100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  Repeat after me, I told myself. Dylan is bad. He’s like two-boxes-of-Twinkies bad.

  Mid-mantra, the tiny part of my soul that didn’t give a darn about a mantra decided to make a point.

  It was on like Donkey Kong.

  Murphy kept a glass jar on the counter he called the Stupid Jar. I’d toss fifty cents inside it when I did something stupid. I dropped two quarters in the bottom with a clang, manufactured some bedroom eyes, and painted a pouty look of seduction on my lips. Slinking closer, I said sultrily, “Spread ’em, Big Man.”

  I wasn’t sure if Dylan coughed in shock or giggled. “Yeah?” he verified.

  “Yeah,” I dared him.

  Dylan turned with a low chuckle and spread both palms on the wall, legs squared as wide as his shoulders. Now I’d seen my fair share of cop shows, so I was going to make sure he got the full-bodied treatment. Threading my fingers inside his, I let them linger for a beat and then slowly ran them down his arms, spanning the breadth of his shoulders and sliding south to his tight waist. Next I slowly, and I mean slooooowly, traveled the muscled circuit of his legs and back up between the thighs, ending at his hips. Feeling Dylan in his entirety—those muscles on top of muscles—I might’ve had my first religious experience. I crossed myself even though I wasn’t Catholic, and I didn’t know if that was in confession…or thanks.

  Dylan gasped and growled, “You’re evil.”

  I swallowed a laugh, thanking the hot boy gods that I copped a free feel. Thing was, I wasn’t through with him yet. I leaned into his back and whispered hotly in his ear, “Now it’s my turn.” Another growl. “You’re killing my buzz here, D. I’m going to take that as confirmation that I’ve won this round.”

  Dylan. Didn’t. Move.

  Smacking him on the rear, I grumbled, “Spoilsport,” and zipped my jacket to my chin, shoving his catatonic body out the door.

  I live in Buffalo Trails Country Club in Valley, Ohio. Trouble is, there’s no Club. When your community’s name is BTCC—and there’s no “CC”—you practically were the trailer park within the trailer park. We started out with the best of intentions, but the developer ran off with the homeowners’ money. The ’hood looked stupid with a sign that bragged BTCC and four measly golf holes.

  I lived only a few miles from school, but sometimes Dylan came early so we could take the long way through town. Sometimes we’d stop for coffee at United Dairy Farmers—my favorite coffee—or we’d grab a danish at Servatii’s in nearby Voice of America Plaza. Today he was tardy. He’d phoned and said something had gone wrong with his mother’s car, and he had to help fix a “ping.” I found that odd, especially since they had five cars on their property. Why obsess over the one that was sick? I frowned at my own thoughts because I didn’t understand why my unquestionable trust in him had faltered lately. It’s like I expected the worse, and a decade’s worth of memories and unwavering loyalty was being snuffed out by something I couldn’t see.

  One word when you stepped outside? Brrrrrr. Single digits cold. Not what you wanted to wake up to, but reality was like a cold shower on your back in Cincinnati. A look to the sky showed nimbus clouds; snow was coming.

  One of the major differences between Dylan and me was his blood ran volcano-hot, while mine ran ice-cold. So as he casually strutted to the car, I did a full-out sprint to his black Beemer and dove inside. Once settled in the heated leather seats, we backed out of the neighborhood.

  “I’m sore,” I complained. My hand felt like I’d dipped it in acid, and my left knee still oozed pus like a corpse that was mid-rot. Just the mention of the accident, however, and Dylan wanted to go bulldozer on the Ryan brothers. He tensed up, his fingers briefly gripping the steering wheel tightly. He reached out an arm. “Come here and let me love on you.”

  Dylan’s idea of “loving on you” was so provocative you felt like you needed to be behind closed doors. My word, we were best friends, but lately I’d heard the Indy 500 phrase, “Gentleman Start Your Engines,” accompanied with a black garter belt and fishnet stockings. I didn’t know what it meant but had a pretty good idea it spelled too much HBO and hormones on overdrive.

  He noticed I was somewhere else. “What’s wrong?”

