed Dylan the father-figure Seven-Footer referred to, and Dylan signed on the dotted line. To this day, Dylan still didn’t know of my involvement.
The guy next to him whistled low, diving into one of his just-delivered wings and cleaning it like it had been power-washed. “Have you ever seen Taylor’s girlfriend? Blond. Nice ass. Gorgeous face. Funny as hell…but she’s got a dark side.”
More Bambi eyes. “Like how dark? Like devil-worship dark?”
Seven-Footer chuckled deeply. Okay, that was an idiotic follow-up, but I blamed it on jetlag. “No, she’s just not your normal date,” Seven-Footer added. “That one’s a little—”
“Unstable?” the guy next to him said, putting words in his mouth.
The asshole. Scuse my French.
I automatically leaned toward him, reminding my brain to keep my hands to myself and not slug him. “Define unstable,” I said.
“She sharks,” was his answer, “and I hear she’s smarter than Einstein. Conner told me she’s in the LAPD Academy. What girl wants to take on the streets of LA?”
Seven-Footer had my back. He snagged one of his friend’s wings and ripped a bite out of it, wiping his mouth with the napkin under his glass. “The good kind, dumbass. Taylor’s in love because she’s different. Not like everyone else who’s up his ass.”
My heart did a somersault. Pounded. Then I think it quit altogether. Everyone was verifying he had multiple females up in his business. A guy verifying was totally different than a girl though. Girl’s tended to speak with their hearts and hurt feelings. Guy tended to be all logic.
“Oh, does he have someone else on the side?” my voice squeaked. “Some athletes get around,” I said. Seven-Footer wrinkled his nose, grinning. “Present company excluded,” I quickly added.
Beyoncé said it best: Was there a Becky-with-the-good-hair I didn’t know about?
A deep baritone voice I craved right then split through all the conversation. My heart tripped over itself. Just trip-trip-and a trippety-trip it went. One nervous glance over my shoulder, an
d I spied his infamous grin. Dylan had been released from the hospital and was here.
I repeat: Dylan is here. Out of the hospital. Probably against medical advice.
Dare I say, DUMB?
I sat there frozen, my brain arguing with my fight or flight instinct to get with the program and protect my one-hundred-and-thirty-pound body of idiocy. I felt faint. The pukes. God help me, diarrhea was punching at my gut. How would he not sniff me out? I quickly spun, placing my back to him. I didn’t move. Breathe. Didn’t do anything except shove my hand in Seven-Footer’s wings and stuff one in my mouth.
Chapter 11
WHO WOULD BAIL IN THE MIDDLE OF CARDI B?
This had to be a heart attack: I had left arm pain, chest discomfort, nausea, a cold sweat, and my BP was in the toilet…
I’m going to die on a barstool dressed like the Black Widow…with a scrawny chicken wing in my mouth.
What a way to go.
Like the idiot that I was, I slid an eye over my shoulder again. Yup. The night kept imploding. Long-legging it our way was Hootie James. Weary and hunched over, Hootie reminded me of an old man. Like his brain weighed two tons underneath his pony-tailed dreadlocks, and he was about to collapse from the weight. He sidled up next to me and practically fell into the open seat. Laid his head on the bar. Picked it back up.
Yep. Heart attack on my end.
I placed my hand on my sternum. Trying to convince my heart to stay behind it. If Hootie and/or Dylan discovered me? Let me put it this way. That myocardial infarction would be a blessing.
“Why the hell is Taylor here?” Seven-Footer asked Hootie.
Hootie paid me no attention. Even from my periphery, I found Hootie’s eyes to be large and rimmed in white. Hootie was afraid—something that didn’t happen often. “Taylor’s ready for round two, you feel me?” he answered. “He’s sending a message not to mess with him. His girl got attacked last weekend too, so he’s pissed and needs an outlet.” Hootie rubbed a hand down his face. “I told him not to worry about Darcy.”
“Should you call her and ask her to contact him?” Seven-Footer asked.
Hootie rolled his eyes, releasing a chuckle with little mirth. “Listen, if she was here, she would be parading him through the place with a party hat.”
No, I wouldn’t. I would choose fireworks and a piñata. Maybe an all-you-can-eat buffet and goodie bags. The idiot.
Seven-Footer gripped another wing and started to chew. “I think she grounds him in a little bit more reality than that, Hootie. I’ve heard him talk about her.”
Hootie shoved his hand in a bowl of nearby bar nuts, tossing a few of the E. coli-ridden legumes down the hatch. “Yeah, well, there’s too much reality,” he said. “That’s the problem. The girl has the Grim Reaper all over her ass on the reg.”
Aw, D. I’m definitely your cross to bear.
“This is going to be a disaster,” Seven-Footer mumbled. “What idiot brought him?”
Hootie slowly raised a guilty hand and glanced heavenward. The bartender misread his cue and brought him a glass of beer. Hootie was twenty-one, so the alcohol was legal, but not legal for the athletic department rules. Seven-Footer waved the beer off, telling the bartender to make it a soft drink. Ah, Hootie. Everyone knows how to run your life but you. “Conner and I did,” Hootie admitted. “We’re both sweating bullets, but Taylor’s not a guy you tell no. His dad is gonna kill every single one of us. As soon as he got on a plane, Dylan set this plan into motion. Hell, he probably knew he was going to do it days ago.”
His words didn’t shock me. Dylan didn’t take attacks lightly, and in all honesty, I should’ve predicted as much. Dylan wouldn’t go to his corner and York to his, and they both just stare and play nice. York started it? Dylan would make sure he ended it. So even if York was in jail, Dylan would want the story of him returning to his almost-death scene to filter back to him.
