100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  After a few strained I’ll-see-you-in-the-mornings, I made my grand exit, blew out a sigh, and shuffled inside the house. Dylan wasn’t so fond of my newfound badassery. In fact, I got a glare that nearly melted the skin from my bones. To give him credit, he stopped at a glare. Believe me…I get it. Guys are bigger and stronger than girls, but I wasn’t the type to sit idly by and watch a fight happen in front of my eyes. He knew that…or at least, he used to know that.

  Pretty freakin’ sad.

  Earlier, when the cops came to the scene, we did the I-saw-this, they-did-that gig. Then I gave them the partial license plate, and we phoned our parents. It went better on Dylan’s end than mine. I might as well have called Baby Jesus a homegrown terrorist, but really…there were no words.

  Murphy was sprawled out in the leather recliner, watching television. A can of Coke in one hand, a cloud of cigar smoke over his head with a bag of chips balanced on his gut. He didn’t acknowledge me when I walked inside.

  Call me Albert Einstein, but that wasn’t good.

  Throwing my purse and jacket on the couch, even though I was freaked way the heck out, I decided to forgo rehashing the we-were-attacked conversation and dive straight into Ben Ryan. I needed Dylan as far away from me as possible. Preferably in Alaska or another place surrounded by water. Until Brantley McCoy was found and brought to justice, Dylan could feasibly be carrying that baseball bat around.

  I’d been categorically insane for considering us as a boyfriend/girlfriend unit—even though he conjured up conflicting emotions. At one point, he’d been in full snarl. I didn’t know whether to cry or ask him to strip me bare. Here lately, I’d been embracing that passion. Yup, Darcy Walker had become an embracer. Problem was, his soul was good. In fact, he went to Mass each week and confessed whatever little sin he did have. A priest would need notebook paper or the memory of an elephant to record all of mine.

  I flopped onto the couch across from Murphy. “Other than the fact some moron hit the Beemer, I almost got kissed under the mistletoe tonight,” I said. “Don’t worry about any lip action. Dylan broke it up after he said he’d leave the guy crying for his mommy.”

  Murphy crossed his legs at the ankles and shoveled another chip in his mouth. “And that’s why I can sleep at night,” he chomped. “Remind me to upgrade his Christmas present tomorrow morning, kid.” Murphy’s temper was like a mile-wide hurricane. I expected more of a reaction. Heck, I thought he’d be screaming bloody murder after the night’s events, but the UK Wildcats were playing, and Murphy pretended he was the sixth man.

  “Thing is, I’d like to have a date with him, Murphy. It’s Ben Ryan.”

  Murphy’s head swiveled around like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist when the demon was inside her. “The kid that hit you with his car?”

  “I walked out in front of him, Murphy.”

  “Well, yeah, but don’t you have any higher standards? I’d think number one on the list would be, Don’t date someone that hit me with his car.”

  Put that way, it kind of made sense. “So can I?” I shrugged.

  Another munch of chip. “And Dylan was okay with this?”

  “He wasn’t exactly off his holy rocker, if that’s what you mean. In fact, he said…he said…”

  I buried my face in my hands. “Aww, for the love of Pete,” Murphy grunted. “Spit it out, kid.”

  “He said he’d wait on me.”

  Murphy furrowed his brows, took a deep breath, and then barked out the laughter of a seal. He laughed so loud he bent over and wheezed, the cosmos reminding him he needed to cut back on the cigars.

  “Bless him, Lord,” he chuckled, referring to Dylan, “but you’re a fool, kid, if you mess with that boy’s heart. Every man has his limits,” he finished as an aside.

  After I kissed Marjorie goodnight, I creamed off my mascara and did a minimal amount of maintenance in the bathroom. Once I removed my contacts, I changed into blue Cookie Monster fleece bottoms, a black sweatshirt, and knee socks. Crawling into bed, I switched my sound machine to Ocean Waves and pondered how I’d gaslight Damon into giving up information about The Ghost. I also needed Tito back on the phone to see if he could find the owner of the white van at school. It might help with Coach’s case, which surprisingly had turned out rather difficult to crack in a school that loved to gossip. Oh yeah, and I hadn’t forgotten that Coach Wallace’s ex-wife might be guiltier of something other than being an ex.