  My explanation spilled out in a nervous giggle. “I’m thinking too hard, I guess.”

  I lay my head up against the window and regurgitated my mantra: Dylan is bad, two-boxes-of-Twinkies bad. This time I was determined to mean it. No frisking. Nothing that would FUBAR us any more than we already were.

  I sighed deeply, thinking how my quest for significance continued every school year. Unfortunately, my failures were followed by a kaleidoscope of excuses. Trouble was, they weren’t really excuses; they were explanations. I was one of the many diagnosed as having ADHD (attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder). So it wasn’t only hard for me to pay attention, but to sit still. According to my father, I tested at genius level, but a 160 IQ didn’t do any good if you had one idea and your body had another.

  We had a little over two weeks before Christmas Break. I was on target to make the C-List, but a few Ds were possible, and God knew if they gave out conduct grades, mine would be in the crapper. Plus I was vaguely depressed because I had no money for Christmas presents. The only cash I had was a wad of ones I’d found in the dryer. Money didn’t buy happiness, but it sure as heck could rent it.

  And by God, I was in the renting mood.

  “Darcy?” I heard.

  “Mmm, yeah?” I muttered, sliding an eye over.

  “I said, you need to hug me,” he murmured lowly with more force.

  I debated the wisdom of this but then quickly crawled into his space, brushing my cheek against his. Our version of a kiss. It wasn’t easy having a best friend as a boy, but dang, it sometimes had its fringe benefits. Dylan wrapped my ponytail in his fist, holding me to him as he kissed the top of my head. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, leaving his lips at my forehead.

  All I could do was sigh. Heck, maybe it was a moan. After a few seconds of nuzzling my cold nose into the curve under his chin, I scrambled back into my seat, ignoring how yummy the boy smelled.

  Besides, I was Darcy Walker. Single. Ready to Mingle. Bleh.

  “What do you want for Christmas?” I asked, changing the subject.

  Dylan grinned, showing his dimples. The dimples. This always meant complete and utter trouble for my independence. “Just you,” he answered. When I groaned, he finally answered, “How about some new music, sweetheart. You know what I like.”

  Actually, there was a new Apple iPod on the market Dylan would kill to have. Trouble was, I’d need to sell a kidney to get it…or find a stripper pole and a very indiscriminating clientele.

  I stared at the radio.

  Dylan winked, pitching his chin toward the buttons. “Knock yourself out, Darc.”

  After scanning through a few channels, I made a decision. A heavy metal satellite channel. I needed to find my wake button.

  “How about you?” he murmured.

  Leaning forward, I grabbed the dash and bobbed up and down with the screeching. I was hyper today and prayed to wear myself out by first period. I tried to think of a good answer. The one thing I wanted most no amount of money in the world was ever going to buy. I gave a resigned sigh, settling on my standard response. “Bigger boobs, better grades, the Bengals in the Super Bowl…the usual.”

  Dylan knew my biggest desire more than anyone but decided to smile at the joke. Smart man. “Come on, Darc,” he chuckled, “give me something.”

  “Cell phone charger?”

  Dylan burst into deep laughter. “Nothing says intimate like a cell phone charger. Besides, you’ve got about ten already.”

  “True, but I just like having one in every room so I don’t have to go searching for one.”

  “Practica
l, but I’m not buying you a charger. How about I surprise you?” He brought the car to a stop at a red light, turning to me winking. He always winked as a way of promising things would be okay. Maybe. Or maybe I’d learn to live with disappointment another darn year.

  “Okay,” I muttered.

  “Did I tell you that you look beautiful today?” he grinned.

  Welcome to my world, bro. No wonder I couldn’t dodge a crush on him. But Dylan only buttered me up when he wanted a hug-fest or was fishing for information. Predictably he followed with, “Explain to me again what happened when you got hit by a car.”

  I gave him a watered-down version. “I was in a blind spot and stepped off the curb. Honestly, I’d always given that a difficulty rating of about a two, but maybe it’s like a nine or something. But you’ve got to admit the addition of the manhole was priceless. The universe won that round.” I stopped to shake an angry fist at Heaven. “You can’t make this crap up.”

