100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  We’d lost him…

  “Madison Flannery, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes, she recently withdrew from Valley High School, so I’m not sure where she is now.”

  “That’s all I need for now,” Officer Abbott concluded, flipping his notebook closed.

  I was outraged. “But don’t you want to hear my theory on the identity thief? I think this guy—”

  The officer interrupted, cocking his head to one side. “You nabbed a drug dealer, kid. I didn’t see evidence of identity theft anywhere. And frankly, the guy got away. I don’t even have him to question.”

  When I belligerently pushed ahead, Vinnie stepped on my toe. As I glanced up into his dark brown eyes, his gaze went as hard as nails, giving me a nuh-uh look. That gaze said Moby was indeed the same guy he’d fought at Calypso Cove—like I’d suspicioned—who I knew in my gut to be Brantley McCoy. I’d learned to trust Vinnie. If he didn’t think I needed to spill yet, then I wouldn’t spill. I’d call Tito, have him work his magic, and pull the employment records for Big Moby. We’d shut that lowlife clown down tonight.

  Valley High School’s one of the largest schools in the Greater Cincinnati Area. That could be good if you wanted to hide, but if your aspirations were to make the school athletic teams, you’d better play like a professional or have pushy parents on the PTA.

  Competition was fierce.

  The place was packed like sardines in a can with dads living vicariously through their sons; others glancing at their watches, just doing time until they could get home and retire with the remote. The gymnasium had stadium seating and was fairly comfortable, but it smelled like a two-hundred-cow dairy farm and the emotions of a big rivalry.

  The pep band finished “Let’s Get it Started” by The Black Eyed Peas and segued to “Blow” by Ke$ha when we entered Buffalo Nation. It was halftime, the murmurings grumbled at a lower decibel, but the promise of verbal brawl tickled the air. It was like sitting in a beaker being boiled without any fluid inside. You knew what would happen; it was only a matter of time before the explosion.

  Athletes from both teams warmed up at their respective baskets doing layups and shooting threes readying for the next half. We’d missed the first two quarters because we were cleaning up society, and Grumpy was as nervous as a pizza boy who hadn’t delivered the goods on time. Me, I still reeled from the fact I’d seen Brantley McCoy—I knew it deep in my soul—but I nursed a bad feeling he’d be coming for me.

  Listening to sneakers squeak on the hardwood while I padded down the gray painted steps, my eyes landed on my best friend first…how could they not. Polyester was one of those fabrics if Nature gave you extra bumps, bulges, or cottage cheese-like cellulite, it could be a fashion disaster. On the other hand, if you were hard, chiseled, and mouth-wateringly perfect underneath—God bless polyester because it accentuated the positive. Dylan? He literally had the kind of body that’d make a girl walk right out of her clothes.

  It was reality.

  I didn’t make the rules.

  Dylan was also one of those players who’d always shine. Indisputably the best athlete Valley had ever seen, he dribbled effortlessly, making every attempt he threw up, rebounding others’ shots, and turning and dunking the ball. More than likely he’d be a McDonald’s All American again this year, and you could add that bullet to his resume of Ohio’s Mr. Football his sophomore and junior football seasons, plus AP and USA Today National Team honors as well. In the short run, that meant captain of the teams; in the long run, that said, Arrivederci, Darcyville; hello, college scholarship.

  It sucked.

  As Grumpy, Vinnie, and I squeezed into the student section, I put my thumb and index finger in my mouth in the shape of an “o” and blew hard. A high-pitched noise was born, loud enough to echo along the cinderblock walls. A few individuals jumped at the sound, but most chatted, ate popcorn, or tried to access free WI-FI on their cell phones.

  Dylan slowed his dribble at half court, turning toward the noise.

  One Mississippi…two Mississippi…

  He met my grin with a knowing smirk.

  Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yelled, “We performed a drug bust on the way over! Lights, sirens, the whole gig. I’m thinking the eleven o’clock news.”

  Dylan stopped mid-dribble, narrowing his eyes with one of those I-can’t-hear-you faces. “What?!” he yelled.

