by A. J. Lape
Lincoln’s anger dehydrated first, followed by Alexandra’s at a close second. Colton’s forgiveness was halfway there, and Susan still disciplined me with every breath. Zander hovered at euphoria while Sydney didn’t seem to mind that I broke up Rock & Republic’s shoe duo. As a matter of fact, she said those shoes weren’t even hers.
Dylan remained Dylan … disturbingly incapable of judging me.
“Paddy and I’ve been batting around your theory that there might be two Turkey’s,” he murmured. “We’re running his photographs through a facial recognition program to see if we can catch any subtle differences. If we’re lucky, Turkey will lead us to someone else.”
“I thought he was the point guy,” I said confused, plopping down beside him.
“One guy doesn’t wield that much power, Darcy. Not someone that society would deem moderately successful, at best. We’re looking for a bigger bank account.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet. Intuition tells me Turkey is up to something that my source isn’t aware of. I’m beginning to wonder about the third family that he’s representing.”
Ditto on the wondering…
Detective Battle contacted Lincoln on Monday, and evidently, the conversation got pretty hairy. Grizzly’s building had basically been scrubbed clean because when a group of detectives went in to investigate, they found nothing but a spotless facility. What did they expect, the pinky finger wrapped up next to a box of Godiva chocolates? Sometimes I wondered about people, I really did. Battle also claimed that the red Porsche Turbo belonged to a man named Isaac Washington. Trouble was, Isaac Washington’s license hadn’t expired even though he had. He died less than a year ago, and his nephew sold it for cash to Albert Jones. When Detective Battle contacted Albert Jones, he confessed he resold the car in a street deal—to a man—before he had a chance to re-license it. In short, an unknown man drove a dead man’s car that still had legitimate license plates. “X” hadn’t been assigned as a vanity plate for who currently drove the car. It happened to come with the ride.
“Did you ever think X might be Grizzly?” I asked him. “Maybe Elmer’s a front. Maybe he’s there to make the infamous X look legitimate. The man that originally owned the car is currently six feet under, and Albert Jones said he resold it to another man. Walter Ivanhoe could be that man.”
Lincoln grinned, making both of his dimples scrunch up happily. “Good girl, Darcy. It did cross my mind. He would be playing twice, which would certainly up his odds of winning.”
“Will they pull the Turbo over for questioning?”
“Battle will, if he can find it. Our guess is—”
“Lola’s driving it,” I completed.
Lincoln chuckled, placing his arm over my shoulder. “The teacher is pleased with his student.”
Once again, Lincoln longingly looked at the door. It reminded me of when I opened my last report card. You hoped it would be an occasion to celebrate, but experience told you the futile hoping sometimes caused more pain than the reality. The hoping only verified that your prayers had been ignored.
“Is Willow due home today?” I asked quietly.
He expelled a resigned yet optimistic sigh. “I pray so. She actually returned my call today, so that’s a step in the right direction.” He took a few moments to let that statement clear from his mind. “May I ask you a question?”
Lincoln had this gift. It was like mental sodium pentothal or truth serum. One look, and you’d confess the crap you’d been doing or your deepest darkest feelings on anything. My gut alerted me his question would be extremely personal. “Anything,” I answered.
“How do you and your father do it?” he murmured. “Murphy’s personality is not unlike parts of mine. How does he manage to be your friend while still fathering you?”
Gee, I’d never really thought of our relationship in those terms. “He doesn’t expect a lot from me,” I shrugged. Lincoln narrowed his eyes, almost defensive. “Don’t get me wrong. He expects me to try my best,” I explained, “but he knows that it’s difficult at times. Let’s face it, Lincoln, I’ve got some things working against me, and it hurts him. He’s just happy with what he gets. He lectures, but at the end of the day, he’s a great listener and gets over things easily. Perhaps,” I whispered, “Willow has some things that make it hard for her.”
The way he handled his daughter might be the only thing Lincoln had ever debated in his life. Most things were black and white with him; Willow was a rainbow.
