100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  The.

  Freaking.

  Nerve.

  Just like that, angry Darcy was back in the driver’s seat. “Did you hear that?” I seethed.

  “No,” he seethed just as deadly.

  “That was me giving you the silent treatment.”

  His voice immediately went soft. Careful. As if he handled a treasured possession and feared one wrong move would make it crack. His concerns were legit, but by God, I wasn’t a sure thing. Dylan was definitely gorgeous, but it was the kind of gorgeous that’d leave a girl begging at her knees. I couldn’t chance breaking. I just couldn’t.

  “Don’t hang up, sweetheart,” he begged hoarsely. “My relationship with you trumps everything else. So what if the conversation took a dramatic turn? It’s better to talk things out than hang up angry and not solve anything at all.”

  “Ah, for crying out loud, hang up the dang phone,” a voice grumbled near me.

  Murphy stumbled through the door, hair in Einsteinian disarray, right as I dabbed the tears from my eyes with a tissue. “Don’t pick me up tomorrow,” I whispered. “I’ve already made plans.”

  Dylan’s voice was racked with grief. “Don’t,” he begged, “don’t hang up like this, please. God, Darcy, I’m half asleep.”

  I hung up anyway, wondering if we could declare our semi-relationship dead…it was close.

  I hadn’t slept with my father since I was nine. At that time, I did it for an entire embarrassing year. I made a deal with God if he’d help me make it over that hump of pain, I’d never do anything to immortally embarrass my father—i.e., things including mug shots, embarrassing press conferences, teenage pregnancies and such. The first two I’d probably negate before I saw twenty. Don’t waste your breath on the last one, considering I’d just blown my relationship with Dylan all to heck and back.

  I was curled into Murphy’s chest, blubbering like a lovesick fool. “D-dylan wants us to date one another, but I told him I needed to date other people first, just to be sure. Why I said that, I honestly don’t know. All I know is there’s a girl named B-brynn Hathaway he’s dated before, and I don’t think a m-mmoose tranquilizer will slow her down.”

  Whooo…that felt better.

  I’m not sure it was understandable.

  Murphy grew still beside me, and then after a few seconds grumbled something about young love, heart attacks, and too many hormones in today’s cattle. “How do you know he’s dated her before?” he asked. By the sound of grief in his voice, you’d think he’d just got dumped.

  “He told me. And when they’re together there’s too much emo.”

  “What in the heck’s an emo?”

  “Emotions,” I explained. “It’s never good when girls look like their world is ending when their crush simply leaves the room.” I sighed, feeling like an idiot I even had to spell this out. “Murphy, if you haven’t noticed, Dylan is girls’ locker room conversation.”

  “I can see that, but what I don’t understand is why you’re so upset if he said he’d like to date you.”

  “I’m not sure he’d be able to remain exclusive,” I explained. “I’ve heard a few rumblings at school that something with Brynn might still be going on.”

  “Reliable sources?”

  “I’m not sure.” Ivy, no. Jagger, maybe. Collin, uh, why would he lie?

  Murphy fell silent again, as though he didn’t believe it. “Life is always best operated under the truth, kid. You know that.”

  Well, the truth and I’d had a lot of communication issues lately, so pardon me if I took a pass. “She’s just so—”

  “Pretty?” he interrupted softly.

  “Crushing,” I sniffed.

  He snorted, “I doubt she’s as crushing as you, and I think Dylan’s already registered that.”

  I was a D-movie wannabe. My guess was Dylan hadn’t registered anything.

  My head buried in his sweatshirt, Murphy could barely understand my words amongst the tears, but he’d deciphered their meaning anyway. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

  I cried even harder because I expected him to issue his standard Dylan-Would-Never-Do-That disclaimer. “He doesn’t feel…safe for me…anymore,” I cried.

  Murphy kissed the top of my head. “You tell him that?”

  “I tried, but it didn’t…come out right. Why do I feel like something is ending?”

