by A. J. Lape
After a quick phone call to Red, my aunt ordered we purchase them all. Where the two thought I’d wear these on a regular basis was beyond me, but my guess was I’d look mighty fine lying at home on the couch.
Snow shaped like sparkly soap flakes fell gracefully to the ground. Those living in a wintry climate knew that type of precipitation was bad. It piled up fast, producing whiteouts and conditions so treacherous only the natives or those with a strong constitution were qualified to drive.
Just my humble opinion…
It was after eight. Cars moved at a slow crawl, and my stomach growled like a motorboat. My sense of humor had long died, but when you were copilot in what appeared to be the worst snowstorm of the season, your job was to keep it together.
For once, Dylan had both hands on the steering wheel, textbook ten and two position. Even though I wasn’t driving, I could feel the tension in the car’s engine. A misty rain fell this morning, and with the dropping temperature, the pavement had frozen like an igloo. Snow accumulated on ice, making traction hit-or-miss.
We listened to the weather report on 700 WLW, and it pretty much reiterated the obvious, “Get home; you’re stupid if you’re driving in this hellacious crap!”
A direct quote from the DJ.
We pulled left onto Montgomery Road, full intentions of traveling northbound on I-71 back to Valley. We’d barely traveled one hundred yards when the Beemer skidded sideways. The anti-lock brakes strained and gripped, promising an eventual stop, but problem was you didn’t know what’d happen in the interim.
Dylan barked, “Hold on!” as he twisted and turned with the steering wheel. I threw a two-handed grip on the dash while we fishtailed into the opposite lane. Thankfully, no car moved in our path, just another driver several feet back who maneuvered his car so methodically it seemed to have stopped moving altogether.
Snow fell so fast the windshield wipers barely kept up. Dylan flashed his blinkers, asking permission from the automobile behind to enter the exit lane again. Once he put us back on course, the car to our rear hit the same patch of ice, repeating the fishtail we’d come out of. He or she wasn’t so lucky. The car behind tapped their rear.
“Ay, caramba,” I whispered.
Holy heck, we hadn’t even made it onto the interstate without a minor incident. A look across the overpass showed conditions more deadly. Multi-vehicle pileups decorated two lanes, and that didn’t count the areas I couldn’t see beyond the horizon. We’d be stranded for hours.
Dylan pointed to the mass of red taillights in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Ah, Darc,” he groaned. “We aren’t going anywhere.”
It wouldn’t be so bad if we had food. The gas tank was full, so we could burn it until we hit “E.” And for that matter, the company was (sigh) Dylan. But dang it, the last thing I’d eaten was a Slim-Jim and Hershey kiss I’d found in my locker at three o’clock. I digested stomach lining at this point.
Dylan rhythmically rapped his left thumb on the steering wheel as traffic completely stopped. I felt bad he was in this situation. My guess was Red felt worse. Not to mention what our parents were thinking. Dylan rarely got rattled, but he seemed pensive, wondering what move to make next. Leaning over, I braced my right hand on his knee, the other around the nape of his neck, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek.
I’d never initiated a kiss of any kind before…as in ever…as in never, ever, ever.
“I love you,” I whispered in his ear, “and don’t worry about us. I trust you. More than anyone.”
When I pulled back, he quickly reached up and cradled my face with his palm, forcing the physical contact to not end quite yet. A single look from Dylan could communicate something fierce, something probably best he didn’t put words to. My instinct was to crawl back to my seat, folding my hands together like a good, little girl. He’d gone sugar daddy in the mall and bought me a Burbery wool newsboy cap—to my protest. I pulled the three-figured hat down over my eyes, trying to hide. His gaze slid over me like hot, molten lava. He also recognized the never, ever, ever occurrence. I mean, it was only because I wanted to comfort him…right? Before I attempted an explanation, both our cell phones rang within seconds of one another.
I reached inside my pocket, glad for the interruption. For me, it was Murphy. “Hey, Murphy,” I greeted. “We wrecked, and I’m lying in the middle of 71 North with a severed femoral artery. My shoes and pants are missing, and my guess is it’s going to end me within twenty minutes. Bury me with my fish in the backyard.”
