100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “I’m still a virgin, and I turned down the crack he offered, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good God, kid. Watch your mouth.” A pause. “Your friend Chichi phoned.”

  Another pause. Oh, boy, Chichi must’ve had a bad read on the Ouija. To paraphrase, I must still be dead-before-her-time. Picking up a cheese cube from a sample tray by the meat section, I plopped it in my mouth. “Yeah?” I sort of giggled.

  Murphy grumbled, “Yeah, she wanted you to know she had another vision about you and someone with a limp…she said you’d understand.”

  This was normal Chichi behavior. Sometimes she modified her visions, but as far as I knew, the modifications were usually spot-on. First thing to pop in my mind was when I perched myself on top of the school building, scoping out the parking lot for clues. Other than multiple frostbitten appendages, what I took away from that excursion was a gimpy guy in a white van. Speaking personally with him a second time, I realized he might possess more of a creep factor than normal. Could mean everything or could leave me with a big, heaping helping of sorry-about-your-luck.

  I now knew him to be Eric Young, though, and I had his digits.

  Murphy requested I snag a gallon of milk and frozen waffles. As I made my way to the middle of the store, no sooner had we hung up than someone brushed by me, knocking me in the hip with the brown plastic basket they carried. This guy should’ve gotten a cart because his basket was piled high with oranges, frozen vegetables, a six pack of beer, and bread on the bottom. When the majority tumbled to the ground, I quickly bent to pick them up, but he waved me off content to let them lie.

  Thing was, the guy limped away…yes, by God, I said limped.

  Dressed in khaki pants, leather boots, and a faded Sherpa jacket, he looked like any other Cincinnati male in the winter…just trying to keep warm. When he waved me away, I saw a tuft of dark blond hair stuffed under a gray toboggan.

  Not knowing if this was destiny or something darker, I attempted to yell, but all that did was birth a coughing fit which made the woman nearby scramble for cover. Bending over the blood pressure machine, I realized I was in a quandary. I could calmly sit down and cuff myself in (probably the smartest choice), or I could rip the tab off the cough medicine, do the chug-a-lug, and run like the wind.

  Reminding myself I was a verb, I tore the tab with my teeth, twisted the child-proof plastic free, and slurped four burning gulps down.

  After three steps, I coughed like a car with a bad muffler. Covering my mouth with an elbow, I carried the cough syrup in my hand, hacking my way toward a young girl—early twenties in a Kroger outfit—stocking a circular display with fruitcakes.

  I asked, “Did you see where the guy with the limp went?”

  The stock girl gave me her I-hate-fruitcake face. Deciding to jog straight ahead, I turned left at the International Foods aisle and spotted him. Sweet Baby Jesus, I saw the mysterious man with a limp. Hobbling at the end of the aisle, he headed for the freezer case holding frozen fish.

  Stalking like a ninja with a sharp sword, I tried to be soundless—at the same time fighting the cough tickling my throat. While he talked on his phone, I hit up a sample station, advertising the guacamole of the day. Picking up a triangular blue corn chip, I glopped on guacamole, slam-dunking it in my mouth.

  While he grabbed fish sticks from the bottom shelf, he barked, “It’s your own fault, you fool. What do you expect me to do about it?”

  I glanced at my watch, discovering I’d been in the store for almost twenty minutes. That was twenty minutes leaving Ben to sit idly…which if I was a guessing woman was not one of his strong suits.

  When the limper muttered, “I’ll be home in a few,” I pumped my legs to a run and immediately regretted the decision. I seal-slipped on spilled prunes and hydroplaned about six feet on my belly. I hadn’t really thought of my final demise, but I did know I didn’t want it to be death-by-prunes. When I eventually righted myself, my situation didn’t look much better. Goo was all over the bottom of my shoes, and I more or less swam in an oil slick.

  Wouldn’t you know it? I went down on all fours.

  The noise must’ve been immense because the man startled like he’d seen a phantom, locked gazes with me, clicked off his phone, and hightailed it to the front for checkout. I yelled for him to stop, growling, “Ouija Board wacko,” knowing that was probably un-PC in the Wiccan world. “Are you Brantley McCoy? How about Eric Young?”