  22. The Great Inquisition

  The makeup call was an epic fail.

  For the first time in modern history, I told Dylan to stick his BMW up his tail pipe, even though he phoned with the sweetest voice ever. Unfortunately, my unexpected stubborn streak banished me to the bus. My God, I hated Bus 150. It was like taking a tour through nastyville and being asked to lick the street. I’m not sure what my feelings were this morning. Basically, I was numb but feared Dylan and Brynn would be Valley’s new power couple by the end of the week.

  Since Dylan and I currently were in an “off” period of our best friendship, I texted Finn, brother number two. Finn fortunately was back to driving the Kia Forte. His ex-girlfriend, Gucci Grayson, allegedly moved on with a yet-to-be-named senior and appeared to let bygones, be bygones. Anyway, he returned my text five minutes after I pressed “send.” We made small talk about what’d happened with Dylan, with him simply replying, “Sorry, lovie.”

  That’s all it took for the tidal wave of tears to crash my weary body. I cried during breakfast, made-out with ice cream, battled a small heart attack, swallowed three TUMS, and cried some more. The problem with my life was too much testosterone. Needing an estrogen injection, I convinced Finn to pick up Rudi, Justice…and Bean. Bean phoned yesterday, desperate to hook up with Justice for the Winter Dance this Thursday night. A school dance was the last thing on my mind, but thinking of it made me wonder if Dylan already had plans.

  Before my butt even got warm in the seat, Bean almost barfed up what went down with Jaws just to impress Justice. It was no secret I’d been trying to find out who vandalized Coach’s car, but it was definitely a secret I’d been trying to unmask The Ghost. To save the day, my alter ego, Jester, grabbed the mike and maneuvered the conversation around to the photographs I stole from Coach’s file—the photos I allowed them to believe I only confiscated because they held possible spray painters. I explained I needed to restore one of them (Coffee Blot Boy)—the deadline, yesterday. Finn felt confident he could do the job in his Graphic Arts class, chattering on how he needed a challenge.

  Whatever, he’d recently been invited to join Mensa. This seemed like small potatoes.

  Bean begged for another assignment, so I commissioned him to talk-up Grumpy to Clementine Miriam Rabinowitz. I knew Grumpy said he’d go with Ivy, but it’d be a cold day in Hell before I’d sanction that union. I also gave Bean the list of people in detention for the past two years. His job was to see if they’d ever heard of Brantley McCoy, his past or current extracurricular activities. The story didn’t end there with Bean, though. When he figured out Finn was my brother, he pitched a hissy-fit until I “made” him and Mr. Pongo into the mob.

  I’m serious. I now had a brother that was a dead gerbil.

  What. The. Freak.

  As for me, I’d closed the door on Damon once and for all—well, almost. Slapstick said he knew more than he’d let on, but I had no immediate direction where Damon was concerned. My guess was Damon would have to come looking for me before I knew what to do about him.

  And maybe I’d inform Coach Wallace he might be Jojo’s baby daddy. By no means would it be the prettiest of all reunions, but some secrets were made to get out.

  “Let’s get this out of the way,” Justice said as soon as the business part of the conversation was over. “What’s going on with Dylan?”

  I would’ve preferred having this convo looking dead ahead, but Rudi was
seated beside her, and I’d always felt it rude to leave her out. Justice didn’t always sign. Turning so Rudi could read my lips, I signed, “Our status has changed to complicated.”

  Justice’s base voice barked like a dog. “Yo’ Darcy. You know I’m happy to ride in the sadmobile, but do not put me in the middle. I love both of you, and I’m afraid you’re going to screw up something good.” I found it strange Finn didn’t join the great inquisition. Perhaps he thought he’d be intruding; perhaps he didn’t care.

  Rudi, however, gave Justice that ’hos over bros look. But Justice was more male than female. She merely didn’t have the gonads to prove it.