“Do you ever let her in on your life?” I asked.
“Rarely.”
“Maybe if you did, then she’d feel inclined to share, too. I told Murphy once that I thought Dylan had a really cute butt.”
Sweet, God Almighty … I actually said that.
He raised a brow, choking on a laugh. “How’d that go?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, but you get my point, right?”
“I get your point, dear.”
“Why don’t you go to her?”
He exhaled, “A lot of people want me dead. So when Willow got the bright idea to drop my last name, I faded into the background and never fought it.” It had never entered my mind that his exile had been self-imposed. “In the grand scheme of things, it’s worked well,” he murmured. “As far as I can tell, none of my enemies know of anyone other than Colton, and my boy can fend for himself. Colton’s never broadcast the fact that Willow’s his sister, and that wasn’t only to legitimize her talent, it was mostly at my request.”
“That stinks,” I whispered.
“It’s safe,” he said. Squeezing me into a tight hug, both of us felt like we were at the mercy of someone else. I hated that feeling. Life didn’t dole out mercy much; and unfortunately, when it did, it didn’t always cut to the core of your pain.
A few minutes before one o’clock, Lincoln’s jaw had dropped comatose, and Dylan was heavy breathing like a weirdo at a peep show. I, however, felt like someone lit a firecracker up my behind.
I needed to run.
Well, I needed to run or kill Grizzly in his sleep, and the first one sounded like the option I could live with until I bought one of those Murder for Dummies books.
“Up and at ’em stud,” I whistled, jostling Dylan awake.
Dylan drew in a quick gasp of breath rolling to his stomach, the sheets skimming dangerously low on his hips. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth, frowning at my own thoughts. This didn’t feel like me … not with anyone … especially not with Dylan. Darcy and Dylan—best friends, nothing more. He probably looked ugly and disfigured and totally repulsive under the sheets anyway.
Riiiiight … and I had some swampland in Tallahassee that was alligator-free.
“Oh, God,” he prayed.
“Please, God,” I said giggling.
Dylan tugged the pillow over his head and mumbled, “Not again.”
I lugged the pillow away. “Let’s jog, Big Man,” I laughed. Dylan palmed his eyes, leaning over to squint at the clock.
“You need to run at 1AM?” he grimaced. I jogged in place, kicking my knees high like a marching band. I’d already inserted my contacts and switched out of my pajamas, wearing red Nike jogging clothes and sneakers. Under the erroneous assumption I’d go away, Dylan rolled to his side. I blasted the TV, switched on the lights, and drew the blinds up—allowing the moonlight to shine mercilessly in his face. “You’re evil,” he moaned in torment. “I swear, Darcy, you’re absolutely pure evil.”
I broad jumped onto his bed, continuing the jog. “I’ve got restless legs syndrome. They’re creeping and crawling, and I need to get all of those little critters off of them.”
Dylan threw back the covers and lazily swung his legs over the bed. I turned around for him to pull on the shorts he’d discarded earlier. After a few seconds, I bounced to the floor and onto his bare back. One would think that would’ve gone well; Dylan could strong-arm an elephant, except he was still partially asleep. Stumbling forward, he went down on
one knee, my head bonked the back of his skull, his cheek grazed the tile, and before I could apologize, we tangled together like monkeys in a barrel.
Oh boy … Me likey being a monkey.
“My cheek is broken,” he moaned.
“We can go slowly if you need a Band-Aid,” I said, hugging him to the floor.
Dylan reached back and yanked my hair … hard. Shoot. Hormones bubbled like the hot springs in Arkansas. And why pick now? I thought hormones bubbled when you were at a candlelit dinner, wearing nice clothes, saying inappropriate things to one another … not when something felt painful.
Ugh, what did I know.
“Don’t insult me, Darcy,” he murmured. “Whenever you beat me, it’s because I let you. I need a new best friend. One that lets me sleep. One that doesn’t take off in the middle of the night to jump from a window. You’re not normal, sweetheart, and when I’m not afraid of the answer, maybe I’ll investigate what that says about me.”
