100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  He chuckled, and that warmed me from head to freaking toe. Gah, I didn’t like it that I liked Ben Ryan. And I really didn’t like that he got under my skin. “I’ll have to go to Plan B,” he concluded oddly. “What’s the preoccupation?”

  I told him about Coach’s car.

  Yep, it was weird to confess that too.

  That’s all it took for Bean to insert himself in the dialogue. He snuggled his cheek up beside mine, interjecting into the receiver, “That’s right. And we only work for a price.”

  “It is the American way,” I agreed.

  I assumed Ben would laugh again, disconnect, or blow me off as a misguided neophyte, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “So what’s the problem?”

  Oh, where to begin. “The guys I would’ve sworn were involved aren’t.”

  From what little I knew about Ben, he struck me as the organized type. Things were simple, yada, yada, yada. I mean, my word, he wore penny loafers. That was a level of distinction you didn’t encounter often in high school. “Then go back to the scene of the crime,” he suggested.

  “Which one? Because I’m dealing with two dead bodies too.”

  “…What?”

  I sighed and clarified, “So stakeout the place where it happened?”

  “It couldn’t hurt. Have there been any copycat occurrences?”

  “Nope.” Although there’d been a lot of vandalism around town, I thought. Nowacki’s Videos and The Double-B to be precise.

  “Then return to the scene and see if anything seems out of the ordinary.”

  Placing Ben on speaker, I veered left at the cafeteria, making my way up the stairs. Bean predictably followed, though I wasn’t sure his next class was even on the second floor.

  “I already took pictures,” I explained, “but they’re a grainy mess of the wrong rows. Besides, it would do no good to take them again. We have designated spaces.”

  He dramatically sighed. “Angel, I’m disappointed. If you already knew where you could find the drivers in question, then why haven’t you interviewed the owners personally?” He paused, and I could feel the beginnings of a flirty vibe. “Unless you’re afraid to be that brazen. Surely, you’re more than a pretty face, or maybe you’re simply a dumb blonde. That is, considering you’re a real one.”

  If my foot could make it through the phone, Ben’s mouth would be full of Nike. This boy had no couth. Still, I found myself genuinely laughing.

  “Ben, Ben, Ben,” I teased while he chuckled he was only joking, “I’m blatantly talking on my iPhone which is against the rules as I’m walking past the assistant principal. And yes, I’m a real blonde. A dirty one,” I giggled, “but a blonde, nonetheless.”

  Shoot, that was slutty-girl suggestive, but I honestly didn’t care.

  “Miss Walker,” AP Unger scolded. “Must you always buck the system?”

  I waved him off, giggling to Ben, “He says hi, by the way.”

  AP Unger gave an exaggerated eye roll, but instead of apprehending my phone, his eyes went wide as ping-pong balls as he lunged for Jagger and Ivy. They were plastered up against a locker, putting a whole new spin on the term PDA. Hands were everywhere, and feet were…well, off the ground.

  Aww. Happy. Endings.

  Jagger broke free with a shaky breath when AP Unger yanked him by the ear. “She’s my backup,” he laughed in my direction. If Ivy had a samurai sword, my entrails would be decorating the ceiling.

  Ben murmured, “Tell me more about this guy.”

  “Jagger?” I clarified.

  “Is he the guy who had his car vandalized?”

  That truly would be a capital offense. Jagger drove a Mercedes SUV like Rookie’s—this week, that is.

  “No,” I answered. “It’s our basketball coach’s. He’s divorced, and it was far from amicable.” And his wife’s involvement had crossed my mind, but as far as I knew she could be turning tricks on Mars.

  “Give me her name.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me,” he chuckled.

  I thought back to the caption on the backside of Coach’s photograph and told him, “Jacinda Olivia Jemima Opal Wallace.”

  “Who in the world has five names?” he laughed.

  “My guess is a whole lot of woman.”

  He was quiet for a beat, as though he scribbled down notes. “So who’s this Jagger?”

  I looked back toward Jagger who futilely tried to explain his actions to AP Unger. I didn’t know if I’d term him misunderstood, understood, or lost cause.