  I waved him off, more or less communicating I’d fill him in later, but Grumpy muscled his way down five rows, making drinks, popcorn, and some misplaced band instruments casualties of his mood. Hey; Watch out; and What’s your problem? were some of the minor phrases that followed; the others were so truck stop, I tried to think of baby bunnies.

  Before anyone with half a brain could stop him, he furiously barreled out onto the floor headed straight for Dylan. I had a feeling he’d only replay the scary parts and leave out the fact we were successful, and in my world, that’s all that mattered.

  Grumpy may be a lot of things…but a coward wasn’t one of them. When he was chest-to-chest with my slightly embarrassed best friend, he rammed his pointed finger in Dylan’s face, shoving his car keys in his hand. “Don’t ever ask me to pick her up, chauffeur her around, or pull her out of a ditch,” I read his lips say. “I’m off-duty. Permanently. She’s fricking nuts! She’s cursed. She dove onto a fricking car, and Claudia took to the bed because of her!”

  Dylan glanced at me, hovering outside the free-throw line, and I just shrugged. Unfortunately, Grumpy’s words were a fairly accurate account of what’d happened. Placing the basketball under his left arm, Dylan crooked his finger, motioning for me to join him. All around, players took their last shots, some even venturing to the sideline to ride the bench and wait for the buzzer to go off. When I looked at the clock in the upper left hand corner, it said three minutes and thirty-nine seconds until the beep. Shaking my head no, I gestured there was no time as I tapped the watch on my left wrist.

  Dylan lowered his eyes, his voice nothing short of a bullhorn, yelling, “Darcy!”

  What the heck, I thought. He pulled on the leash; I usually trotted to his yard. Shuffling quietly past the broadcast desk, I met him half court. “Hello, sweetheart,” was the first thing out of his mouth.

  I greeted with a smiling, “I hate you.”

  “Naughty,” he grinned with a wink. “That has potential.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and suddenly my mouth was parched like the Mojave Desert. By goodness if we were alone, I might throw him down and lick it. “Darc, you and Bradshaw need to sit down,” he murmured, lovingly squeezing my shoulder. “The game is about to start, and we’ll begin the whole thing with a technical if you don’t get off the floor.” He glanced around, a deep frown marking his forehead. “We’ve been about to blow all night.”

  No kidding. I could feel the animosity. “You told me to come out here, D.”

  The question is, Why did I do it?

  He winked, “That I did, but I wanted to see you. What took you so long?”

  “Drug bust,” I shrugged.

  Dylan assumed I was joking, giving me a good-one look.

  “Come on, Grumpy,” I giggled. “Let’s leave Dylan to live in his nice, little bubble world where everyone makes blankets for the homeless and obeys the law.”

  By that time, Vinnie had his large butt beside me, munching on a bag of popcorn I didn’t remember him purchasing on the way in.

  “Hey, Taylor,” he grinned. “It’s been an exciting night.”

  Dylan opened his mouth, but Grumpy drowned him out. “I’m not going anywhere!” Grumpy barked. “Do you realize she caused Vinnie to pull someone out of a high-jacked car and tackle them to the ground? And when that happened, I dove into the passenger side and pulled the emergency brake so Vinnie wouldn’t get dragged to d
eath.”

  “Yeah,” Vinnie agreed, tossing another popcorn in his mouth, “I forgot to thank you for that.”

  Dylan cleared his throat, rubbing his forehead so hard he had to have lost two layers of dermal flesh. “What happened?” he whispered.

  “Nothing,” I shrugged.

  “Nothing,” he repeated.

  Cue the mockingbird, I groaned. “We went inside to get a Moby burger, and I witnessed Moby drop a baggie full of marijuana into someone’s meal. It got a little hairy, but I’ll live.”

  Dylan didn’t want any details, just ran his finger along the side of my jaw. “Are you sure you’re good?”

  “Peachy keen,” I grinned.

