by A. J. Lape
True, left to my own devices, I did have a tendency to get into trouble. But I still intended to smack Paddy around upon introduction. I raised my chin a fraction. “What proof do you have?” I asked defensively. The one thing I did know was you’d better have proof of culpability before you accused anyone of anything.
“He has your transcript,” he said, holding up his index finger, “check stubs, IQ scores, your father’s credit rating, and photographs of you with my grandson,” he finished, holding up all five. “Believe me, he knows you.”
I grimaced, “He knows I’ve got bad grades?”
Lincoln removed his shoes, peeling off both socks. He balled them together and pitched them over the couch. “He thinks you’re bored out of your mind on a daily basis.”
“I kinda have attention deficit.”
He narrowed his eyes. “We all do, but my feeling is you only apply yourself on things you get obsessed with. You’re obviously extremely industrious, and his assessment is that you may have deviant tendencies. Plus, we know your father has a lengthy juvenile record in his past.”
He gave me the apple-doesn’t-fall-far-from-the-tree look. I tried my best to not seem like an apple, but I’m pretty sure I looked all red and shiny.
“Murphy’s a good man,” I mumbled.
Lincoln breathed deep, his eyes closing with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t say Murphy wasn’t a good man. I simply said he needed to entertain himself, too.”
Ahhhh, Murphy’s past … he used to gamble his brains out. Impulses like that never truly went away. You merely replaced it with something else. For Murphy, it was now food, fantasy baseball, fantasy football … you get the picture.
Colton thundered through the kitchen door, ready to ram bamboo shoots up my fingernails. Tromping past me, he opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of iced tea, then shoved the pitcher back inside, slamming the door even louder. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he complained, his black eyes narrowing. “You woke up in this mood, Darcy, and don’t think that I don’t know it was you that bamboozled me out of my shoes.”
Sheesh, I almost forgot. Before I went to bed, I literally threw Colton’s new leather golf shoes on the roof of the house. Why? The devil told me to. When he discovered them missing before breakfast, I even scoured the premises like a concerned citizen but admitted to nothing.
I’m going to Hell.
I’m going to rot down there with the fastard that shot Bambi’s mother.
When it was clear I stood on the losing side, I finally fessed up. “What is this, the righteous mob?” No one laughed. “Okay,” I sighed, “clearly you don’t find the humor in this. At least, promise you’re not going to tell Dylan.”
“Dylan already knows,” Lincoln muttered.
Son of a beast … all I needed was TAPS and the 21-gun salute.
One day soon, he’d issue a pink slip on our best friend status—mark my words. No one could take the continual drama that I brought along with me.
Lincoln rattled off how they’d busted me: I’d erroneously called Paddy; I’d repeatedly messed up his password which flagged the bigwigs; and I’d left a paper trail the length of Hawaii by ordering clothing from his laptop via Murphy’s credit card. His partners performed a trace. Ugh, elementary mistakes.
“How’d Dylan take it?” I whispered.
“Dylan hyperventilated on hole eleven,” Colton tag-teamed. “My son sat in the middle of the fairway, head between his legs, in utter disbelief what his favorite girl,” he snorted sarcastically, “was doing.”
Oh, God, I prayed. How much time was I looking at? Ten years? Twenty? Home for the holidays? “Can you grant me clemency or something?” I begged wide-eyed. “Community service? Work release? Promise of good behavior?”
“A trip to the clink is what you need,” Lincoln muttered. I didn’t want to debate my moral depravity, especially when it was so obvious.
“Are you going to tell Murphy?” I mumbled. Oh, boy, that wouldn’t produce anything but pain and suffering for all parties involved. My father had a way of making inanimate objects rue the day they were birthed into the imagination.
Colton narrowed his eyes. “That indicates I can’t control you, and calling your father will not only have you on the next flight home, but it will destroy my son, plus everyone else in the household.” He lowered his eyes, speaking even lower. “You’re going to behave.”
I wanted to vomit. I needed to upchuck all over the floor and be done with it. They knew, and I knew I’d be victim of my impulses until the day I died.
