by A. J. Lape
“Haven’t found him,” I said.
Another frown. “What about the spray painter?”
My breath caught. I negotiated with my lungs to ditch the spasms and prayed to God Almighty I didn’t go female and dissolve into tears. “Deadline was today,” I replied soberly, “and I failed.”
Ben placed his hand at the nape of my neck, tilting my head so he could speak into my ear. “Failure is never final. It simply means you try another angle.”
As he attempted to rock us back and forth, I stood rock solid, trying to convince myself failure wasn’t final. But the trail was so cold it was frostbitten. Ben ventured to place my hands around his waist, but again I remained uncooperative. My gut said there were things about him I needed to stay away from. Dylan was the consummate gentleman; Ben—I somehow knew—was a cad.
Dylan and I had this otherworldly connection, and all at once a burst of adrenaline shot straight into my chest. Maybe that was our destinies realigning, or maybe it was Survival 101. Looking over Ben’s shoulder, my entire body jerked and tingled at the sight of Dylan splitting the crowd. Closer. Closer. Closer. Definitely Survival 101.
Dylan pulled a double blink when he saw Ben’s arms draped lazily around my waist. His eyelids then dropped low, and I swear, I think he growled in possession. “Easy there, Ryan,” Dylan said darkly. “Why don’t you put your tongue back in your mouth before I rip it from your jaw?”
Dylan strode over and placed his hand to rest possessively at my lower back. I turned and circled my arm around his waist. My God, I looked like a tramp. I’m not sure how I got into this situation, but I didn’t want Dylan to think I’d initiated it.
“She’s beautiful,” Ben gushed more than necessary. “It would be a crime not to enjoy what simply is not the every day.” I fought the urge to laugh—and lost. Ben was definitely the wordy type. In any other situation, I might be flattered, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt this would end in one way if Ben didn’t shut his dumb-butt mouth. Dylan semi-fought already tonight, but that was defending someone else. If he was the main event, we’d need the fire truck and ambulance on standby.
Dylan’s jaw set tightly. “On that we agree, but news flash, Ryan…I. Don’t. Share.”
“Me neither, but if things were so absolute between Darcy and you, then why do you seem so threatened?”
That was like muttering a dare to a nut job strapped to C4. “Stop, Ben,” I whispered.
“Perhaps the only alternative I have to get you to shut up is to shove a fist in your mouth,” Dylan warned.
Collin and Brynn were all ears. I mustered up my best back-off glare—just threw that sucker in their faces—and uh…they didn’t even move. Ponkeys.
Ben shrugged, “Well, in that case, we could take this outside if you’d prefer.”
Dylan’s laugh was hollow…rude…and out-and-out cocky as heck. “Honestly, I’d rather handle this grudge match inside. I prefer public takedowns over the private.”
At this, Ben’s jaw steeled. Totally shut up. In that moment, I think he realized Dylan would tango…any time…day or night. It wasn’t a physical punch, but it was definitely a jab.
In the blink of an eye, it was all Party-de-Highway-to-Hell. Dylan wanted him dead; Ben was stupid enough to drive the death-bus. Swear to God, I almost laughed again, but I knew neither would understand. If I had the time, I’d hypothesize about their true motives—was it merely to claim the fair Darcy Walker, or was it two arrogant, territorial lions seeing who had the loudest roar?
I did the only thing I could possibly do…I left Ben standing. I came with Dylan; I’d leave with Dylan. Still, I wriggled my jaw around because it felt like I’d just got clocked by both of them.
27. Emotional Hangovers
I had an emotional hangover—best friend induced—but the way I felt, an alcohol-induced hangover might’ve been less miserable. My date-date with Dylan hadn’t been a date-date after all, but a category-five disaster. He’d “friended” things up as the night wore on, ending the evening with your standard hug, standard I-love-you, and standard goodnight kiss on the cheek.
Same old. Same old.
He’d dropped me off at work the following morning, and he, his sister, and the Beemer—which I’d silently sat in, pretending all was well—went shopping, God knows where. Rather than having free time on the first day of Christmas Break, I’d been scheduled for a full shift.
Thank you; no thank you, Mr. B.
Making the best use of my time, I decided to close up loose ends. This is the message I left on Coach Wallace’s voicemail. “You might want to sit down, but Jojo’s preggers. I think you’re the father, sir. And here’s my two cents even though you didn’t ask for it. You don’t want to be a deadbeat dad. Murphy is everything to me. He stepped up when circumstances and destiny dictated otherwise, and that’s a special memory I’ll take to my grave. Your kid won’t forget how you handle this, and even if it’s not your kid, well, it seems like he or she needs a dad. I might not be perfect, but believe me when I say I have experience with crazy. Jojo might’ve messed up your car in the past, but this time she didn’t.”
I signed off, straightened a knocked-over cardboard snowman, and hand-dusted crap while I rode my RipStik. I steered back to Rudi in her regular spot behind the customer service desk. Although deaf, she didn’t mind speaking to customers while she worked. Sad, but understandable. Most at school were self-centered, judgmental SOBs, and that was on a good day. While she looked up a book on the computer, I folded my arms on the counter, lay my head on top, and sighed.
“Late night, angel?”
Somebody strangle me…
Rudi jerked excitedly on my arm. I peeled open an eye with an accompanying death stare. Yep, Ben Ryan.
His smile quirked up, and those silver eyes cut straight into me like twin lasers. He duplicated my posture, leaning across the countertop to touch my hands. “You like what you see, don’t you?” he flirted.
Somebody did…because either Rudi or I was hyperventilating.