  Dylan had a deep baritone voice, but when he was happy, he sounded like a preschooler. “Do you feel better at all?” he giggled.

  Kind of, sort of, I guess…not really. I finally just shrugged.

  He narrowed both brows. “Don’t front with me, Darc. Ever.”

  I produced generic shrug number two. “I’ll live.”

  Dylan was charming and spiritual, thinking a purpose existed for everything. He probably thought a deeper meaning lay in what happened if I cared to ask. I suppose that’s because he viewed the world in black-and-white. Dylan’s tendency to see things in b&w carried over into his personality. His personality ran paradoxical, however. He was tenderhearted, intelligent, and even-tempered, but other times he was immovable, too simplistic, and as hotheaded as Murphy during rush hour.

  Those last times found my straitjacket-crazy crap as the root cause.

  As soon as we pulled into the school parking lot, Jagger Cane, school lothario, pulled beside us with Ivy Morrison—his longtime (not exactly paragon of virtue) girlfriend and my arch nemesis.

  Our school was like most other schools. When they’re big, you’re given a designated parking space number. The parking lot gods hadn’t smiled on us because Dylan had been assigned number 405 while Ivy was assigned 406. Not far enough for my taste, but then again, I don’t think Valley High had spaces in Middle Earth.

  Ivy stepped out of the car right as I did, scantily clad as usual.

  Ivy was Valley’s Barbie doll wannabe from fifth grade. She had on white patent leather boots and white corduroy booty shorts overtop snowflake tights. A knee-length white fur coat hung loosely at her shoulders. It was the most bizarre, flamboyant expo of BLECH I’d ever seen (and a dress code violation). About one hundred and fifteen pounds of pure witch, her hair was parted straight down the middle and even though she was a natural blue-eyed blonde, she’d colored it to be as white and cold as frost.

  Ivy’s parents stupidly pandered to her every whim. Where most got an early Christmas gift of new pajamas or socks, hers was a white MINI Cooper.

  I wanted to douse her in pig blood…seriously.

  Today she wasn’t behind the wheel. Jagger was. Jagger coasted around six feet with spiked, coffee-colored hair, and razor-sharp, black eyes. I guess if Ivy was my arch nemesis, Jagger was Dylan’s. Jagger played all sports, but he had one thing that’d always hold him back—he had a tendency to be lazy. He was constantly suspended from teams for lack of participation and bad attitude, and he’d beg and weasel his way back.

  As he turned off the ignition, he met eyes with Dylan first, painting on a cocky smile. When he punched his door wide, a cloud of cigarette smoke rolled out and smacked me in the face. I didn’t think either of them were regular smokers, but I did think they were the type to try anything at least once. The sky was so thick with cold that the reed of smoke froze for a second, like it ran into a wall, before gradually intermingling in the December air.

  In one smooth move, he strutted over to me, twining a strand of my ponytail around his finger. As usual, he threw off an I-know-I-look-good vibe. Dark jeans, expensive tan loafers, and a black wool coat that fell to his thighs. Definitely easy on the eyes, he unfortunately had the desire to copulate 24/7.

  “Hello, babe,” he murmured.

  Hello Satan. “Jagger,” I coughed. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

  I waved away the smoke, yanking free of his grasp.

  Jagger immediately reached for my hands. I quickly shoved them in my pockets, but Jagger boldly slid his hands inside my coat too. Jagger was a fastard. That’s Darcyspeak for bad-boys who move a relationship at warp speed, only for you to find out they have several girls on the sly. He longed to make me one of them.

  Hell would freeze over first.

  Dylan barked out a few expletives and slammed the Beemer’s door, making his way to my side in four long strides. I hoped a fake smile defused what could easily escalate into a physical altercation. Thing was, Jagger had absolutely no respect for the person he dated or the person he hit on. And here lately, his jabs had gotten worse.

  I was used to it; Dylan never would be.

  Dylan’s face took on the appearance of a storm cloud when he growled a low rumble. “Remove your hand, Cane.”