Lincoln chuckled when he eyed my panic. “Lighten up, dear. No charges are going to be filed, but you owe Paddy an apology. On the bright side, we’ll give you a job when you graduate. You might have a talent for profiling, and under my tutelage, the sky’s the limit.”
A fist slammed on the table … Colton’s.
“Darcy is not,” he interrupted, with emphasis, “going to pursue a career in law enforcement, Dad. You’d better count yourself lucky that your grandson didn’t hear that. God only knows what he’s truly capable of.”
Both abruptly stopped to ponder, flinched like they’d been hit in the head by a two-by-four, ending with a mutual shudder.
“What if I’d be good?” I interrupted.
Both were still stuck in the moment a good twenty seconds later. Lincoln looking at the ceiling; Colton into dead air.
“I have to do something,” I mumbled.
Colton gave his head a hard shake, scrutinizing my reaction. “Find something else,” he said. “I swear, dear. You and Sydney are going to kill me. I can’t ground you, and I try to ground Sydney, but she merely tolerates the conversation. The boys never give us any trouble.” I disagreed. Dylan never gave them any trouble. Zander, however, had been kissing girls since age seven, and I was pretty sure he’d mastered the European portion of the art.
“You’re mad,” I mumbled.
“I wouldn’t be a good father if I wasn’t.”
Colton had never figured out that I hadn’t been born from his DNA. Believe me, it had its perks. Times like these … notsomuch.
“They’re on the roof,” I blurted out, trying to smooth things over. “Your shoes are on the roof. You should’ve seen them when you backed out of the driveway. It’s honestly not my fault that your peripheral vision sucks.”
My word, was that what I called a concession speech?? I’d basically called the man an idiot.
Lincoln chuckled but squelched it down by swallowing water. Colton tabled his drink, talking überly slow. “What else … do you need … to confess?”
“Your password is Leo,” I said. Knew it was a mistake as soon as it fell out of my mouth. I actually waved my fingers in the air, trying to symbolically shove the faux pas back in.
“You’ve not been staying in your bed, I presume,” Colton exhaled. Well, duh. There was no rhyme or reason to why I said the things I did. I had foot-in-mouth disease. I opened my mouth and inserted my foot.
I’d rather kiss a blood-sucking leech than deal with Dylan when he was upset.
I whispered, “Are you miffed with me?” Dylan’s feet were outstretched, crossed at the ankles as he lounged on the couch in his bedroom. His body claimed he was relaxed; the clenched muscles in his neck screamed he was far from nirvana.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said quietly. Dylan lightly patted the seat next to him, and like man’s best friend, I trotted over and melted into his side. After Lincoln and Colton read me the riot act, I waited for Dylan to materialize … he didn’t. I pouted. Cried. Apologized profusely. When that didn’t accomplish anything, I slogged to his room, and here I was—salivating. Shirtless, he only sported gray athletic shorts, and suddenly, I wanted to snack on his boom-chicka-wow-wow abs.
Weird, I thought. All of these mixed emotions were confusing and plain, ole weird.
“Why didn’t you stick around?” For the flogging, I said in my head.
Dylan took my hand in his, holding
it to his cheek. “I can’t stomach to see someone discipline you, so I took a shower. Then I felt like I didn’t have your back, so I jumped out and toweled off only to talk myself out of it.” A panicked look crossed his face like he didn’t understand his own actions—as if foreign to his genetic code. “I’m a laidback, confident person, Darcy, but with you I break out into a cold sweat and get so insecure it scares me. I don’t like being scared,” he exhaled. “In fact, I… ”
Now, he seemed embarrassed … or mad. I wasn’t sure if he was mad at himself, the situation, me, or all three. Problem was, the rules in Darcyville didn’t always mesh with societies’. For someone like Dylan—who prided himself on religiously doing the right thing—just hanging with me required thinking outside the box. By the looks of things, maybe one too many times. “Where you’re concerned,” he continued, “my first instinct is to come up swinging. It always has been. Do I care? No. Will that change? Never. I admire your moral courage, sweetheart, but it’s extremely difficult for the people that love you. Ultimately, I suppose I wanted to see if you’d tell me,” he finished.
“I tell you everything,” I said. Eventually. And, by the way, I’m going to need a second to pull that arrow out of my heart. Dylan was a master at the guilt trip.