  My God, let us not forget I had a real science project due in days. Days, people, and it knocked at my door like the Big Bad Wolf.

  When I’m depressed, I draw. I sketch the lines, shadows, and contours the way I see them. I can make everything the way I want it to be—to where the picture is alive from whatever angle you look at. I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and drew a picture of a rotting skeleton. Weird, but oh well. As I drew, it became clear the answer was simple: if you wanted information, you had to go after it yourself. Or better yet, draw out The Ghost and make him angry enough to mess up.

  I made a few phone calls and waited…

  Right when I counted thirty-eight sheep, my iPhone’s buzz startled me awake. Fumbling around on the nightstand, I squinted at the number and practically did a cartwheel midair. “So you’ll go?!” I almost screamed.

  “I’ll be there bright and early, Dolce,” he murmured. “I finished up classes today.”

  I’d risen early, searching for the perfect excuse. I ran my tongue up and down the escalator and caught a stomach virus; someone sneezed in my face and I came down with tuberculosis. Perhaps I contracted an incurable disease by exchanging money. Or something more practical like my resistance was down because I never got a full night’s sleep. My mind played through the lies with each nervous gait to Murphy’s room. All I had to do was stumble to his pillow, cough “I’m dying,” fake-sneeze a few times, and he grumbled, “Dang it, kid, cover your mouth.”

  Simple.

  This morning I beat Dylan to the punch. I texted him at half past five, telling him I had yellow fever, mosquitoes were everywhere, and to look for me in the morgue. I didn’t even receive a reply, and thankfully he never showed at his usual time.

  The house was completely abandoned by eight o’clock. Murphy departed at his usual seven, and Claudia and Marjorie left early to hit Walmart before first grade started. Once I heard the front door close, I showered and pulled my hair back in a wet ponytail. I applied blush, mascara, and pink lip gloss. Standing in my underwear, I stared at my clothes and decided all black was the best route. On went a black turtleneck, skinny jeans with my new black leather ankle boots. Once I was satisfied with the look, I placed my lucky hat on my head. It was a menswear houndstooth bucket hat I’d bought last summer at The Gap. It made me look brainy with glasses.

  The moment I stuffed a cherry Pop-Tart in my mouth, the doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole, I was convinced this was the dumbest decision I’d ever made. With my hand around the doorknob, I opened it up with a semi-fake smile.

  Visitor number one…

  “Nice place,” Bean grinned. It’s safe to say if his goal were to accentuate his nerdiness, he’d hit the darn mark. He wore a three-piece, navy pin-stripe suit with a white tie on a navy shirt and white patent leather shoes. They squeaked like they’d been filled with water when he walked through the door. On his head was a white cowboy hat with a red feather tucked inside the bill. In his pocket (of course) was Mr. Pongo dressed as a twinsie.

  Enter visitor number two…

  Vinnie was dressed in jock-boy chic. Sneakers, gray sweats, and a new gray hoodie with Ohio State written across the chest. He stole one look at Bean and his body shook with laughter.

  Bean did an effeminate twirl. “Like my outfit?” he grinned.

  “Yeah, it lets everyone know you’re single,” Vinnie cackled louder.

 
While he and Bean introduced themselves, I secretly grabbed Murphy’s GLOCK pistol and shoved it in the waistband of my pants—no bullets, but no one needed to know what I considered a minor detail.

  Bean had brought in the morning paper. Tito Westbrook penned the lead story about the ten thousand dollar reward Cookie Harper-Stark was offering for info about The Ghost. My heart went aflutter.

  “So that’s what we’re after?” Vinnie grinned.

  “Yeah, and we’re going to get it,” I grinned back, telling them the layout for the day.

  Vinnie clarified, “So we’re going to find out why Jojo dumped Coach, who painted his car, and if The Ghost is Brantley McCoy—the guy you think bumped you and Taylor?”

  I nodded. Vinnie gazed at me intently. “Totally doable,” he encouraged. “Now do you want to tell me why that skeleton freaked you out like it did? You’ve seen worse, Dolce. You’ve touched worse.”