  “School playboy,” Bean answered for me.

  “I’m assuming you’re his Plan A,” Ben said.

  I shivered at the thought. “He’s a fastard…pardon my language. And he likes anyone he can’t have, but once you fall under the spell, he jettisons you.”

  “Spoken from experience?” he murmured.

  “Spoken from observation.”

  “And the guy you’re with?” Ben pushed.

  Bean threw his arm around my neck as we stopped in front of Mr. Himmel’s door. Bean smelled like mothballs. A fact my nose was having trouble negotiating with. “I’m her best friend,” Bean beamed.

  Shoot, it struck me like an arrow to the heart that position might become vacant real darn soon.

  “That means it’s only a matter of time, angel.”

  Disconnect. Dial tone. Cue the confusion.

  As stupid as it sounded, I found myself attracted to the guy who’d mowed me over with his car and insulted me at least three times in our five-minute conversation. But I barely knew him—I didn’t know if he was a jock, member of the chess club, band geek, student council representative, or fugitive from the law.

  I sighed. I sighed so loud Bean jumped.

  I needed these unconditional conversations from Dylan. You know, where you talk and no one goes ape poopoo when they find out how freaking bizarre you really live your life. Dylan would never understand in a million years that Vinnie and I’d broken into someone’s house just so I could prove they were a bad person. Dylan was too protective and sometimes too practical. Ben strangely goaded me into action, and he didn’t even know it.

  16. Answered Prayers

  I’d always lived my life one way: go big, or go home. I’m pretty sure I was about to go crazy.

  During the fifty-two minutes I was supposed to be reading my science book, I tracked down the students I spoke with in the hallway via text. The answers were one, they’d forgotten; two, they didn’t remember me (blow to my ego); or three, they wanted to talk about the Winter Formal. So what little hope I’d had earlier had been sucked dry by idiots.

  It was fifth period, government. I’d already had lunch and the menu was bean burritos with cheesy rice. In essence, I could legitimately walk up to my teacher’s desk, paint on a face of nausea, and beg to hit the restroom. Thankfully, Mr. Barton seemed distracted. When I asked, he simply replied, “Sure, Walker,” and that’s all it took.

  So now I roamed the second floor hall toward the west end of the building, facing the parking lot. The great thing about our building was the front was almost total glass. My plan was simple: look out the windows and see if anything weird was going on. Since AP Unger normally traveled this route, I ducked into the janitor’s closet and immediately checked to see if I was alone. I didn’t see any pairs of feet but decided to yell an “Is anyone home?” anyway. When no one answered, I swatted away a spider’s web and realized the best view to the parking lot was from the corner window, several feet from the ground.

  I got my ninja on, crawled up to the window seal, and waited…and waited…and waited. I picked at my nails, pulled lint off my texting gloves, glanced at my watch, and concluded I’d been gone for close to fifteen minutes.

  Not good, not good at all.
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  After I played with the pompom on my toboggan, I slid my iPhone out of my jacket, attempting to snag a signal. I’d missed a text.

  Jojo Wallace works at Dingo 31 at Voice of America Plaza.

  Ben Ryan, I laughed. He’d spelled out and punctuated everything in his text perfectly…figures, the managerial type. Jojo was apparently an acronym for Jacinda Olivia Jemima Opal. I think I’d make an acronym too, but who was I to debate the etymology of someone’s name? My name’s Darcy Walker—a dark walker. Whether it was stroke of genius or stroke of stupid, my parents hit the freaking bull’s-eye.

  Here’s the thing. When Ben said to trust him, he really meant to trust him. But how in the world could he sniff out the lady’s name, plus where she worked? I put that thought on ice and thumbed in “thnx.”

  I then heard that still, small voice Murphy claimed was the voice of God. I didn’t hear it much. Maybe it’s because I didn’t take the time to listen, or maybe it’s because the language was so foreign it’d take years more of practice. Either scenario, I heard, “Welcome to the land of the all-knowing, kid. Here’s your ‘juicy stuff’ you requested. Don’t question me again.”