Dylan took a deep breath, emotions playing all over his face that I didn’t have the names for. “You do,” he admitted, “but most usually it’s after the fact.”
“It’s just…” I said. “It’s just…” I tried again. “Well, what should—”
Dylan was a good listener, compassionate. He not only answered your questions. He answered those you were too afraid to ask. He tenderly sighed, “It’s just that you’re sure of yourself, and now you’re afraid of the information.”
The tears took me by storm, and when I tried to speak, all that came out was garbled embarrassment. Before my feministic side disapproved, I went old school and crawled onto his lap, burying my face in the side of his neck. Yep. Old school. Girlfriend behavior. When females let the males in their lives solve whatever had gone wrong.
“Ah, Darc. Don’t cry,” he soothed, rubbing my back.
“I know what I saw, D. I really, really s-saw him.”
Dylan made slow circles around the middle of my back. “Sshh, I believe you, it’ll be okay.”
Dylan needed to join the rest of us back on planet Earth. This wasn’t okay … and it wouldn’t be okay until Cisco had black hair again.
“I’m just so frustrated,” I sniffed. “I wouldn’t have gotten caught if I’d figured out the password sooner.”
“No, but your actions were tantamount to breaking a half dozen laws.”
“Does it matter if it was for a good cause?” I justified.
Dylan pulled a tissue from his nightstand, gently placing it in my hand. “Unfortunately, yes,” he murmured. “My grandfather is sworn to uphold the law.”
I adamantly shook my head, honking my nose like a foghorn into the tissue. “He won’t do anything.”
I hoped.
Dylan sighed so hard it had to have hurt. “No, he loves you, and his partners found it entertaining. But just because you have friends in high places, that doesn’t mean you can keep sticking your neck out like you do. I swear, sweetheart, one of these days it’s going to get chopped off.”
18. A SATIRICAL AFFAIR
SOMEONE ONCE SAID, BEAUTY IS in the eye of the beholder. The originator of that slogan had people like me in mind. I’d gone to bed hoping I woke up a pussycat doll; instead, I was HAZMAT suit material. My hair looked like nuclear waste. My hoping hadn’t garnered much success in life … but I was due.
I was soooo freaking due.
It didn’t sit well with my self-image when we ate at a restaurant called Ember last night, either. I’d never seen so many beautiful people in one location in my life. It’s like Venus opened up and dropped them by the handful. I made plans to return when I wasn’t so visually offensive.
And even though Dylan was dying to ride that mechanical bull, we didn’t make it to the country bar like we’d planned, opting to swim at the clubhouse. I got the impression the family wanted us “close to home.” In other words, “Don’t let Darcy off the leash.”
I opted not to buck the system and just save my breath.
Kyd texted before bedtime and reported that Lola traveled in well-connected circles. She played with a congressman, mayor, and a few local businessmen and women. He claimed someone named “Ivanhoe” was her confidant and knew her every move—if he didn’t orchestrate them himself. I got the feeling Lola willingly made herself a puppet, which could be good, I guess, if the puppeteer pulled you in a direction you didn’t mind going. If he didn’t? Well, perhaps that, in itself, was Lola’s problem.
Troy phoned and said he’d had little luck finding information on Fix It, Incorporated but had a friend at the Better Business Bureau digging around … were these guys legit, etcetera. He also landed another interesting find: Livingston & Associates declared bankruptcy three months ago, and no one answered his endless knocking. Could that be why Howie started gambling? He needed the money? Howie was definitely involved in the Cisco Medina case because the note in his mouth had “Medina” scrawled on it. Unfortunately, I might never know the extent of his involvement since his former employer had gone belly-up. Whatever the case, my fascination with Howie came to a premature end. As industrious as I was, no way in the world could I get past the extra security screen within the NCIC database, and after my latest hack-in, Lincoln probably had it booby-trapped anyway.