Murphy raised me, for God’s sake. He wasn’t Mother Goose.
But I wouldn’t allow that slam to go unanswered. “Listen, bud. You wouldn’t like me if I was boring, and if I’m not normal, you’re even more abnormal for being cognizant of the fact and not breaking up with me.”
Oh, crap. If he broke up with me, I’d die.
Dylan burst forth a hearty laugh, unoffended. He shoved us off the tile, wiggled his jaw around, and motioned for me to jump on piggyback style. He then led us down the hall into the kitchen to disarm the security system. “Are your eyes closed?” he teased. They actually were. I didn’t want nor need the temptation.
“Yes, master,” I replied. “They’re closed.” He punched in a sequence, and when the light went green, I slid down his back while he laced up his sneakers he’d left by the door. After quickly penning Lincoln a note, he grabbed his black Ranger cap off the table and flipped it around with the bill facing backwards.
The moon haloed overhead as we stepped outside and took off at a record mile pace. Normally, it might be eerie and spooky, but with Dylan, it seemed normal and nice. The air smelled of a fresh sea breeze, and the only sounds distinguishable were the chirp of crickets, a warble of a bullfrog, and the song of a lonely dove.
As the leaves gently whipped in the breeze, he asked, “What’s bothering you?”
Like a moron, I said, “Nothing.”
“You always experience insomnia when something’s bothering you sweetheart, because it’s not normal to run at this hour.” Dylan and I turned the first corner, and although I wanted to divulge my suspicions about Lola, Elmer, and X, I reduced my explanation to the simplest of terms.
“I saw him, D.” We jogged a couple of hundred yards before he responded.
“I believe you, Darc. I’m just trying to determine how to help you.”
“Well, start thinking … because vacation’s almost over.”
We jogged the length of a football field when Dylan murmured, “Anything else?”
Picking up speed, I spit it out, along with whatever breath remained in my body. “Your parents … hate me,” I huffed.
Dylan giggled like a little girl. “My parents love you and are trying to keep Murphy from killing you. It’s purely an act of mercy.” It didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like pariah. Truth of the matter, I deserved to be treated like a pariah. I needed an act of contrition, but unfortunately, those sorts of acts were alien to me.
My brain operated on sin.
Sweat rolled down my face and pooled at my lower back. I now needed a shower. “This was stupid,” I giggled.
“You seem to attract stupid,” he chuckled with a snide undertone. That undertone held another meaning. A meaning meant for my new brothers.
“You’re mad,” I said, but he didn’t respond. “Don’t be angry with Kyd and Tricky because I know … you are.” They’d both telephoned daily, and Dylan went three shades of anger when I answered. It’s not like we were having a tête-à-tête about another date with OBT. They simply checked to ensure all my body parts were intact after our unexpected skydive.
“I’m not angry,” he said smoothly. Lie, lie, lie.
Dylan’s voice didn’t convulse nearly as much as mine, but something unstable boiled beneath it.
“Then what … makes you angry?” I wheezed.
“Nothing ever really … bothers me. The only thing that bothers me … is what is bothering you.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. “So Kyd and Tricky were bothering me,” I pushed. Dylan’s thighs beautifully bit the pavement, the sinews tightening and hinting of an extraordinary power. His landscape was ridiculously unreal. With each length of his gait, his legs rolled and dripped with sweat. For a brief second of madness, I wanted to lap it up. Good God, Almighty. I needed a chastity belt ... or my lady parts removed. My thoughts went beyond weird. I usually lived for weird, but this felt too weird, even for me.
I hadn’t gathered Dylan spoke until he said, “What’s wrong?”
I’m a hoochie momma in the making, that’s what’s wrong, I thought.
“I don’t get it,” I muttered, trying to explain my behavior.
“Okay,” Dylan sighed, “I suppose I’m somewhat angry. They put you in jeopardy.”
“I asked Kyd to help me, D. There’s no sense in getting your panties in a bunch.”