  Grumpy groaned and actually punched Dylan in the shoulder. “Dear God, Taylor. Can’t you ever see anything she does in a bad light? Ask her how she stopped the car.” Grumpy gave me an I’m-telling-on-you look. The same one your kid brother gives to get you in trouble.

  Dylan resumed a dribble that resembled a jackhammer, looking white as a ghost. “How?” he demanded.

  I sort of coughed out, “I dove onto the hood and held on.”

  “While it was moving?” Dylan shrieked. “Sonova…” Yup, the b-word.

  “Of course while it was moving,” Grumpy huffed. “She’s certifiable!”

  Dylan immediately turned all of his attention to Vinnie. Vinnie was one of the few—and I mean few—that never flinched when Dylan was angry. In fact, it usually humored him, and he’d laugh in his face. “What exactly were you doing, Valentine, when she got into this situation?”

  Vinnie’s grin grew as he tossed more popcorn in his mouth. “I was signing autographs, man. The first fifteen minutes of my movie leaked online, and I’ve already got fans. I did my part. I hit him.”

  “Porno,” I whispered joking.

  Dylan blinked, trying to process the “porno” part of the conversation. Grumpy screamed, “You almost killed him, Vinnie!!”

  Vinnie shrugged. So did I.

  “So Moby’s in jail?” Dylan asked, wanting immediate clarification.

  All three of us wore our not-quite face. “No,” I mumbled. “He got away when Vinnie smiled for the cameras.”

  “Cameras?” Dylan’s mockingbird sang again.

  “Fans,” Vinnie grinned.

  For a moment, I thought Dylan would kill all three of us. Turning to leave with a giggle, I bumped into a frazzled Coach Wallace. I’d meant to tell him about his baby daddy status today, but every time I opened my mouth, I chickened out. Glancing over his shoulder, I saw a referee not far behind, thundering toward us with a whistle already in his mouth.

  Uh-oh.

  “Walker, sit your tail down. Make her sit down, Dylan,” he fumed, turning toward him. “You need to sit down too because God knows this place is about to erupt.”

  I balled my fists. “I tried to sit down, but Grumpy wouldn’t let me. He’s mad about the drug bust when frankly I wonder about his sense of the common good.”

  “Drug bust?” Coach screamed. “Here?” The referee looked concerned.

  “Big Moby’s Cheeseburger Shack,” Vinnie added.

  “I ate there tonight,” the referee added.

  “Drive-thru?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Passing out marijuana,” Grumpy grumbled.

  “Scrawny-looking kid with dead eyes?” the referee said.

  “No, he’s just dumb. It was Big Moby,” I answered.

  The referee winced, “Ah, that’s just wrong.”

  “Walker, you’re the pied piper,” Grumpy groaned. “You’ve delayed this game by five minutes. And the people that should be angry are standing here listening to you blow the stupid pipe we’re all dumbly dancing to.”

  I embraced that as a compliment.

  Still, I did my best imitation of a pied piper dance but stopped when it garnered a whistle from the visiting team. Dylan angrily turned, threatening the wolf-whistle thrower with a terrifying, heated glare. “Shut the freak up!” he seethed.

  Only a moron wouldn’t notice one particular guy had his eye targeted on Dylan. He’d probably been paired against him, and by the look at the twenty points we were ahead, his pride probably suffered from small gonads syndrome.

  The referee patted me on the back with a smile. “Good story. My kids eat there all the time. Gosh, the world’s going to pot, isn’t it?”

  “Literally,” I mumbled, “but don’t pat me on the back yet. He got away and so did the buyer. Who, by the way, was Madison Flannery.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Coach Wallace muttered. “Everyone is giving the slip these days. Just like the guy who painted my car.”

  Dressed in a white shirt, black slacks, and tie, he ran his fingers through his overly teased hair. All that did was make it bunch up on one side like a balloon losing air. “I’m screwed here. It’s Christmas, and I’m having my car repainted.”

  “I’ve got a few more days!” I eeked. “Don’t give up on me yet!”

  “Darc, why are your leggings ripped?” Dylan asked. Before I knew it, each dropped their gaze to my tribal leggings. Looking down, I saw a bloody blotch and sticky red substance oozing its way toward my ankle. Sure enough, a hole lay overtop one knee.