  I took the time to pause. I didn’t know what to do or if I should even comment that God kinda sounded like a smarty pants. Before I damned myself to burning fire, I noticed movement. Several students slowly filed out to their cars. Two guys in dark down coats huddled together, like they stole one another’s warmth or perhaps talked about something private. And if my eyes hadn’t fooled me, they were corralled around a red Mustang and silver Chevy Colorado. To pile on the wonder, a dirty white van pulled up alongside them, its exhaust sputtering and smoking in the frigid air.

  It was darn Ground Hog’s Day.

  Problem was, this group appeared to be leaving. It was only fifth period, so that meant they were seniors. No one else would be allowed to take that light of a schedule except those with the required classes under their belts. I could do one of two things: chalk this up as answered prayer number two or go one step further and interview them as Ben suggested. My instincts took over, and I blood-hounded my way out of the closet like my next meal depended on it. Taking the stairs three at a time, I one-handed the door and pushed outside.

  The air exploded in my face. I didn’t have a coat, and the air was so blistering cold I saw my own breath. Unfolding my texting gloves, I quickly snapped them over fingers as stiff as a corpse. Then I walked—no, skipped—thought that looked stupid so compromised and strode really fast. I felt like a Catholic schoolgirl off the leash. This was my big break. I had no idea how to broach the subject, but I’d introduce myself and pray the rest came naturally.

  Uh, a face-to-face seemed like a better idea when it was merely in my mind. All three looked at me like I was a first class idiot. Probably because the chill had reached my bones, and I currently did jumping jacks.

  I produced an awkward, breathy, “Hi.”

  The guy from the white van opened a rusty, rickety sounding door and stumbled out. He wore a mustard-colored jumpsuit like those on construction sites do. On his head was dark blond, curly hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. A white ball cap shaded his eyes and the upper portion of his face. I couldn’t get a read on him. The other two seemed like your average Joes: jeans, white sneakers, a pimple here, a pimple there. Where most tried to avoid eye contact with seedy characters, I was the type that stared until it was uncomfortable. All three eyeballed me as though they considered strangling me or shoving me into the van.

  Cue the stomach cramps.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized, trying to break the ice, “I thought I knew you.”

  “I’d like to get to know you,” White Van muttered.

  If that was innuendo for an illicit invitation, I decided to play dumb and blonde. Stumbling three steps over, I hit a bumper and blurted out, “Did you happen to see who painted Coach Wallace’s car last week? It was parked beside yours. If you didn’t, maybe you’ve heard about it? Not much happens here that doesn’t hit the grapevine.”

  “Or that you miss,” White Van interjected. I cocked my head to the side, confused. Even though I couldn’t place the face, my mind went crazy trying to identify the voice. Something about him seemed familiar, and my guess was it was a familiar that wasn’t pleasant. If memory served me correctly, he’d left the van idling and got out long enough to high-five the others. He’d either enjoyed it the most or was the type that delighted in others’ misfortunes.

  My mouth did the usual—got more stupid. “If I remember correctly, you,” I clarified, pointing to him, “thought it was the funniest. You high-fived the others like it meant something personal to you.”

  I think someone gasped. Shoot, it might’ve been me.

  “We’re innocent,” White Van grunted. “Besides, wouldn’t it be stupid to make a spectacle out of something you’d just done?”

  True, but his answer about being innocent was bogus. God only knew what he was capable of because my trust radar beeped like a sonova-you-know-what simply being within inches of him.

  “Listen, Coach seems like a nice guy,” Red Mustang added, opening the door of his ride, “but you can’t fault someone for finding the humor. If truth be known, I bet you laughed too.”

  He had me there.

  Colorado got jumpy. He either needed a cup of coffee or was colder than me. “I just thought it was funny,” he shrugged.

  White Van stalked forward slowly, his head dipped low, like he didn’t want me out of his frame of sight. “Let’s continue this discussion elsewhere,” he ordered.