I liked Troy, believe it or not—in spite of the flirting. He’d just graduated from college and was trying to make a name for himself, waiting on that big break. He sounded desperate, and desperation was one word I’d recognize in Braille. But who were we? All we knew was the stench around this case was like smelly cheese, and if we had any talent in life, it’s that our noses never steered us wrong. Problem was, my big girl voice, i.e. my adult voice, didn’t always come into play. I slipped in and out of teenage vernacular when excited. Troy had to have noticed the “omigoshes” and “no-ways,” or maybe his lack of comment was a true testament to his distress.
After breakfast, Sydney and I borrowed Willow’s red convertible Audi R8—what I liked to refer to as “Six Figures of Oh. My. God.” She peeled out of the driveway, hit I-drive, and drove off to the nearest beauty salon. We found a Cosmetology School close by. Stepping through the door, I swallowed the golfball-sized lump in my throat.
Beauty and me … a satirical affair.
While my stylist prayed to the hair gods, Sydney strolled next door to a tattoo parlor and phoned when she spontaneously decided to ink herself. I didn’t do anything drastic with my hair, but regarding the overall assessment, it probably wasn’t a good sign when the stylist threw in a brow waxing for free. She either felt my hair was beyond help or was too nice to say I had a freaking unibrow. But now that I was mid-makeover, I decided a tattoo might be fun. My last go-around with a henna tramp stamp proved catastrophic. Real ink might be the answer. Trouble was, when the decision stood before you, you had to determine quickly what you’d like to have on your body for the rest of your life.
Pat Benatar’s Hit Me With Your Best Shot blasted me in the chest as soon as I cut through the door. I’d never frequented a body shop, but this place wasn’t the sleazy, needle-infected joints of the motion picture industry. These were high-class artists, probably pulling down a hefty paycheck. Sydney sat in a black swivel chair in the rear, talking to a woman who looked like she ate eyeballs for breakfast, skulls-and-crossbones for supper. Around Sydney’s height, she had the build of a swimsuit model with short, spiky pink hair, and cat-shaped orbs for eyes. At quick count, eight piercings stabbed one ear with multiple tattoos down her back, peaking outside her blue, lacy tank top.
Three other artists inked away on other clients, which left one lone station directly across from Sydney. I skipped back and jumped into it.
“Hi, I’m Spike,�
�� Sydney’s artist smiled at me. “Hector will be with you in a sec.” Sydney excitedly perused picture books, while admiring the navel stud of Spike who’d exposed her rock-hard abs for appraisal.
“Spike?” I grinned.
“Kimberly,” she grinned even bigger. “Spike sounds—”
“Like I should avoid you in a dark alley,” I interrupted.
Spike threw her head back and laughed, unleashing an infectious personality that, no doubt, was the life of the party. She was naughty, she was brazen, and she had that to heck-with-the-world attitude. My word, I’d found my long, lost sister.
Almost on cue, Hector entered the room, swinging through rainbow-colored wooden beads, dangling from a back office. “Hey, chicky,” he smiled. “You here for me?”
Hector was very Latino looking with long, curly black hair and tattoos down both arms in red and orange flames. The Virgin Mary capped out one deltoid; El Diablo topped the other.
I gave him a lot of teeth. “Yes, I’m here for you.”
Hector immediately cleaned his station, spritzing antibacterial fluid on the counter, and wiping it clean. “What’s up?” he asked. “If you’re here for me, you must need something kept on the down-low. People that sit in my chair usually have secrets.”
Oh, goody. As luck would have it, Destiny picked the right chair.
Destiny or stupidity.
I said the first thing that popped into my mind, realizing it was a long shot that he’d know Lola Medina personally. But, then again, her son’s disappearance had been big news here for a while, so he’d at least have a valid opinion. “Well, how are you on the low-down?” I whispered for effect. “Because I’d like the scoop on Lola Medina.”
Hector shivered and stole a glance at the door as though he expected highway patrol to crash through with submachine guns. His breathing intensified to 5K level, and he stood straighter, defensive. “That’s a pretty big, dangerous scoop you’re after,” he muttered, “and you’re dressed very Midwest: tank top, tiny shorts, and a nice, sexy legitimate tan.” Actually, I’d dressed in jock-girl chic—green Adidas from head-to-toe—but I’d never turn down a compliment that included the word sexy. “Why are you concerned with someone who can count cards that has a little boy missing?” he frowned.