by A. J. Lape
You could kiss it and make it all better, I laughed hysterically to myself.
“And would that be so bad?” the girl muttered.
Where’s a stun gun when you need it…
Evidently, I’d said that out loud.
A current sliced through the air from Dylan’s direction, charging the air with electricity. “God help me,” Coach groaned after he swallowed.
Coach and I met eyes, him frowning deeply at my R-rated thoughts.
Dylan murmured, “Darcy…”
Oh, boy, when he addressed me by my first name that meant I should fall in line before he resorted to force. I caved and dutifully got out of my seat, shuffling over to stand in front of his begging-to-be-mauled body. His left shoulder leaned against the doorjamb, right ankle crossed over the other.
Good enough to eat, I thought.
Dylan had a body built for bad things. I let out a heavy sigh, wondering why I thought my best friend was better looking today than yesterday, knowing I’d repeat the same confusing phenomenon tomorrow.
When my attempt to get a smile fizzled, I lifted his stubborn jaw. “Hey,” I grinned.
He stared.
I stared.
Then I knocked him flat…on…his…gorgeous back—figuratively, of course.
“I need prayer, D. Even I know you shouldn’t fib at Christmas, and I’m trying to live a clean life.”
Dylan had that look like he’d fallen off the wagon train and got his jeans caught in the hitch. A gutsy move on my part, adding God to the mix—still, I glanced heavenward for a lightning bolt. Dylan repeated what I’d said, actually stuttered on it, looked to the ceiling, but gave up and dropped his jaw. We stood there for a few seconds while he tried to assess whether I’d formed a relationship with the Creator of the Universe or reached an all-time low. See, Dylan was a good Catholic boy—Mass, Lent, all the stuff that showed you truly cared about your final destination. I wasn’t anything except trouble.
With a sigh, he reached for my hand.
Coach muttered from behind, “Do you two always act like there’s no one else in the room?”
The girl to my left sighed dreamily, “Yes.”
Who in the heck was this chick?
Dylan released a devilish grin that instantly turned naughty. I had no idea what he thought but found myself fanning a blush. Coach suddenly stood near us, throwing his arm around Dylan’s shoulder, steering him out of the room like he removed a boiling pot from an open fire.
The bell jingled for the next class, and I knew I had to act quickly before they pulled the plug on my plan. In matters of sin behavior, I was lucky. Things fell into my lap. Seeing this file seemed too much of a coincidence to be coincidental in my world. At least, that’s the story I planned to tell my conscience when it woke me in the middle of the night.
Realizing he who hesitates is lost, I grabbed my things and shoved Coach’s file into my backpack. My next steps were currently vague, but they involved a little meet-and-greet with the people in this file. My instincts on the guy Tito faxed over to Rookie were bone-deep. If he was from Valley, as Tito’s source claimed, he was either in this file or chances were good those in the file knew of him.
Smiling at Dylan who’d turned around with a wink, I knew I’d done something I couldn’t undo.
5. The Little Engine that Could
Every once in a while the planets line up in your favor when you walk into class. The teacher tells you to read for the entire hour. She’s not going to bug you, discipline you, rat you out to higher authorities; she’s simply going to let you find your personal zen and veg. That’s what happened this afternoon in English literature.
Collette Reynolds had been subbing for our regular English teacher for the past three weeks. She was early twenties and a sex-crazed substitute who always wore a G-string and a skirt three inches too short. Frankly, she deserved an award for defying physics, and it not riding up her butt. Whatever the case, she appeared under the weather. Slumped over her desk, her ash blonde hair had been pulled up in a messy bun overtop one of those red holiday sweaters with a Christmas tree on the front. Making love to a jumbo cup of coffee, she popped Jolly Ranchers and cough drops like she ended a forty-day hunger strike.
Can we just say, Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, problem solved?
As soon as Coach’s folder was in my possession, I wondered how I’d get the time to pore over it before school ended. Now the sub had given me carte blanche to do as I pleased. My plan was to look at it, memorize the details, and return it while it still fell under the auspices that I’d “borrowed” it.
