100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  Like I’d answer that…

  My chest started to wheeze, and it sounded like I’d coughed up a lung. Heck, maybe it was my conscience trying to free itself. “A busy girl,” I answered, clearing my throat.

  Tito groaned sympathetically when the cough pitched its proverbial tent and decided to stay. “You’re sick,” he said. “Let me help you, darlin’. Do you live on the streets or somethin’?”

  I might be if Murphy discovered what I considered recreational. “No, it’s just cold and flu season. Listen, I don’t have time. The white van more than likely has nothing to do with what happened to you, but it will be a big story for you nonetheless. Are you going to work with me, or do I have to take other measures?”

  He sighed…and grunted. Then I think he voiced some sort of show tune.

  Whatever, I thought, if singing show tunes helped us get to the journey’s end quicker, then bring on Broadway.

  “Okay, Jester,” he finally muttered. “This is the weekend, so I promise the information by Monday morning. Once you speak with this person, you call me immediately. If you don’t call immediately, then our relationship is over, capeesh?”

  “Capeesh,” I repeated in the best Italian accent I could muster. But I couldn’t help but throw in cockily, “Remember who’s buttered your bread here lately, Tito. Remember it was little ole Jester who told you Bishop Fowler bought gum and pumped gas long after his heart quit beating. And I’m working on something else,” Brantley McCoy, “and when I get that to you, I’ll accept the apology you already owe me.”

  “Sweet Lord,” he prayed and laughed. “I’m going to show you how good I am because I’m going to put that info in your hands by the end of the night. Have a good evening, darlin’. I never renege on a deal. You keep your end and produce whatever this other big story is, and we’ll still be chatting years from now.”

  Disconnecting, all I wanted to do was make it through the week…$10 Gs richer.

  I made that phone call four hours ago.

  It was sevenish on Sunday night when I realized I hadn’t seen my best friend in over forty-eight hours. When he took me home Friday, the plan was to join him at Valley’s basketball game that evening. Unfortunately, I got another coughing spell and collapsed as soon as my feet crossed the threshold of my room, sprawled out on the carpet like a dead cockroach. I cracked open an eye long enough to send him a text that said, I might’ve infected you. I’m sorry. And please don’t let it end our relationship. I think he texted back, I love you. Don’t worry. I’m indestructible. But when I went to my inbox the next morning, it was surprisingly empty. Did I delete it, or did I imagine the whole flipping thing?

  Home for Christmas Break from OSU, his sister, Sydney, hosted her annual July in Christmas party Saturday night. Convinced I was on the speedy road to recovery, Dylan phoned, requesting I be his date. I wasn’t so sure I’d been healed, but my codependent self buckled when he murmured, Please. When I stumbled up to get dressed, I coughed so much I ralphed phlegm all over the wall. Talk about embarrassment. I told him what’d happened, and when Murphy walked by as I sponged it up, he looked at me with a gag and grunted, “Politely decline, kid. I swear, you gave him the plague through the phone.”

  We ended with some small talk, but the operative word there was “small.” I’m not so sure he believed me, and why should he? There’d been too many negative emotions between us lately—most of them my fault.

  Murphy had dropped me off at The Double-B at noon where Rudi and I literally and figuratively watched the paint peel. It was Rudi’s cell I’d used to call Tito. A pretty dastardly, crappy deed if I cared to think about it. She used her cell to text only, and I knew if Tito called, she A) wouldn’t hear it or B) would be so uncomfortable she’d hang up.

  I told myself it was for a good cause, but the sharp pain in my chest said I might want to reacquaint myself with good person behavior.

  That wasn’t the only thing alarming.

  Ben called Murphy.

  Murphy liked him.

  I’d dove headfirst into Bizarro World. The only upside from being sick was I had an excuse to not go out with him.