Dylan answered his phone. “Hey, Mom,” he murmured with a giggle. Then there was a short pause where he briefly touched his heart. “Aw,” he soothed tenderly, pulling my fingers to his lips, “don’t worry. We’re going to be okay.”
All I heard through my receiver was “Gosh-danged idiots…stupid dress…family meeting when you get home…say your prayers…be a lady,” followed by a “Good Lord in Heaven, help me.” Next was his standard Kentuckyized profanity, “I will spit on their graves, kid. I swear it. I will spit on those meteorologist’s graves.”
Finally came a resigned and soothing calm as Murphy exorcised himself of the worry. “Kid,” he grumbled, “Red’s going to be waiting on you. I’ve talked to Susan Taylor, and she agrees that’s where you should head. Be careful,” he whispered, “you’re all I’ve got.”
Dylan mouthed a “Red,” as I nodded. I had to agree. Four exits south was her house; five exits north was traffic hell.
After Red phoned that she and Rookie were snowbound about an hour away, I quickly nuked the leftover Naked Pizza in her refrigerator, trying my best to ignore the name of the establishment and its connotation. Let me tell you, Dylan and I made love to that pizza, relishing each mouthwatering bite until halfway through when “poof” the electricity went sayonara.
Using the flashlight app on my iPhone, I sifted through Red’s dresser trying to find us both something comfortable to sleep in. From the looks of things, she and Rookie might as well have still been married. Her clothes were crammed into her side, no organization at all. Underwear in with her jeans, socks in with her shorts, just crap that made sense in her own mind. Rookie’s side of the dresser, however, looked immaculate. Underwear on top, socks below, with sweats and t-shirts rounding out the bottom.
“Does Rookie still live here?” I whispered to Dylan.
He chuckled devilishly, “He still wears a wedding band. Don’t you find that strange?” Not really, Red and Rookie flew far outside the realm of your normal fly zone.
Closing the drawers with a tap, I snagged a pair of lavender fleece pajama bottoms and matching top, giving Dylan a pair of gray checked flannel pants and a white sweatshirt. While I quickly changed in the restroom, Dylan had just finished pulling the sweatshirt on when I rejoined him. Um, wow. Too bad we were in the dark…would’ve been awesome.
Our plan was to crash on the couch in the living room. While we felt our way down the hall, I continued the conversation. “I just assumed Rookie couldn’t let go.”
Heck, I think I had the can’t-let-go gene too because I had a death grip on Dylan’s sweatshirt. As I crept behind him, I wondered why this all felt natural. I whispered, “Don’t you think it’s weird that we’re here together, in the dark, and it’s not all weird between us? Shouldn’t this be weird?”
I had no compunction whatsoever about being alone with Dylan. What would be weird was if I suddenly developed a hesitation.
Dylan actually took the time to let my words sink in. Just us breathing. His shadow appeared softer in the dark, masculine still, but perhaps more vulnerable. “I don’t think anything will ever be weird between us, Darc,” he answered. “I love and respect you, and you love and respect me. Most people wait their entire lives for that sort of commitment.”
Oh. You. Silver-tongued. Devil.
I plastered myself to his back
in a bear hug. God knew I was a compulsive person, and the biggest compulsion I had was to get as close as possible to Dylan Taylor. He chuckled one of those totally masculine, barbaric sounds. “Watch yourself, sweetheart. You’re standing on top of me. Believe me, I like it, but you’re making me want to kiss you.”
Cue the swelling music. “Kiss me,” I whispered.
Dylan halted his steps altogether, his voice dropping an octave as I slammed my nose into his shoulder blade. “I must say,” he murmured, “I’ve been wondering if you still taste the same.” I swallowed, coughing on my own saliva. “Yeah, you remember, don’t you?” he flirted. “We’ve kissed before.”
How could I forget? That kiss was killer. Freaking fantastic actually.
“My mouth was full of cookies,” I whispered.