When I clued-in her mind was elsewhere, I opened the file and grouped students by grade, offense, and time they’d actually spent at the county jail. Believe it or not, his file had an asterisk by those that’d been in the Mack County Juvenile System.
God love the organized people. Made my job easier.
I narrowed the list down to two, possibly three. All three had theft on their list of offenses as well as credit card offenses. Number one was Slapstick Wilson. Wilson reminded me of Hercules, so huge it’s like his momma fed him steroids in his baby bottle. He stood around six and a half feet tall, and for a boy who was still a teenager, that height was on a plane of bizarre you didn’t see often. His black hair was thick and fell at his shoulders, pushing the limit of what the school deemed acceptable. His hazel eyes were deep-set with a crooked line on a nose that’d been broken, but it didn’t detract from an otherwise appealing face. Slapstick was hiding one fine-looking body by not having the outer package society said made your marketable.
I’d heard the same thing about me (via Ivy), I laughed to myself.
According to the file, one felony offense was stealing his neighbor’s wallet two years ago and going on a spending spree at the grocery store. The judge let him off easy with community service because the neighbor ultimately didn’t want him to see time. Other offenses were misdemeanors like vandalism and disorderly conduct on the Fourth of July. Misdemeanors normally didn’t carry jail time, but there was another felony offense listed of carrying a knife in public. My guess was the judge wanted to send him a message because the charge involved a deadly weapon. As a result, Slapstick did a short stint in juvie this past summer.
Potential number two was Damon Whitehead. Once again, a felony offense of burglary and check forgery (he stole his uncle’s check card and bought a bicycle). Listed as a senior, Damon’s file said he’d endured several broken bones in foster homes, but they weren’t attributed to abuse. Not at least to what had been proven or what he’d admit. Whitehead was like a circus carnie, literally running along rooftops and performing death-defying feats for the heck of it. Sometimes he made it; sometimes he didn’t. He’d been in Juvenile Detention for vandalism and smoking marijuana…in Target, I might add.
Sort of impressive.
Now came prospect number three. Coach had spilled coffee on the lower half of the paper that listed his name. As a result, I had to peel it from the sheet in front of it, which unfortunately left his jawline murky. Because of the obscured photograph, my memory meter registered zero; he didn’t look familiar. His right eye was swollen shut, but darkness still resided in his gaze. Something was gone inside. Snuffed out too soon, perhaps. Like the others, he had the common thread of theft. He didn’t look exactly the same as the photo Tito faxed Rookie—this guy had dirty blond hair—but the beating he took made it impossible to tell for sure. I blew out a sigh. This made Where’s Waldo? look easy.
I closed the file and thanked the Milky Way Murphy was a clean-living man who came home each night. All of us had problems, but this file told me these three lived with a different set of circumstances than I did. Perhaps it was who they were, no matter their surroundings. Or perhaps they gave up and simply walked in the world they’d been born into. I’d learned the fine a
rt of selective blindness when I was a child too. It was easy to shield your eyes from the painful if it was a matter of survival.
I’d done something baaaaddd.
I left class a few minutes early and jogged to Coach Wallace’s office to return the file. Except when I arrived, the two students in here before were back again and all over each other. I. Mean. All. Over. Each. Other. Now I didn’t know a lot about making out—only what I’d read in romance novels I hid under my mattress—but when I saw the young girl’s tortured face, it was only by the Grace of God, I didn’t hurl the pork rinds I’d found in my locker. The guy was giving her stand-up CPR. Ahem, hands where the Good Lord didn’t intend for them to be for those that need a definition. I concluded pretty darn quickly he was the type who didn’t understand that no meant no.