  Dylan squatted down on the balls of his feet, lightly touching the area. “You’re bleeding,” he groaned.

  “Wow, I didn’t even feel it. Must’ve been when I fell off the car.”

  “Adrenaline,” the referee explained.

  “You mean when you bounced off the windshield and rolled off like an idiot,” Grumpy clarified.

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “I’m thinking bad words about you.”

  Dylan stood up, massaging his heart like it was a toothache.

  Coach motioned frantically to the trainer. “Get over here, and see if this wound needs stitched,” he said when he tromped over, “or we’re going to lose Taylor from the game. Walker,” he turned to me, “I don’t even want to theorize on why you say and do the things you do. You’re killing me, doll. You really are.”

  “Stitches would be cool,” I grinned.

  The trainer pulled up my leggings and swabbed it down with a cotton ball full of a burning antiseptic. Just a nasty scrape. “Sit down, Walker,” Coach requested.

  “I’m sorry,” I grinned. “My father’s fundamentalist value system says I’m not allowed to leave until I’ve been excused.”

  Coach tried; no dice.

  The referee tried; still no dice.

  Vinnie made a weak attempt and Grumpy didn’t try at all…instead threw a mental dagger at Dylan. Dylan threw his head back and let out a deep, rumbling laugh. His laugh came accompanied with that look…the buttery-eyed look that melted my heart into a sticky mass of love poems and embarrassing greeting cards. I sighed, and then I sighed even deeper, hugging his waist.

  The hug was short-lived because Dylan got jumped by the opposing side.

  Cue the Crack!

  Drama.

  Oh, Good God, there was nothing sweeter to watch than a fight in high school sports.

  Ironically, the pep band transitioned into “Light ’em Up” by Fall Out Boy, and the two teams obliged. Both benches cleared, and while Dylan yelled for Vinnie to get me to safety, he wrestled someone off of him and took a shot to the jaw. This went on two more times, and I knew precisely what Dylan’s pause was for. He’d been waiting until it was obvious to whoever reviewed the game tape he’d reacted merely in self-defense. No surprise, the ponkey who jumped him was the guy that’d given him the death stare moments ago. By the gleam in Dylan’s eye, he’d been itching for a chance at him too. Thing was, Dylan’s southpaw was money. I’d never seen him hit anyone who didn’t wind up having a glass jaw. After one punch, the guy landed
facedown with a moan.

  Fights had a rhythm to them. It was pound-pound-pound in the beginning, bystanders trying to break things up, some getting involved, and they’d either “take one for the team” or things would amplify to an even higher level.

  While Dylan and frazzled parents separated players and d-bags from the bottom of the piles, Vinnie tucked me under his arm but caught the hook of some moron who unfortunately woke up Vinnie’s beast.

  He shoved me toward Grumpy.

  Grumpy shoved me toward a stranger.

  This stranger shoved me toward the stairs, and I glanced up to Brynn’s horrified face and realized the time was right for me to get in on the action. She’d run up the stairs with the rest of the squad, but even in the brawl, her hands stayed clasped at her hips, perfect cheerleading posture for the captain, no less.

  With bodies falling around me, I lifted my chin and strode over like I was the Queen of the Paris Catwalk. We met eyes. The world stood still. Confidently walking up eight steps, I took a hand from her hip and literally pried open her fingers and dropped the hairclip inside. Her eyes dropped down, gazing at the ebony barrette until she finally pieced it together like a complex puzzle. She pursed her pink lips into an angry line, and by the inflamed hue in her blue eyes, I’d been right. Oh! Snap!! She’d pulled on her beeyotch. Her eyes shot off laser beams, and she looked like she’d launched straight to atrial fib. When I opened my mouth—hoping God would fill it—I seethed in her face, “Don’t pee in my spot ever again.”

  She gave me a la-di-fricking-daaa face.

  Well, peace the heck out to you too, Brynn.

  Evidently, I’d thrown the gauntlet.