  He snagged my wrist, twisting it counterclockwise, pulling me toward that crappy white van. I wasn’t a fool. Triple-coverage was a no-way-out situation. I knew enough to scream but forced a sigh, feigning boredom instead. When he twisted harder, I realized the scared-girlie routine should’ve been my first route. Should I faint? Throw-up? Make a diversion? “Shoot…fudge…and…sonovabiscuit eater” fell out of my mouth in one long breath.

  Right then, Chevy Colorado grabbed White Van’s arm. If he seemed jumpy before, he now acted like he was pregnant with an elephant, mid-contraction.

  “Let her go, man,” he pleaded.

  Instead of heeding Colorado’s words, White Van tightened his grip. My fear grew larger than a sci-fi monster, my eyes darting to Red Mustang for an assist. He nervously shook his head, like he wanted to help, but preferred not rocking the boat. He collapsed in the seat, leaving his door ajar. After a few beats, he turned the key over, slammed the door shut, and backed away.

  I was in this alone.

  God help me.

  Alone.

  I’d been in this situation before where things start to unravel, and you try to stop the bleeding anyway you can. A “please” didn’t get me anything more than a grunt, an “I know important people” got me nothing more than a raised brow. Unfortunately, I ignored my basic survival instincts and keep right on jawing.

  “You’re guilty of something,” I whispered. “Did you paint his car or kill Nico Drake? How about that skeleton? Did you feast on the remains, or are you The Ghost himself?”

  Talk about going for broke.

  I received another heated gaze. Chevy Colorado suddenly grimaced like someone strung him up by the family jewels. He doubled over, coughed, and then shuddered, “Holy crap, here comes trouble.”

  He and White Van glanced over my shoulder around the same time a bellowing voice broke the tension like a foghorn.

  “Darcy!” it roared. Thank you, hot boy gods, I sighed in relief. Dylan barreled toward us like we were insurgents and he alone was the hit squad. His black hair blew in the wind, reminding me of a gothic wartime hero riding home in a blazing storm. Dylan Taylor and angry were two words that didn’t match up perfectly together. My guess was these guys had witnessed the boom or heard of the legendary ex
plosions.

  “Darcy,” White Van repeated, dropping my arm with a crazed grin.

  “And you are?” I somehow managed.

  When he didn’t answer, I conjured up an equally twisted smile.

  White Van muttered, “Toodles,” quickly jumping back in his ride. I zenned out for all of two seconds when my blood pressure dropped to woozy. Through his window, he painted his lips in one of those perverted, ruthless grins, made his fingers in the shape of a gun, and mouthed, “Bang-bang.”

  I mumbled, “Okay,” to the spluttering trail of smoke he left behind. I didn’t know if that meant I’d accepted his challenge or accepted my fate. When Chevy Colorado peeled out on a screech, I slowly and reluctantly turned. Like I knew it’d be a mistake, but if the day was already bad…eh, I might as well take it to the lowest level of crap. Dylan wasn’t walking. Heck, he wasn’t running. It’s like he levitated through the air by some unknown force.

  My legs struggled as though they’d frozen solid, which was odd because I sweated bullets big enough to down a dinosaur. While the wind whipped through Dylan’s black hair, as bizarre as the last few minutes had been, I still had the desire to run my fingers through it.

  Darcy, Darcy, Darcy, I told myself. You really ought to find some self-esteem.

  Dylan reached me first, saying, “What the” bleep “are you doing out here? I felt you leave the building.”

  If I’d doubted beforehand our cosmic connection had severed, it was times like these that erased any misgivings. I felt him; he felt me. Sometimes it was a trying experience; others it came in handy. When he saw my knees knocking, he took off his coat and draped it around my shoulders, wrapping his arm around my waist for extra warmth.

  “I-uh,” I said. “Umm,” I started again. “Well, it’s like this,” I exhaled.

  I felt a little light on my feet and fell into him. I swear, right when I’d planned to ’fess up and ask him to beat the big, bad uglies to a pulp, he stopped, holding up his palm. “Did anyone hurt you?” he asked tenderly.