I went coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs—wrenching my way between them, punching, pinching, and name-dropping that Dylan would kick his evil rat fastard butt. I even closed my eyes and lunged for the family jewels, but thankfully came up with air. He went tribal on both of us, grunting and pulling our hair, until he abruptly stopped and sprinted out of the room. By the time I caught my breath, my clothes were as askew as the girl’s. Shifting my undergarments back into place, the small brunette had the top of one boob showing. No lie. She stood there mouth agape, no move to cover her lady bits. I closed my eyes and did my best to shove her back in her bra, but when I squinted one eye open, she merely stared as though she tried to tell me something. Something, by the look on her face, was melodramatic and possibly an episode for 60 Minutes.
When I said, “Just say it,” she grabbed her things and bolted for the door.
I thought that went pretty well…all things considered.
Now I was stuck with a real dilemma. As much as I tried, I couldn’t pry the file out of my own stinking hands. I decided to keep it. Anyway, a hot glue gun lay on Coach’s desk along with his wallet and stopwatch. The glue gun was still plugged in, still a fire hazard, and right there for me to abuse.
After a quick glance behind, I pumped out a stringy glob and glued his stopwatch to the desk. Surely it would come off, but then again, my impulses didn’t always afford me the luxury of thinking. Once I’d performed the deed, I boogied to the parking lot where Dylan was supposedly patiently waiting.
Except he wasn’t just waiting, now was he.
He was seated in his car, motor running, being entertained by Brynn Hathaway who’d pulled her black BMW convertible beside him. Heck, they practically had matching his-and-hers cars. Her car door slid open, and she bounced over to the driver’s side window like she was fueled by too much pep and sugar. Two things happened at once. My gag reflex kicked up a notch, but then I saw the distraction as opportunity. The opportunity? I could tell Brynn to her face I had a coffin with her name on it.
Let me take a little hop down memory freaking lane here. Called Brynn-baby by the guys who crushed on her, she’d had a thing for Dylan before his first whisker even made an appearance. She tried extra hard to make sure he noticed her too. Sporting dark jeans so tight it’s a wonder they didn’t rupture her butt, she’d paired them with thigh-high black leather boots and a black leather blazer. Not cold weather threads by definition, but Brynn dressed more for effect than practicality. Her build was fit and petite with wavy, chestnut-brown hair and bright blue eyes. And here’s her resume: cheer captain, Homecoming Queen, and nationally ranked gymnast.
That last one, I think, made guys fantasize about her flexibility.
Mere feet from his car, the unspeakable happened. She moved her upper body through Dylan’s window, her well-manicured nails touching his face…her lips dangerously close to his mouth. The tightness in my chest kicked up a notch.
(I do not like this. Not at all.)
I let out a belligerent, “D!” hotfooting it their way. But when I witnessed him give her The Dimples, my courage went down the rabbit hole. I stopped, mouth ajar. They were two beautiful people, laughing and enjoying life; it was a picture meant for a dang greeting card. Dylan didn’t appear overly exuberant, but Brynn was the girl-next-door—her family’s home within walking distance of his. Maybe this was something they’d pick up later. When she gripped his arm tighter, he was definitely Dylan: smooth, mannerly, with a body gifted by Jesus.
I called fate the b-word before being jarred from my thoughts with a screaming, “Walker!”
I swallowed and turned around.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you an overweight man can’t find a few moves when he is so inclined. Coach Wallace booked it toward me like a bank robber out of a blaring alarm.
Jeez, guess he figured out it was me. Shocking.
I smiled and blew him an air kiss as I darted for Dylan’s car like a cheetah with its fur on fire. Dylan and I always felt we were connected metaphysically. Perhaps he heard Coach yelling, or perhaps he felt my heart in his throat. Whatever the motivation, he blew Brynn off like yesterday’s news, cranked his door wide, and shot halfway up out of his car.
With a naughty giggle, I yelled, “Move out of the way, Romeo! Like now!”
He didn’t move fast enough.
With a huge leap, I dove headfirst into the driver’s side door, taking him with me, banging my head on the center console. Dylan caught all my weight with an “ugh.” Somehow my foot hit the chair release, and the door slammed beside us. If that wasn’t bizarre enough, as embarrassment would have it, my bum landed right smack in the middle of his face when we tumbled into the back seat.