“Oh, my panties are in a bunch all right. You’re my guest. They knew better, and notice they aren’t calling me to offer any explanation.” That would be like asking someone to stay away from flesh-eating bacteria. Only a moron wouldn’t heed the warning.
I coughed out, “D, they’re my brothers. I promise that I’ll love … your future girlfriend … so you must promise to love my brothers … I already have.” I hated his girlfriend, but if I said that out loud, perhaps it would convince my brain otherwise.
“I’m not promising that,” he grumbled.
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
Dylan acted like his blood had iced-over, and for once was frugal with his words.
26. CATFIGHT
GUILT CONSUMED ME.
Should I even try to count up all of my offenses? If tapping into government property were frowned upon, walking into OBT would make a preacher swear. I was literally a victim of my own impulsivity. But I was 15 years old, and at this point, I’d learned to embrace my dysfunction. Maybe that was step-one to recovery, or maybe I’d learned to employ rationalization at its finest. Either way, the universe didn’t take too kindly when you rationalized. Right when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, life cut me off at the knees with another dose of how-low-can-you-go.
Yankee pranced inside the back pool entrance and was now an albino blonde. She’d either dumped a bottle of peroxide on her head or her hair aged fifty years overnight. My stomach burned and twisted, and it felt like I’d scarfed a jar of habanero peppers.
“Greetings, ladies,” she smirked. That statement felt as fake as her hair. She slinked over the black pavers in a barely-there red bikini, worming her way directly between Sydney and me who lay totally horizontal on chaise lounges. Today was convection-oven sweltering, and I’d been drinking everything in sight like a camel in the desert. I’d chugged two bottles of water, a can of Coke, and half a glass of iced tea and hadn’t had the need to tinkle once. Wearing my skimpiest of white bikinis, for me that meant the string part stretched two inches instead of one. For Sydney, it meant a pink piece of thread her mother made the sign of the cross over. They argued, but Sydney laughed and hiked it up higher.
“Where’s Dylan?” Yankee asked snootily.
“Out,” Sydney interrupted. Not true. Dylan had just swam two-dozen laps and stepped inside to watch a ballgame.
But guess what, Darcy’s lips were sealed.
Yankee lifted her chin in a pout. “I’ll wait.”
Whatever, I thought. And I hope you drop dead in the process.
“We should get to know each other, Darcy,” she said smugly. “We obviously will be spend
ing a lot of time together this year.”
Let’s hope not. When I didn’t answer and shockingly groaned, Yankee flipped the smugness into out-and-out hostility. Her head creepily snapped around like an owl, the front of her body not even moving. If this were a horror movie, I’d lay money she was the devil himself … or at least, his creepy pet.
“Let me ask again,” she hissed. “Do you care for him?”
“Of course, she does, Yankee,” Sydney angrily answered for me. “They’ve been together since they were six. No one’s ever going to break that bond.”
Yankee smirked, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
Sydney shoved her oversized, white sunglasses down over her eyes, symbolically blocking out the annoyance.
When Yankee continued to glare in my direction, my voice surprisingly found the appropriate sass. “I’m not going anywhere, Yankee … so deal.”
Sydney laughed louder than was probably warranted. God knew I bluffed, but this girl made me say and do things totally out of character.
Yankee sat down on the edge of my seat, perused her nails, and then gave my body a once-over like it was sub par. “You may think you have a chance, but he’s the type that bores easily. What do you think of that?”
Earth-shattering, actually.
Dylan was the type that appeared to lose interest once he got what he wanted. He conquered something then set out to find something else equally as challenging. We watched a commercial once where a guy sat in a recliner and bounced a ping-pong ball onto a coffee table, where it then hopped into a nearby cup. Dylan did that over and over until he could perform that feat on command. But once he’d mastered it, the ping-pong ball was history. Dylan tended to be highly driven or casually indifferent. What if he’d do that with me? Wouldn’t it be more logical to hold onto the friendship then try to rebuild after a breakup? But it was me, for God’s sake. When did I ever do logical?
“What’s his type?” she pushed.