  True dat…

  No one appreciated a looky-loo more than me, but I had no inkling Vinnie’d found my reaction odd. Sure, I’d seen a dead body, detached hand, and severed head. My God, I’d tripped over Nico Drake. Things much worse than the man in the closet, but that particular scene was like a moth to a flame. The closer I got, the more I’d get burned. The Minstrel Cramps t-shirt delivered the final blow. My mother founded that band and sang lead vocals, but the band broke up when she became pregnant with me. I only spoke of her with Dylan because he could draw me back. I couldn’t chance a conversation with Vinnie, although he’d given me the t-shirt because he remembered that Gemma Walker, at one time, was “THE SHIZ.” That’s right…my mother, point blank, was the hottest thing this town had ever seen. Until some psycho stalker SOB did the unspeakable…he killed her.

  During the reunion tour I talked her into.

  After all these years, I still couldn’t place that on a shelf in my mind that explained why something like that was “okay” to happen. God is supposed to be good—and want good things for you. I believed that most days, but what happened didn’t make me a better person. It didn’t make me a “worse” person. It just made me…sad.

  But life was like a vapor—here one minute, the next vanished into the wind.

  Burying the pain, I turned on the part of my brain that helped me survive and piled into the Bug with Vinnie—armed in nothing more than enthusiasm, bonded by our idiocy. Ten minutes later, we stood in the middle of Dingo 31 at nine-thirty, opening time. Dingo 31 is a new store to the area specializing in designer brands for less. In any other situation, I’d be excited to scope the place out, but traveling with Bean and Vinnie was like herding cats. I tried to give instruction, but Bean headed straight to housewares; Vinnie headed for the ladies’ underwear.

  Throwing my shoulders back and attempting to look professional, I passed the handbags on the left, stole a glance at the size eight rack of shoes, and strolled to the rear of the store to the first associate I made eye contact with. He was a male not much older than me. I’d found in all of my excursions I garnered more information from males than females. Throw in a flirty smile and you could unbooby a booby trap.

  We met up as he parked a buggy full of merchandise in front of a bathroom display.

  I extended a hand. “Hi, I’m, uh…Jester, and I’m looking for Jojo Wallace.”

  He shook my hand, half asleep, half awake. His red hair was a stiff mess of styling gel, and his energy level resembled a slug trying to make it up a concrete wall. “Who?” he asked.

  I tried again, “Jojo?”

  “Oh,” he shivered. “She’s in the back.” The shudder made me curious, and what better way to gain information than from someone who already had strong emotions.

  Picking up five or six towels, he slid them onto an endcap, lining them up by color. “What’s she like?” I smiled.

  Squinting his eyes, he tried to gauge my reaction and called her the b-word.

  “Oh,” I said. “Always?”

  “Born that way.” He gazed over his shoulder toward the swinging doors of the stock room. Rolling the buggy up four aisles to the shoes, he pulled out five pairs of size six leather boots, positioning them on the top shelf.

  “What does she do here?” I asked.

  The instant he opened his mouth, the swinging doors flew wide with who I could only assume was security, a manager, or someone who’d gotten their cereal peed in and needed to vent. A look at the nametag on her overly buxom bosom said, Jojo. Underneath in block letters were the words Store Manager.

  Fudge…

  Jojo looked like she’d slept in a tanning booth. She wore too much base makeup with two stripes of orange blush on both cheekbones. Her eyes were shadowed in light blue with mascara that’d been applied overtop yesterday’s batch. Her eyebrows were crayoned in, and her forehead was devoid of personality…Botox, the culprit.

  Jojo donned a navy Ralph Lauren double-knit jersey sheath that had a leather gun patch at the right shoulder. Black Label league. I nearly dropped dead. No wonder Coach Wallace was broke. That dress was close to four figures; I knew this because Red had a duplicate. When Jojo turned sideways, I got an eyeful of her profile. Her stomach was protruding and round—not like she was overweight—like she had a bun in the oven.

  Umm…wow.

  I didn’t profess to know a lot about pregnancy, but I did know you never asked women when they were due. There’s always the remote chance they weren’t really pregnant, they were fat, or God forbid, they’d never lost their previous baby weight and gave up on the dream.