  As I currently added a stack of one-dollar bills to the register, Collin Lockhart strolled in. Just looking at him was discomforting enough. He’d dressed in expensive jeans, an expensive green sweater, and an expensive black pea coat that hugged his shoulders like a sports car hugged the road. He was too pretty, successful, and (make me want to gag) enamored with Brynn Hathaway. I’d rather open Hell’s gates and dive in headfirst than listen to him snivel how the rumor mill had already begun to churn about last night’s party.

  “You didn’t know?” he asked as I counted and recounted the ones.

  “No,” I tried to say emotionlessly. “I didn’t.”

  “I hear they were surgically joined at the hip, and she bent his ear all night long. Apparently, it was nauseating, like Italian-men-serenading-you-with-a-Stradivari nauseating.”

  Actually, being serenaded with a violin was pretty darn romantic, if you asked me. I took a whiff of Collin, wondering if he fired on all neurons tonight. Last spring, he crashed another of Sydney’s parties and left drunker than a monkey even though no alcohol was officially served. Funny, he and Brynn were estranged then and even more estranged now. I see a pattern occurring.

  I picked up the Abe Lincolns and nervously continued to add.

  “To be honest, Collin, your relationship has been stuck in the breakup/makeup status for years. You’ll be back together before morning.”

  Here’s to crossing my fingers.

  “Well, this one is for good. She did the worst possible thing you can do to a person.”

  “Being?”

  “She unfollowed me on Twitter.”

  Oh, God…that WAS serious.

  He leaned across the counter, instantly causing me to recoil. “They’re at dinner tonight. Did you know that?”

  Actually, I sighed, I didn’t.

  Dylan texted me “Good morning” and later called that he wouldn’t be able to pick me up after work because of a corporate Christmas party his father was throwing for all his cosmetic minions. There’d been no mention of Brynn; although, it’s plausible she would be in attendance. Her father was a Go Glam! executive too.

  “Doesn’t that worry you?!” Collin roared when I ignored him. Just the thought gave me a bad case of indigestion. Putting my fingers in the compartment of twenties, I lifted them out and counted, recounted, and counted again. When Collin didn’t move, I slid one eye over not really knowing how to answer. Of course it bothered me, but I wanted to protect my feelings more than commiserate with someone who wasn’t really a friend. When I gave him what I hoped was a disinterested shrug, Collin grabbed his blond head with both hands, like the ambiguity caused him mental pain.

  Next thing I knew, he started talking to himself. “You’re Collin Lockhart,” he muttered. “You can accomplish anything. You’re Student Council President, good-looking, and you will own this town one day and everybody in it.”

  Yup, Collin was still ate-up with himself…

  When I nearly suggested the psychiatry aisle, he mumbled, “Bathroom,” and strode to the back of the store. He left his wallet, car keys, and cell phone on the countertop. Picking them up to place behind the counter, I quickly realized the opportunity Providence had placed in my palm…a phone.

  I looked to the ceiling with a smile.

  A little over four hours had passed since Tito and I’d spoken—let’s see how good he really was. Punching in his number, I repeated Collin’s mantra. “You’re Darcy Walker. You can accomplish anything. You’re…not Student Council President,” I amended. “You’re not good-looking, and this town will eat you alive if you don’t burn it down first.”

  When he answered, “Jester?” I said, “Sooo
o?”

  “Soooooo,” he drawled out even more.

  We remained silent—him, relaxed; me, breathing like I had one foot in quicksand.

  Tito eventually sighed, “There are a few details we need to go over again, Jester.” I sighed, feeling as though it was a waste of time. After he swore he was confidential and that I needed to be confidential, he said, “The guy you’re looking for is Eric Young. The van, however, belongs to Evelyn Seacrest. No known relation, but my contact says he does work around the house for her.”

  He rattled off Evelyn’s digits. I repeated them back three times, forever planting them in my brain. When I got nothing but what sounded like a slurp of pizza, I asked, “Anything else?”

  “I was waiting for a thank you, darlin’. But maybe I’m just old-school.”

  When Collin materialized with a more sedate face, I dispensed a heartfelt “Thank you,” disconnected, and lied that I’d answered his phone for him.