“Chocolate chip. I’ve tasted you for four fricking months.”
Dylan whipped me around and roughly slammed me back up against the wall. A painting beside us rattled in its glass. Something in the nearby bathroom tumbled to the tile and shattered. My chest heaved with the surprise, and I gasped. Oh, goody…this here was long overdue. Problem was, I felt like I’d die before the good stuff got started. I needed a will, mourners, and time to make a video doing things Murphy would be proud of (there weren’t any).
I finally decided not to think, and let my hormones go straight to the equator.
Dylan hadn’t moved, only kept me tucked tight up against him. Out of sheer necessity, I lied to myself. I vehemently denied his body was rock-hard. And I vehemently denied I wanted his mouth anywhere on me. But then I heard that little devil on my shoulder taunting, But girrrrrrl, we like hard bodies.
For a split second, I thought I’d get my first legitimate kiss. In fact, I wanted it. I wanted a dizzying kiss that made me forget how to spell my own darn name. Instead, at the last minute he whispered, “God, you make me crazy” in my ear.
I knew that…
Problem was, I wanted to feeeeeeeel it.
I tried to count up all the reasons why this was a bad idea but couldn’t remember how to count. Add the burning feel of Dylan’s body, and I knew he didn’t want to bury it either.
Then I think…I think…I think I whispered, “Go for it.”
I could feel Dylan looking at my lips. The heat grew hotter the closer he eased toward them. He’d moved both his hands up by my face, caging me in. A little secret? I didn’t plan on going anywhere. “Don’t play with me, Darcy,” he growled.
Those five words took every bit of energy I had to not throw him down to the ground and roll on him. This night alone, snowstorm aside, was so close to perfect I didn’t want to chance ruining it with acting too soon.
I swear to God, I spoke anyway, discarding my vow to conduct a science experiment before riding off into the sunset with my best friend. “I’m not playing with you,” I whispered confidently. “It’s a law of nature that I’m always going to find you attractive.”
His left hand came to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “About fricking time,” he growled again. He breathed that right into my lips. Right. Smack. Into. Them. Dylan had been doing that a lot lately. Touching my lips with his, but not actually kissing. I found it to be deadly hormonal and alarmingly lethal. My mouth instantly went dry…I licked my lips…problem was, I licked his in the process.
A groan emanated from the back of his throat and vibrated into my mouth. My insides melted, my legs turned to jelly, and my dark, forbidden nether region started singing pornographic operas. In fact, it was freaking rejoicing. When I collapsed into him, Dylan took his right arm and held my weight. Almost blasé. Like he knew this would happen, and he merely performed the steps. I didn’t know where we’d gone, but by goodness, I had no interest in returning to the land of wallflower.
Imagine the disappointment when Farrah Aaronson, Red’s housekeeper, unlocked the door, shining a high-beamed flashlight. Yeah. You heard that right. Busted.
Red took on a housekeeper about seven years ago. She was a little over five feet tall, graying blonde hair, with sapphire blue eyes. She seemed delicate, like a china doll. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, but she hid her beauty behind wire-rimmed glasses. Farrah lived in a modest apartment up the street. No children, no man in her life, just the few homes she took care of for other people. She wore black galoshes up to her knees and an old, gray wool coat buttoned to her chin with a gray crocheted toboggan and gloves, circa ten years ago.
“Hi,” she said quietly, carrying a loaded brown bag in each arm.
Now I liked Farrah. Or at least I used to. She seemed like a nice lady, but at that point I wanted her to spontaneously combust. Talk about bad timing. Dylan went rod straight and propped me up to a standing position, his hand left at the small of my back because I teetered like a baby tree in a storm. I looked at him; he looked at me, and we both knew the evening we’d both hoped for was just that…a hope.
“God sent you, didn’t he?” I gasped and giggled.
Farrah explained quietly, “Tabitha phoned. She’s stranded in the outskirts of the city and was adamant I come over. She was afraid you wouldn’t have any food.”
I took this as solid indication Heaven thought it should bust things up.