“How’s Lively?” Seven-Footer quizzed him.
“Only had two headaches today,” Hootie hissed. “York really messed up his eye, but this time last week, he was in pain 24/7 and sitting in the dark. So at least he’s somewhat better.”
Seven-Footer took a glimpse over his shoulder, presumably to find Dylan. “So what exact point is Taylor trying to make? I feel like there’s more to this.”
As did I…
Hootie groaned. “One of the guys is still at large. We’re pretty sure it’s either Booker, Kessler, or some new guy they’d been hanging around with. No one knows his name. Willow only knows the guy had ink on his arms. Keep a lookout, and can I count on you to have Taylor’s back if everything goes to shit like it did last weekend?”
“Hell, yeah,” Seven Footer answered.
A testament to the sobering fact I just might be forgettable to the opposite sex, Seven-Footer and his friend lost interest once they told Hootie they would have Dylan’s back. I chose that time to travel deeper into the club, finding a spot on the opposite end of the room, still within good eyeshot of my boyfriend. Emotion bloomed in my chest while I focused on his six-foot-six frame. His jaw was dusted with the dark stubble of his beard, and a white ball cap was the perfect accessory to jet-black hair a little on the long side. Wearing dark jeans and a red polo, his weight appeared to be the same. He still bulged in all the right places, but he moved carefully—like he was stiff from a sedentary week in bed. The cuts on his cheeks were nearly gone, and his knuckles appeared to have healed or at least weren’t an angry red anymore. A stark soberness had invaded his aura that wasn’t a normal fixture of his personality. No wonder girls couldn’t get enough of him. Not only did he give great face, but he held a mystery—thoughts and unanswered questions that lay behind haunted, amber-colored eyes.
My heart twisted. After a weekend with Dylan, reentry into everyday life was hard. Seeing him and not being able to touch him? It was just one more chapter in our love story that had more sad moments than happy lately. I wanted to run to his arms, wail, and weep like there was no tomorrow, just like some sappy Hallmark commercial. Almost like a divining rod drawing us together, he swiveled my way and traveled toward me on a determined gait. Ruh-roh. He knew…and had somehow smoked me out. The moment I nearly 86’d the charade and outed myself, an Amazonian blond knifed up out of her seat and ambushed him—bringing all kinds of feminine wiles with her. Drop-dead gorgeous, she had cornflower blue eyes and wore a skintight white sweater dress with a red and gray flannel shirt tied at the waist.
When I wore flannel, it looked like I’d just returned from logging at the sawmill. Just sayin’.
They stood on the edge of the dance floor, their backs to the dancers. “Dylan?” she said sultrily, slinking her over-six-foot body with spiky heels into his personal space.
Dylan rotated toward her voice but trained an eye over his shoulder while she spoke, almost like his internal bells and whistles alerted him I was nearby. In full-on panic mode, I stood but walked in a half-slump, maneuvering my way through the crowd and boogying onto the dance floor to get away from direct eyeshot. Ducking down behind some big dude, I stumbled back a few feet when someone wrapped a heavy arm around my waist, pivoting me into his hips. I gasped in profuse and utter shock, taken aback someone had pulled me so close it was like we played a game of 1v1.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” the guy hissed.
I shakily gazed up into the eyes of Boozy. “I was looking for the tuna fish sandwich I stashed in Dylan’s pocket,” I snapped.
Boozy rolled his eyes, back to dancing. “Oh well, then. Problem solved,” he fired back. “Let’s head back to LA.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. He was right, but I wouldn’t admit it. “Did you find out anything?” I whisper-yelled at him.
“Heard Dylan can fight like hell, but we knew that. Also heard he’s got a pretty clean rep. Knew that too. I showed your video to a couple of chicks.”
Bright pink lip gloss stained Boozy’s mouth. I thumbed it away, wondering (but not caring) what he’d done to gain
his information. “And?” I said.
“The guy whose forearms were hidden in the video? Name’s Mark Malone.”
So Twenty Bucks had been dead on the money.
“Can someone verify if he was here last weekend?” I quizzed him.
Boozy’s expression evolved into a delighted villain. “I can go one better. He has ink on his arms, and one of the chicks said she danced with him…reluctantly…’cuz he got pretty handsy. She was in the process of telling him to kiss her ass when he bailed in the middle of a Cardi B tune when York snapped his fingers.”
Booyah! That was definitive proof they’d been together. “Did you believe her?”
Boozy snorted. Adding on a second snort just for emphasis. “Hell, yeah. ’cuz who would bail in the middle of Cardi B?”
Boozy was the type of person who made your brain hurt one second but then made you smile right afterward. “Did you get her name?” I said.
“And her number.” He winked. “You worried about the blond chick?” he added. My grimace said it all. “She’s the Walmart, Darcy, okay? Don’t worry. She’s a solid four.”
Again, Boozy could make you grin when you needed it.
He maneuvered us to the back of Dylan, with one gyrating dancer in between, but close enough for me to hear a good portion of the conversation.
Dylan vacillated between staring into space and thumbing a text on his phone. He lifted his head when Amazonian Creature spoke to him again. “Sorry, Erin,” he murmured, giving her his full attention and trying to speak above the music. “Did you say something? I’m a little preoccupied,” he said offhandedly.
“I should be asking how you are,” she said in a sweet tone, her voice dripping with pure cane sugar. “I’ve been so worried. I called Lucas, but he really reined in his information.”