  Collin’s face bled into a blank slate when I placed all his things back in his hand. “This is what we should do,” he said confidently. “We need to date merely to rub it in their faces. Fair is foul, and foul is fair.”

  Tempting, I thought, in a Macbeth sort of way, but overall it felt skeevy. When I uhh’d and well’d, and I-don’t-know’d, he released a sad nod and slowly turned and walked out the door.

  Guess he got the picture.

  The next two hours might’ve been the longest of my life. By the time my shift ended, my fingernails were down to nubs, and I feared I’d acquired a permanent eye tic. But the night didn’t end in boredom. Far from it. Evidently, in one of my unhygienic moves, I’d either sneezed in Marjorie’s face or left snot on the doorknob because now she had “a smoker’s cough with a side order of black lung.”

  Murphy’s words, of course.

  He grumbled, “I’d give her some codeine, but I’m afraid she won’t wake up, kid. I need you to run to Kroger on the way home and pick up some cough medicine. I don’t want to leave her alone. Can Dylan pick you up?”

  “I fear he’s fornicating with Brynn Hathaway.”

  “Come again?”

  “Brynn Hathaway,” I repeated as if it was anathema. “I’ll call Justice.” Or Ben, I thought. I didn’t know where he lived, but dang it, turnabout was fair play.

  “Murphy, would you be upset if Ben Ryan brought me home? That is, if he’s somewhere close?”

  I got the impression Murphy would eat him alive if he had a fork. Oh, boy, here comes the “conduct unbecoming of a lady” speech.

  Here’s a replay…

  “If you get a drink, don’t put your Coke down,” Murphy grunted. “If you go to the bathroom, get a new Coke when you come back. Don’t kiss him, don’t let him touch you anywhere, don’t even smile if you don’t feel like it, and there’s this date-rape drug called a roofie that’s really bad news.”

  “You’ve just traumatized me,” I giggled.

  “I feel like if I don’t traumatize my kids, then I haven’t done a good job. Besides, you can get pregnant by spit, kid. I’m from Appalachia; I know these things. And I also need to find out if he has any STDs.”

  “STDs are only communicable during the shama lama, ding-dong, Murphy.”

  “That’s what textbooks say, but it might be a conspiracy by the government to knock off certain branches of people.” His following statement was so low I almost didn’t hear him. “Is this to get back at Dylan?”

  “Probably,” I said just as lowly.

  Silence on his end. “Listen, kid. I’ve played the game you’re playing. One too many times to be proud of. I’m not sure what’s going on between the two of you, but don’t do something you can’t undo.” Murphy was a notorious cheat until he met my mother. God knew he didn’t get a happily-ever-after. “That being said, I talked to Ben, and surprisingly I like him. Normally, I prefer a face-to-face before you get in the car with him, but if he’s close, then I’m good with him being your ride. But you know to be a lady, right?”

  “I’m sure it’s buried somewhere in my gene map, Murphy. Hopefully, I can conjure it up when he’s molesting me.”

  “Good God,” he swore and hung up.

  Ben rolled into The Double-B in thirty minutes…perfect timing, considering I needed to lock up, wait for Rudi’s father to show, and put Mr. B to sleep on his side in case apnea struck. He arrived in the same Audi he’d hit me with, dressed the same, only his hair was slightly damp. He smelled of a body wash that left my nose doing a striptease. I’d never been alone with anyone in an automobile other than Dylan (well anyone that counted)…but smelling a similar scent was like his territorial self was marking this date.

  I was starving. Dylan normally took me through a drive-thru, so when I requested Ben swing by for a Moby burger, the issue of how bad fast food is joined the conversation. Ben had some Svengali tendencies—unfortunately, they weren’t much different than Dylan’s alpha male macho crap.

  “My mother and I are vegan,” he murmured after he insisted on paying for my meal.

  “Oh yeah,” I munched. “Did you want to be vegan?”

  He gave a small shrug. “I think I just wanted to do the opposite of my father at the time.”

  “Rebellious phase?”