My backpack slid off my shoulder with a bump-bump-bump.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t know what to do, really. But sometimes wisdom was out on a smoke break when you needed her. All I knew was outside wasn’t safe, and inside…well, it felt hotter than the devil’s pitchfork.
Dylan was vintage Dylan, letting out a flirty moan. “Sweetheart, I’ve wanted to get you in the backseat of my car for some time, but I would’ve preferred it being dark and a little more secluded.”
“Seriously,” I giggled, wriggling toward the front. “I thought your fantasies involved barnyard animals.”
“Like I said,” he chuckled.
The jackwagon…I walked right into that one.
Dylan ran his hands up and down my hips, treating my body like the happy hunting ground. I froze. Did. Not. Feel. A. Freaking. Twinge. Maybe I had a hormonal imbalance because most women would give their right ovary to sit where I was sitting. Did I need testosterone? Estrogen? I’d only recently discovered hormones, and now they’d shriveled up like a spider when it dies.
I crawled overtop his backpack to the opposite side but felt someone pull my UGG out the driver’s side window. My legs scissored in the splits.
“Crap,” I mumbled.
Dylan rose up in an ab curl. “Aw, sweetheart, I don’t have a dog in this fight,” he murmured.
Coach barked, “Walker, get out!” Only an idiot would get out. When I didn’t oblige, Coach turned his attention on Dylan.
“Taylor,” he bellowed, flailing his arm through the window, “you’re in more trouble than she is!”
Dylan giggled. “Holy Mother, what did you do?” he asked me. Better yet, what did you do? I thought. Brynn Hathaway was one step from needing a drool bib. A cursory glance showed her gone…smart girl.
I kept kicking at Coach while Dylan attempted to tug me back inside. Sometimes it was easier for me to talk about personal things when Dylan and I were otherwise occupied. And Brynn Hathaway was definitely on the Must Address List.
As Coach pulled my boot off, I spit out, “Brynn wants to go out with you.” And by the way, I stole Coach’s file and impersonated my aunt this weekend, I omitted.
Dylan slowly dropped my leg, lounging back in his chair, looking thoughtful. Turning me around, he pulled me onto his chest and literally put his mouth to min
e…but he didn’t kiss me. He whispered into my lips, “I know. We’ve had this talk before, Darcy, but you know it means nothing to me…unless you want me to date her?” he finished as a question. Lips still on mine, he cocked a brow, waiting for my answer. Heck, I was waiting for my answer, but nothing came out but a tiny moan. I mean, his lips were still on mine!! I inhaled his scent mixed with the leather and knew I needed to find the exit.
And side note: I DID NOT NEED ANY FREAKING HORMONE REPLACEMENT.
“Gosh, your eyes are amazing,” I whispered.
His grin quirked up, showing me his dimples. The dimples. “Focus, sweetheart.” Frankly, my mind blew a few circuits, so tracking this conversation had proven rather difficult. Especially when his lips felt bizarre, scary, and life altering all at the same time. I remembered what kissing Dylan was like. It was wonderful, forbidden, and titillating to each cell in the body, but I spent a good deal of time trying to figure out if I was alive when it was over. My God, he might be capable of killing me. As tenderhearted as he was, I had a feeling that branching out and evolving our relationship into something else would be like the untrained playing with a Bunsen burner. But why did that burn sound so gosh-danged exciting? “Do you not know what’s going on here?” he whispered into my mouth.
As God as my witness, he then nipped my lower lip with his teeth!
What.
The. Freak.
Was.
That.
In my defense, I was ADHD. This whole thing would take some time for me to grasp. I blinked in morbid shock. Dylan and me? Let’s face it. He’d be slumming. When I readied to say, No, it would kill me, and I don’t want to share you, I was jerked so hard out of the car I popped the button on my pants.