Dylan—trying to connect with his inner-altar boy—was no help whatsoever. In fact, he acted as though someone shoved a frog down his throat, and its legs were kicking his uvula. I rolled my eyes in my brain…men. Still a smile crept up my face. For once in my life, I realized I had power over him. Lots. Of. Power. Skipping over to Farrah, I kissed her on the cheek and smacked Dylan on the rear, who now stood silently beside me. “No premarital sex tonight, Big Man,” I winked up at him. “Erase those naughty thoughts from your mind.”
18. Networking
People come in all shapes and sizes. Big, small, short, fat, beautiful, ugly, and so on. On that last category, if your heart is in the right place, those other characteristics don’t matter. That’s right. If you’re friendly, by God, the Hunchback of Notre Dame can land Miss freaking America. You put love out in the universe, and that divine wheel of fortune will bring it back to you. Sometimes, you run across a person who seems to deserve the maximum amount of hate you can give, though. Madison Flannery could die in an acid bath, and I’d never bat an eye. Yeah, Madison wasn’t as innocent as my heart had led me to believe.
“And why did you call me?” she barked.
First off, I saved her sorry butt from a sex crime by Nico Drake. You’d think she’d be singing my praises. Nope, Madison acted like I was the thorn in her paw she couldn’t remove. While on Twitter earlier, I noticed her account was public, and she was even dumb enough to have her cell phone listed. So what did I do? I phoned her.
“Honestly, I only called to check on you. I’m sure you heard about what happened to Nico?”
“Nico probably deserved it.”
“It doesn’t make you feel bad? I thought the guy was a douche, but no one should ever be murdered.”
“Like I said. He probably deserved it.”
There’s a reason Madison was in Coach’s office. I thought she was blowing time. Getting a taste of her attitude, my guess was little Miss Madison had in-school detention the day I saved her sorry-mouthed butt.
“I’m thinking you might not be so nice, Madison.”
“Why, Darcy. What gave you that clue? The fact I’ve been rude, or the fact I’m a little disappointed your friend—what’s his name, Vinnie?—didn’t get killed along with Nico when you broke into the house on Calypso Cove.”
Let me take a minute here.
I needed to breathe. Pray. Smack my own dang face. I needed something because I felt like she’d shoved me in the electric chair.
“Were you there?” I whispered. “Did you and that other guy kill Nico?”
Hysterical, in-your-face laughter. �
�I didn’t kill him, but I’d sure buy the knife that did.”
By the way, Madison wouldn’t tell me what she was mixed up in, but now I could assume Madison was onboard with whatever else the identity thief had planned. Because as soon as I mentioned those two words, the girl cursed and hung up.
After I pulled myself together, I called Finn and begged him to find out what he could on the victim named Bishop Fowler. Within six hours, he phoned back with a, “Crikey, Sheila. Bishop Fowler was a computer programmer working from home. Thing is, he pumped gas at Kroger yesterday and bought a packet of cotton candy Bubblicious.”
File that under News That Will Blow Your Mind.
That meant The Ghost might’ve committed the ultimate identity theft scheme. Kill someone and then steal their identity altogether.
Glancing at the digital clock on the microwave, the time glowed at ten fourteen when Finn and I’d ended the call. Murphy and Marjorie had fallen asleep, and I needed caffeine to erase the memory of Madison and relax me into oblivion. After I nuked some Chinese takeout, I slid a black “World’s Worst Dad” mug under the Keurig (my gift, of course) and selected a k-cup called Donut Shop, extra bold. Shoving the little pod into the Keurig, I clicked it shut, pushed a button, and within sixty seconds had piping hot coffee.
Just the thought of everything was overwhelming. I juggled so many balls one was doomed to fall.
And let us not forget Dylan.
Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.
Monday night obviously didn’t end as I’d hoped—the two of us snuggling on the couch, solving the world’s problems—with a kissing marathon. No, Monday night concluded with Farrah snoring like a diesel truck in a sleeping bag beside me.
A fact that could’ve been remedied by a pillow if I were a murderer.