  “An always phase. My father wants what my father wants, and he drags you along with him.”

  So here’s Ben’s story. His father’s in the Air Force and recently took a new post at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton. Ben was sixteen and born in Great Britain (ergo, the British accent). His parents had been looking at houses in Mack County and were spending a few weeks at the Marriott Hotel in Union Center, about twenty minutes away from my home. Convenient.

  And even more convenient when Ben admitted he currently used the resources at his father’s disposal to do a little detective work on his own—mainly, Jojo’s name and workplace and how he’d figured out my real cell phone number.

  I licked mayo off my lower lip. Ben leaned over with a grin and placed a napkin in my hand. “The two of you aren’t close?” I munched.

  Ben sort of frowned. “We’re extremely close. Just sometimes I remember what it’s like to leave your best friends behind. On those days, I don’t particularly like my father.”

  The ride was silent for a few beats. Ben came complete with deep emotions. I liked that in a guy, and I realized how surprisingly easy it was to have a conversation with him. He was a feeler, when most guys his age only felt with one body part. “Sorry,” I apologized. “Do you need a hug?”

  Ben didn’t get a chance to say yay or nay. I crawled over the console, arms outstretched, and knocked my Coke from its holder. The low quality plastic of the Big Moby’s lid collapsed, and it geysered up and hit Ben in the lap.

  He jumped like he’d collided with an electric fence. “Whoa!” he half screamed, half laughed.

  Word of advice? Save a hug in the future.

  I was mortified.

  Ben ripped his shirt up out of his khakis, and I handed him one of my low quality Big Moby napkins to wipe off with. That sucker disintegrated as soon as it hit the liquid. While he dabbed at his stomach, I gazed at his abs and counted six reasons why I should jump out of a moving car.

  Ben saw where my eyes had fixated and subsequently dropped his silver gaze to my mouth. “We can save that for later, angel.”

  My face blushed; I felt the burn. For five point five seconds, I considered murder…something slow and heavy on pain. Ripping a chunk out of my Moby burger instead, I moved on to the greasy fries and ignored his dirty, dirty mind.

  Ben leaned across the console and stroked the bill of my Burberry cap. I immediately wondered what Dylan was doing and what he’d think of Ben, me, and Ben’s abs. “I was only joking,” he said softly. When I slid over a frown, Ben gently snagged my hand
, lifting my fingers to his eyes. “God, you’re cute. And the fact that you bite your nails might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Please. Tell. Me.

  He. Did. Not.

  Just.

  Say. That.

  I wanted to punch him, yanking my hand away. “Darcy,” he chuckled, “that’s just rude. I wanted to hold your hand.”

  Ben’s spiritual gift was sarcasm…

  “Who’s calling who rude? I didn’t even start it!” I yelled indignantly.

  His cocky grin quirked up at one corner. “That’s whom,” he chuckled, “but I’m willing to overlook your lack of grammar skills if I get a kiss.”

  Is that right?! Well, a goodnight kiss was sadly not in the playbook.

  Ben set my teeth on edge, and that wasn’t exactly a guy I’d choose to lock lips with. I stuffed the Moby wrappers in the takeout bag and angrily collapsed it with a big pop. “Our relationship is like a verbal car crash. Why in the world do you provoke me?”

  He briskly shook his head, as though he fought through shock. “I’m not actually sure, but you’re already in my blood. Listen, Darcy. I always come on too strong—even with a joke—and I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I like you. I like you more than I want to. God,” he swore, briefly wincing, “that didn’t come out right either. I’ve never been so nervous around the opposite sex in my entire life.”

  Right hand to God, I was elated when he pulled into Kroger. Leaving the car idling by the door, with little grace and a whole lot of stupid, I fell out of the car and walked crooked—like the ground crumbled beneath me. Maybe Hell needed a new citizen. Finally, I found my pride and jogged straight to the cough medicine aisle as Murphy called, figuring I’d need hand holding on the assignment. Deciding to pick up a multi-symptom syrup, I headed for the self-checkout aisle.