  “You’re the one who corroborated the story, Justice,” I muttered. “A story you felt juicy enough to ruin my day with.”

  She twirled the end of her fuchsia weave, my heart beating double time. “This would be true,” she said, “but I simply wanted you to know what was being said—even if I didn’t believe it.”

  All I knew was if my heart didn’t resume a better beat, I’d be shaking hands with Jesus (or his southern counterpart) before my time.

  The tension between Dylan and me, whether real or manufactured in my own psyche, was doing me in. If I was a confident girl, I could brush the rumors of Brynn off (I wasn’t); and if I filled out a bra the way she did, I wouldn’t care (I didn’t); or if I was in AP math flexing my scholarly muscles and up in his, umm business, it wouldn’t matter (eh, try again)…but I was Darcy Walker.

  Darcy Walker was a psychological train wreck of Biblical proportions.

  Readying to follow Rudi and Justice into the restroom, my plan was to make a mad dash to my locker and grab my things before The Dimples could slay me. Keeping my eyes glued to the floor, I sprinted in my new ankle boots (yes, I’d gone glam), opened the door, threw my things in, and grabbed my math book. When I pivoted to leave, I heard that deep baritone voice that always gave me bad-girl thoughts.

  “Not so fast, sweetheart,” he murmured. “My ride to school was horrible. I need you to kiss my broken heart and make it all better.”

  Oh, Lordy, did he have to talk that way?! Of course I wanted to kiss it—maybe even go to France—but someone needed to tell my eyes that ogling Dylan was the gateway to Hell…lined with sweaty bodies and self-regret.

  I swear, I got so nervous my darn eye twitched.

  Covering the twitchy fool, I reluctantly caught his grin and mentally sighed. He sported a new toffee-colored sweater that hugged his v-torso, revealing a nice contrast to his rich, amber eyes. His legs showcased his favorite dark jeans that hugged his too-taut behind. God. Hated. Me. No one could look at Dylan and come out sane.

  He stalked forward, one muscled leg after muscled leg, stopping mere feet from me.

  My.

  Oh my, oh my.

  He smelled like…SIN.

  “Crawl on up in my personal space,” he murmured, “and show me some love.”

  “I don’t want in your personal space.”

  “Yeah, you do,” he winked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Do.”

  “Don’t.” My God, I crawled up in his personal space while the smart part of my brain screamed I was an idiot. I then remembered I’d gone out with Ben…a date I might continue later…and realized I looked like a tease. If I genuinely would try and make a relationship outside of Dylan work, then I couldn’t do this anymore. It wasn’t fair, and frankly, I didn’t like the way it made me feel.

  My arms hung limp, just dangled at my sides like dead weight. The only muscles operating in my body were the ones in my nose. They did the chicken dance and the hoedown in between moans of pleasure and cheers of applause.

  Like a moron, I played my cards. “You smell good.”

  I thought about biting my tongue off…I honestly did.

  A deep rumble originated in his chest and traveled straight through to mine. “Are you flirting with me? I’ll let you in on a little secret, sweetheart. I’m a sure thing. You don’t need to expend so much energy.”

  There he was…the incorrigible male whose flirt knew no bounds. I went inside my head to find a happy place—unfortunately, Dylan followed. “I missed you,” he sighed.

  “Quit flirting,” I mumbled into his chest.

  To make matters worse, he didn’t even seem mad.

  “I only flirt with you. Besides, you flirted with me first.” Frankly, I couldn’t comment on that with any validity or certainty. I might’ve been drooling. All I knew was rumor said Brynn seemed awfully happy these days. Here’s to crossing my fingers she’d have an awful Christmas.

  By the Grace of God, I came to myself and plucked imaginary stray hairs from my clothing. I wore a pair of tight, straight-leg jeans and a charcoal-colored turtleneck that cut off my air supply. It gave the illusion I had boobs the size of a breastfeeding mother. Okay, not really, but they looked bigger than yesterday.