  Totally OTT, but in the crime business, sometimes you had to multitask.

  “Angel!” I heard an angry voice roar. Blech. The British accent.

  I ignored him. And I ignored him more when I realized he called me ‘angel,’ even when he was angry. Weaving in and out of the glass, I crawled on all fours, ignoring the dirt and grime, trying to make it to the door. Somehow finding vertical, I juked my way in-and-out of the crowd. The more I ran, the faster he limped. This was where gym class should make me outmaneuver him, but unfortunately we’d rotated to a health segment, and I’d apparently gotten out of shape. A stitch developed in my side, and right when my peripheral vision caught a flopping white string, my other foot chose to trip over it.

  My sense of humor was officially compromised…I looked stupid.

  My chin bounced on the floor, and orthopedic shoes were at my head, some grandma’s pink girdle blinding me at a ninety-degree angle. After five seconds of dumbstruck awe, Ben grabbed me by the scruff, picking me up with one hand. He threw me over his shoulder, his hands locked at my thighs in a fireman’s hold. A fireman’s hold, for Pete’s sake. My butt was in the air, and if that wasn’t degrading enough, one of his hands slid up to securely fasten overtop my behind. Oh, no. No, no, no. I was not his woman, and by goodness, I would not withstand cavemanish behavior from one more male in my life.

  I struggled to move, screaming, “Let me down, Ben! Let me down!”

  Ben, however, was like wrestling a rhino. His voice came out rough, angry, and maybe a little amused. “Angel,” he murmured, “I’m disappointed in you. Next time invite me.”

  I’d yanked on two pairs of socks, long white underwear, and a black long-sleeved t-shirt with the words, “And Then Satan Said, Put the Alphabet in Math.” Still shivering, I’d added texting gloves. Begging Murphy to crank up the heat, all I received was a lecture about rising fuel prices and a suck-it-up face. While I waited for sleep to claim me, I got preoccupied counting Marjorie’s coughs. Seven minutes apart, they sounded like a sputtering steamboat when she’d been given the maximum dosage.

  The good times just kept a comin’.

  My date with Ben didn’t end with a goodnight kiss. Instead, I got a…you guessed it…a lecture. Ugh, I attracted one type of guy. It might have been the worst mistake of my life, but I looked him right smack in those silver eyes and upchucked what I’d been doing. Coach’s car (he knew this), The Ghost (he knew über little), raiding the Calypso Cove home (not a freaking clue), and discovering a skeleton while tripping over Nico Drake (he gave no reaction whatsoever…only stared). Shockingly, he found it intriguing. So if my goal was to push him away, I think I drew him closer.

  I painted my toenails in OPI’s Suzi Skis in the Pyrenees and watched a rerun of Vampire Diaries. Amidst the coughing and snoring, sleep played at my brain…but I needed to talk to Dylan. I missed his nightly SKYPE; he missed mine, and I felt the need to cement us back together. The thing with me, the sleepier I was, the more honest my answers became. Call me a hypocrite, but I wanted to know the deep dark secrets of his soul—I didn’t necessarily want him to know mine.

  Totally breaking the hard-to-get girl code, I punched in his speed dial. After four rings, he answered in a raspy voice, “Sweetheart, what time is it?”

  Dylan had a sexy sleepy-voice, the kind that made you need birth control. I fanned
my face. “It’s thirty minutes past the time I’m supposed to turn into a pumpkin.”

  Dylan went with it, halfway giggling, “Sorry, Darc, I fell asleep. Are you okay?”

  Not by a long shot. It was technically Monday morning, and I still hadn’t garnered enough courage to ask him about his weekend-slash-probable date with Brynn-baby. Sunday dinner was a big deal to the Taylors. Even if it was business related, the fact she’d been on the invite-list was enough to make my blood boil.

  Curling to my side, I blurted out, “Are we okay?”

  A split second of silence. “Well, yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”

  Spit it out, Darcy. “I feel something is different between us, starting with Brynn Hathaway.”

  “…what?”