  Striding toward her, I told myself, Above all, say nothing stupid or risqué. Consequently, I blurted out, “Please tell me that’s just a gas bubble.”

  Vinnie appeared out of nowhere chuckling, “It’s going to be a great Christmas.”

  Jojo wanted my head on a platter. Registering her death wish, Vinnie gripped the hand at her side, murmuring, “Hello, I’m BJ Monaco. Life coach and personal trainer.”

  Of course he was.

  “We’re screwed,” I said out loud.

  Jojo lifted a chubby hand to cover her laugh. “And you think I need a personal trainer? Honey, I’m pregnant.”

  Normally, I could talk myself out of any situation. Heck, I talked a mobster out of killing a kidnapper and me last summer while a commode overflowed at our feet. But this had absolutely stymied me.

  A customer had left a chocolate bar on a nearby endcap. Jojo snatched it up, gave the wrapper a jagged rip, and took an unladylike bite. Vinnie looked at the candy bar like a succubus looked at a fresh neck. Licking his lower lip, he still remained in character. “Well, let me just say, you wear it well, Jojo.” He produced a white business card, placing it in her palm. “Here’s my number for after the blessed event takes place. Does your partner want to join us? I’ve got a family deal going on until the end of January.”

  “That would be a capital NO,” she frowned, “My husband and I are divorced. I didn’t want a divorce, but he’s too soft. You raise your voice, and he thinks it’s a fight. My God, the situation I’m in, does he expect me to always be in a good mood?”

  “Men,” Vinnie snorted, touching her shoulder.

  “You’ve got that right,” she agreed, voice rising. “And I didn’t do that to his car. Those stupid kids at school did. I might’ve dented it a few times before, but that’s it.”

  I tried to keep my voice emotionless, nonjudgmental. “Oh, wow. So your husband’s car has been vandalized?”

  Closing her eyes, she actually appeared to be in some sort of pain. Taking in one big breath she expelled it slowly as though anything faster would produce more agony.

  Verrrrrrrrrrrry interesting.

  “Yes, I’m the first person he called.”

  Vinnie drove us downtown, chasing a solid lead on The Ghost. In an alley behind Sixth Street, his cousin a
ppeared, produced two white silk cloths, removed my glasses, and blindfolded Bean and me. My heart stopped, or at least stutter-stepped. I knew Vinnie had a cousin but had no idea he was Italian good-looking with big, brown eyes and full, rosy lips. A normal-looking businessman. He was a runner in a law firm and was dressed in a dark gray three-piece suit as if he’d just ended a day in court. As soon as my mouth opened, Vinnie’s angrily shooshed me and unceremoniously forced me into the backseat of the Bug, settling in beside me. Bean, I’m assuming, was now in the front seat. His cousin was now at the wheel, driving what I’d estimate to be two miles. When the ignition switched off, Vinnie placed my hand in his and led us into what I knew immediately was an abandoned building. Well, abandoned of a “lawful” business, I should clarify.

  “Remember whose side you’re on, Vinnie,” I seethed into his back. “You could’ve given me a heads up on the blindfold.”

  “Shut up, Darcy. You’ve now entered the big leagues.” He was rude, plus he called me Darcy—something he rarely did, even more rarely than Dylan. Navigating through three right turns and then a left, he abruptly stopped and roughly thrust me into a metal chair. This wasn’t the Vinnie I knew. Vinnie loved me. Vinnie had my back. My brain was so stunned it didn’t even try to dissect the shock. Vinnie then gave me the OMG moment of all OMG moments. He squeezed my shoulder and lower back at the same time—alerting me he’d already noticed I was packing heat. Problem was, Murphy’s GLOCK was unloaded. That’s right, u-n-l-o-a-d-e-d for those that need it spelled out. I should’ve put a bullet in the mag.

  Oh, crap.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  While the minutes ticked away, I tried to get a feel for my surroundings. The smell of Italian food hit my nose, and my taste buds shot straight to drool. Where was I? I’d never been in this situation before—waiting for a criminal—and since I didn’t know protocol, I found myself whistling. I’d nearly slaughtered the second verse of “High Hopes” when a deep base voice finished out the last stanza.