  Dylan walked me back up against his locker and then took his left hand and casually ran it down my arm, lacing his fingers with mine. “You look gorgeous. Love the boots,” he finished, slowly glancing down.

  “I’m too tall,” I whispered.

  “All the closer to my mouth.”

  God. Help. Me. He leaned in and lightly brushed his lips against mine. Seriously, I’m en fuego right now. He ran a warm breath across my jaw and down my neck. “How was your little science experiment? Did the date flame out?”

  What? Ohhhhhh. Yeah. The science experiment. “W-w-wonderful,” I stuttered in a lie.

  He gave a slow blink. “Is that right?”

  “R-right.”

  “Did you kiss him?”

  My face instantly reddened. “None of your business!”

  His grin widened. “Oh, it is my business, and I’d lay money it wasn’t memorable or you wouldn’t have called me.”

  “You’re so cocky,” I muttered.

  The grin grew wider. “I prefer the word confident. All I know is if you would’ve kissed someone, you’d smell different, and you smell exactly the same.”

  “Maybe I don’t kiss and tell,” I snorted.

  “Sure you would. You don’t have a private bone in your very cute, big mouth, sweetheart. And even if you did kiss him, which I highly doubt, it wasn’t the stuff of legends.” He took the time to throw his head back and laugh to himself. Jerk. Dylan could be such a jerk.

  “What makes you think so?”

  A small shrug. “I know you, Darcy. You’re a passionate person. If you had this wonderful, nonexistent kiss,” he grinned, “it would be written all over your face.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  He smiled even deeper, dimples imploding. “That’s what you’d be doing with me.”

  Dylan crawled inside my body with those words, placed his soul around my weary heart, and squeezed. I felt as naked as the day I was born. The fact he still had this effect on me ticked me off. I angrily blurted out, “Then why don’t you kiss me and prove it?”

  Dylan’s face lost all emotion. Just poof, the flirting went bye-bye and was replaced with something so hotly erotic, I stumbled and banged my head against my open locker door. “I’m waiting until you beg,” he answered.

  My. Jaw. Dropped. That might’ve been the cockiest thing to ever come out of his mouth, and believe me, I’d heard a lot. “Don’t hold your breath, Attila the Hun,” I hissed.

  He leaned in even further, his torso brushing up against mine. “Come on, Darc. Center your thoughts, and tell me what I want to hear,” he said, complete with a wicked grin.

  I was struck with the realization Dylan might not always be a good guy. Sadly, I liked it. I’m begging! I wanted to yell; yet my brain wouldn’t work. Heck, nothing worked. I think all the blood went straight to my mouth.

  “This Saturday
night is mine, Darcy,” he murmured.

  No! my pride screamed, but a silky “Yes,” oozed out of my mouth.

  “Look, lovie,” Finn murmured, depositing a glossy headshot of a young man in front of me. “I hope this means something because I literally used all of my extra-terrestrial skills to recreate it.”

  We were supposed to be quietly studying the reproductive system, but Finn, Grumpy, and I’d stolen into Coach’s office—well, just because we could. Plus I had full-intentions of replacing the file I’d stolen two weeks ago.

  Grumpy was relaxed in the black wingback, his hands thread behind his head, feet propped on the desk like he owned the place. I, however, was slumped forward, my legs spread wide, my head buried deep in my hands. I had white knuckles and the beginnings of an ulcer. That’s what happened when you were the brains behind the operation…you carried the burden…I needed to delegate more.

  “Look at it,” Finn said again, crouched alongside me and gently lifting my chin. “The only thing I couldn’t get was the address, but you’ve got a name. That’s a starting place.”

  Pulling the restored photograph of Coffee Blot Boy to my eyes, I expected the worst—that he was yet another guy in the mix or not even in the mix at all—but was so stinking surprised it’s like I’d been named Playboy’s Playmate of the Year.