  I repeated, “I want to know what’s going on with you and Brynn. I’ve heard it from multiple sources, D, and before you get all high-and-mighty, the people were Justice and Collin himself.”

  Dylan rustled in the sheets, shifting positions. “Hold on, Darc. Let me wake up.” A few seconds later, he murmured, “Exactly what is it I’m being accused of?”

  “Here’s how I feel, Dylan. You know what went down between us at Red’s house. And we both know what would’ve happened if Farrah (dang her) wouldn’t have interrupted. Imagine how I feel when I don’t see you all weekend, only to find out you’ve spent it with Brynn two nights in a row. Then I’ve got that little voice in the back of my mind of Collin giving me a play-by-play of what regularly goes on between the two of you in class. A play-by-play corroborated by Brynn who Justice overheard bragging to her skank squad.”

  “And what exactly was that?” he predictably asked.

  “The two of you were all over one another.”

  Dylan laughed sarcastically. “Sounds like something Collin would say, but to answer your question, Brynn and I were not all over one another.”

  If my current condition didn’t seem bad enough, hearing him say Brynn’s name just shaved five years off my life. “I’m not sure I believe it,” I said truthfully. “Remember, Brynn said it too. So you’re asking me to believe both people are liars.”

  “And the flipside is that I’m a liar.”

  “The math doesn’t add up,” I kept saying.

  “Nothing is going on,” he repeated adamantly.

  I heard it in his voice. He’d left chill and shot straight to PO’d.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” I muttered. “So I’ll be more specific. Did you hug her when she was upset?”

  A sigh. “Yes.”

  Ouch. “Well, at least tell me what she got all teary-eyed over. I want to know the exact thing that caused you to put your arms around her and freaking squeeze.”

  Oh, boy, Darcy had gone straight to fifth gear. He let out a slow, sleepy, thoughtful sigh. “I wondered how long it would take before a version of this incident got back to you. And that’s what it is, Darcy, a version. But other than being a story that’s not true,” he emphasized, “I find it extremely alarming you’re talking to other people about our relationship other than me.”

  I snorted, deciding to do a full-court press. “Nice pump shot, Dylan. You still never answered. That must mean you don’t trust me.”

  An even deeper sigh tumbled out this time. “I trust you more than anyone, and you know that.” The little angel on my shoulder whispered in my ear I was a two-faced lying ’ho. “But to be clear,” he answered, “Brynn said someone scared her with his advances.”

  “Collin?”

  “No, although I hear he has problems of his own.”

  “Then who?” Another sigh. Only one person I knew could be relentless in the pursuit. “Jagger?”

  “The one and only.”

  Heck, I didn’t know where to go with the conversation, but my guess was she should’ve told her parents and let them handle it. Brynn wasn’t stupid, and her ulterior motive was bigger than the Cincinnati Bengals’ desire to win a postseason game. But let me give you my two cents’ worth. Jagger was a fastard, but he’d never force himself on anyone. At one time I thought so, but I’d since changed my position.

  “I call BS,” I snorted.

  He didn’t give his opinion one way or the other. “And that statement right there makes me wonder where my best friend went,” he muttered.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means we never had to wake one another in the middle of the night because we didn’t trust the other. It means you used to know who Jagger Cane was and that you should be leery—”

  “I judged him wrongly,” I interrupted.

  “Jagger,” he snorted.

  “Yes. I know he’s a fastard, and I’d never listen to him treat you badly, but there’s good in there. I’ve felt it.”

  “Maybe you’re judging Brynn wrongly too. Brynn and I’ve been friends for years, Darcy. It’s almost inevitable that our relationship will be misunderstood.”

  Pretty weak argument. We’ll see how that pans out. “So her modus operandi was completely innocent?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  He answered too quickly for my liking. “Yes.”

  Excuse me while I pull on my waders. The bull crap had piled all the way up to my butt. Laughing overly loud, I heard Murphy snort and roll to his side in the other room. “You seriously don’t believe that, do you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The ambiguity between us dripped like water on a rock, slowly chipping away until a crevice formed that couldn’t be repaired.

  Dang you, Brynn Hathaway, dang you.

  “This was a mistake,” I whispered.