  Jagger stupidly replied, “Nu-huh.”

  Dylan threatened again, “Remove your hand, or I’ll break your fingers.”

  Jagger ignored him and gazed at me, smiling seductively, “You’re my type.”

  He went at my ponytail again, twisting it between his fingers until it stopped at my ear. I tried not to think that whatever mannerisms Dylan had with me, Jagger seemed to mimic. That insinuated a little too much observation for me to be comfortable with. I attempted to back out of his clutches but stopped when I felt a chunk of hair straining at the roots. Dang, the fastard, he didn’t know the difference between pleasure and pain.

  “And what type is that?” I ridiculously wanted clarified.

  “Gorgeous, funny, and slightly damaged.”

  Juuuussssst beauuuuutifullll.

  That statement set a fire under Dylan’s behind. He unwound Jagger’s fingers and twisted his arm behind his back until a small umpf fell out of Jagger’s mouth. Dylan had a dark side. For some reason it was a major turn-on. I’d debate that later.

  A shocked Ivy now stood next to Jagger, no clue what move to make next. It was one thing for your boyfriend to be a lowlife cheat—another for him to rub the indiscretion in your face.

  “Cool your jets, D.” I nervously giggled. “It’s all part of my allure. Low self-esteem, childhood trauma, self-destructive tendencies, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

  Jagger chuckled, “Listen, I’m here for moral support. Day…or night.” Yup, he was stupid. “What are you staring at, Taylor?” he exhaled as Dylan released him.

  Dylan smoothed down his jacket, like he was bored. “Not much. Just sizing up the enemy.”

  Now it was Jagger’s turn to act bored. “Is that a threat?”

  Dylan laughed a humorless laugh. “Believe me, I’m not threatened.”

  Jagger leaned over, whispering something in his ear. Dylan growled something in return, giving him a no-trespassing look. Normally, Dylan wouldn’t care what anyone said, but it’s almost as if a secret existed between them. Dylan raked his hand through his hair, something he always did when he tried to compose himself. For a moment, he seemed paralyzed with fear.

  Jagger sneered. “Why do you constantly act as if you and Darcy are more than friends? You’re overly affectionate with her to the point of nausea, but we both know it means nothing. She’s single, and so am I.”

  My eyes immediately darted over to Ivy. Her chin shook with shock.

  I made a fist, angrily punching Jagger in the shoulder. I didn’t like Ivy. In fact, she was one of Valley’s biggest cancers, but he wasn’t going
to use me to be mean to someone else. “You’re mean,” I hissed. “And I’m thinking bad words about you.”

  Dylan tag-teamed, “You’re an ass, Cane. You just made your girlfriend cry.”

  Jagger snorted. “That’s a double standard, Taylor, if I ever heard one.”

  Now I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday. And I had this gut-wrenching feeling that statement meant something I wouldn’t like.

  The tendons in Dylan’s jaw and neck drew together like taut cables, ready to snap. I tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. “What does he mean by that, D?” Dylan’s face remained masked and unreadable. When he hitched his chin higher, I tugged again. “Dylan?” I pushed.

  A sigh left his chest as he decided to answer. By the look in his eyes, I could tell he was going to wax poetic. Trouble was, his poetry was sometimes the subjective stuff you couldn’t understand. He murmured, “It’s between Cane and myself, Darc, and there will never be a relationship I have that doesn’t put you first. Does that clear up anything?”

  Not really…I mean, duh.

  “Pinky swear?” I promised. Dylan’s and my pinkies had been participating in profanity since age eight. It’s the way we kept our relationship pure and unadulterated to the ways of the world. I’d been operating under the assumption that when we twined our pinkies together, we had unequivocal honesty.

  Now I wasn’t so sure.

  Dylan sounded hoarse, like a boulder sat on his chest and he wasn’t breathing well. He tenderly ran his knuckles down my cheek. “It doesn’t and will never affect you,” he murmured again. Spoken like someone with secrets. If the roles were reversed, he would’ve held me down until I answered the specific question. The double standard was definitely alive and well.