  He paused and muttered, “I guess this is what it feels like for the best friend to suddenly become irrelevant.”

  Tears of anger choked me, closing my throat to the point of what felt like suffocation. “Irrelevant?” I sniveled. “How?”

  “A conversation with your best friend should never feel like a mistake.”

  Dylan and I talked…about everything. Futures, the unexplainable, why bad things happened to good people. We had deep, meaningful conversations that remained between the two of us. And as teenagers, we talked about the good and bad we saw amongst our friends. Why some treated others badly and why some thought so little of themselves they allowed it—heck, why many even appeared to enjoy the abuse. Dylan had always been my voice of reason. Who in the heck was I supposed to turn to now? Especially since I feared he might be one of those guys.

  I couldn’t help it, but the tears came harder.

  “You’re that guy, D. The guy…you told me…to always…stay away from.”

  My tears came so fast, he must not have understood. “Darcy, I didn’t hear you. Please, don’t cry, honey. I can’t stand to be the cause of your pain.” I blew my nose and took a deep breath, wondering how in the world I could back gracefully out of the conversation. Unfortunately, Dylan wasn’t through and the argument went into OT. “Tell me why I couldn’t get in touch with you tonight,” he murmured.

  You know what, right or wrong, I just said it. “I had a date with Ben Ryan.”

  Pause.

  Longer pause.

  Then Dylan commenced with a few, choice words, his temper rising to the danger zone. “You go out with Ben Ryan and then call me to ask what went down with Brynn Hathaway?”

  True. I didn’t have a right to call with this conversation, but sorry, folks, I’m not always so noble.

  When I didn’t respond, he grunted, “Well, well, well…that might be the most sanctimonious—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence,” I interrupted. “You’re going to make me hate you.”

  His voice lowered. “I’m going to finish it, dammit, because I love you. And when you love someone, you step in when they’re taking a wrong path. It frightens me you�
�re even interested in him, Darcy. The guy hit you with his car and yet you can’t stay away. You talk to him. I hear it in your voice. That scares me way more than Brynn should scare you.”

  “He didn’t actually hit me, D. I stepped into traffic while I talked to you if I remember correctly.”

  “And already you’re defending him. This is typical Darcy behavior. You want to talk, but you hold back on things you think someone doesn’t want to hear or might incriminate you. You called me, so give it to me straight. How much does he mean to you?”

  Heck, I barely knew him, and Brynn had psycho-stalked Dylan for years. “I don’t know him that well, but Brynn likes you. You’ve even dated her. And that revelation only came after I backed you in a corner and you caved. So pardon me for being a little insecure with how you claim you feel about me.”

  Dylan’s voice broke the sound barrier. “Well, let me reiterate what I told you regarding Brynn months ago. I care for her, but I care for you more. She was a stand-in, Darcy, and I’m not embarrassed to admit that to you or anyone else. You were always there,” he suddenly whispered, “there…in the back of my mind. And the revelation I’d dated her would’ve come from me anyway. I don’t like secrets with you. I never have, but don’t think I didn’t notice you tiptoed around the answer to Ryan as only you can do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you called me yet you still won’t show any of your cards. I swear to God, Darcy. I can’t crack your code, and it’s driving me insane.”

  “Then why do you put up with me?” I whispered.

  “I put up with it because you’re cute as hell, but you’re the worst liar on the planet. And you’ve been lying to me a lot lately. Don’t think I haven’t been killing myself trying to figure out who and why someone bumped my damn car. Was it someone from my grandfather’s world back after us, or was it you?” He paused, waiting for my reaction. Unfortunately, I gave him nothing but respirations. If I told him about Madison Flannery, it would make things worse. Trust me. I should’ve told earlier. “You’re doing something, aren’t you?” he exhaled. “But if I ask what you’re doing, you’ll lie. You’ll look me straight in the face and fricking lie. You’re lying about everything, so much that I know you’re also hiding how you truly feel about us. It’s all over your face, Darcy, and the other night it was all over your body. That’s why I’ve put up with your little science experiment because I know it’s going to blow up in your face…if it hasn’t already.”