I backed out of his grasp to a safer distance. “Ben, Rudi,” I introduced, jerking my chin at both of them. “Rudi, Ben.” After Ben explained he was “the new kid in town,” he asked Rudi where he could find the latest James Patterson for his mother. He signed the question. Of course, he would. The ponkey was pretty much as perfect as his clothes. I ditched those two to roll up front when I heard the doorbell ring.
“Who are you?” I asked Ben when I felt his heat beside me. “You literally materialized in the Valley ether from nowhere. Excuse me if I’m the suspicious type, but here lately, I need to watch my back.”
I opened the drawer, ensuring we had enough change. As I counted out five hundred dollars’ worth of money, I expected to get more of the same…which, in Benland, was nothing but wanting to talk about me.
Ben sighed, “I’m not sure that I’m very much of anything, Darcy. I’m sort of a rolling stone. My father is Lieutenant General Vaughn Ryan. Most of my life I’ve been a denizen, jumping from base to base, but he promises this will be the last stop on his quest to conquer the world.”
I pivoted around to peer into his eyes. Nothing but purity and truth resonated in his gaze—not one hint of sarcasm. And by the sound of that title, Ben’s daddy might just run the place. “That might be the first time I’ve heard anything sincere come from your mouth,” I gasped.
He shrugged. “Not the first time, but the statement is definitely the truth.”
“So you’re a citizen of nowhere, huh?”
Once again, the flirty smile quirked up at one corner. “You actually know what denizen means?”
Annnnnnnnnd just like that, Ben ruined the moment.
I turned and slammed the register shut. I swear, he hadn’t been in town long and must’ve heard the rumors I was the dumb type. “Goodbye, B
en,” I muttered.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, sounding panicked.
I headed back for the break room to see if Mr. B had passed out in the corner or, God forbid, choked on a ham bone. Rudi, Chichi, and I hadn’t seen him for the ten hours we’d been on duty. No lie. So there we were, three teenage girls, manning the store.
Not exactly safe.
Ben grabbed my arm, twirling me toward him, his eyes softening to liquid silver. “Hey,” he said seriously, “let me take you out tonight. It’s not like I ask you to pick out china patterns or anything, Darcy. I’d just like to get to know you better. Let me show you I can be someone who doesn’t put his foot in his mouth every five seconds.”
Here’s the thing about Ben. Sure, his good looks and rocker snarl were tempting—but a conversation with him was like riding an unending freight train. You either hung on, or got flung off into a ditch. I already had one guy like that in my life. God help me, there was no room for another.
“My shift ends at nine.”
“Supper,” he grinned.
I. Flat. Out. Turned. Him. Down.
Ben left his number (already had it), new address (didn’t want it), and the lingering scent of an evening all too tempting. Why tempting? Ben had secrets. Secrets I needed to put names to. Anything would be better than the sauna of disappointment currently suffocating me.
When he cockily strode out the door, Ivy and Collin blew in about a minute later. Well, well, well, wasn’t there a story there all in itself. Zipped inside a white North Face coat, Ivy unloaded a scowl that shriveled my self-esteem. “Don’t you look all Belinskified.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ivy, Collin,” I greeted. “I was hoping you’d stop by.” NOT.
“So how was the dance last night?” she asked.
I ignored her but couldn’t help but notice Collin seemed even more interested than her. “You missed one,” he said.
“Huh?”
Collin pitched his head toward the register, eyeballing a five-dollar bill hiding behind a stack of books.
“Oh, er, thanks,” I muttered.
“Need some help?” he grinned.
I stepped behind the counter, keying in my employee number to open the drawer. Once I hit “enter,” the register dinged, and I tagged the Lincoln in the appropriate slot. “My math isn’t that bad, Collin. I can handle placing a five in a drawer of five hundred.”
Ivy leaned across the counter and deliberately allowed her eyes to drift to my Chuck Taylor’s. “Sneakers,” she laughed in an amusingly breathy voice, “how fashionable.”
“Don’t hate on the Chucks,” I said. “You should count yourself lucky they haven’t found their way up your butt. But hey, the evening’s still young.”
Ivy straightened her hair and smoothed her coat down with blood-red nails, like she worked on her appearance while she conjured up more atrocities in her mind. “So where is Dylan?” she sneered. “He looked gorgeous last night at the dance, but then he always does.”
“I don’t have my crystal ball on me, Ivy, but he’s somewhere shopping,” I declared proudly, immediately wishing I hadn’t even given her that.
Ivy gave me one of those shrugs to say she knew more about Dylan’s private life than I did. So wasn’t true, but God knew she threw enough gasoline on the fire to make me doubt it. Picking at my nails, I couldn’t help but wonder what Collin’s take was. He looked physically drained, as though the emotional rollercoaster of Hathawaywood had taken its toll.
Shoving his hands in a navy parka, Collin gave me a head jerk in acknowledgment, his blond hair so gelled-up it looked crispy-done. When his cell phone rang, he removed it from his jacket, answering a text with what had to be a simple yes or no command. The moment he finished, he and Ivy headed straight for the magazines while I discovered more areas that needed cleaning—wasn’t that one heck of a metaphor considering the current clientele.
I slid my iPhone out of my back pocket to phone Vinnie. I found it extremely troubling Jaws still hadn’t gotten back with me, and if the situation with Brantley McCoy was so dire, then why stay underground? I rapped my fingers on the countertop, pinky-to-thumb, pinky-to-thumb—waiting for Vinnie to answer. The call terminated with a voicemail.
“Vinnie, it’s me…Darcy, if you’re having a dumb day and don’t recognize my voice. Tell Jaws I need him. I need him in a bad way. He’ll know what that means.”
Schomberg’s Drycleaners was broken into last night, Rudi signed as I killed the call. They emptied the register around midnight. She gave me a look like where’s-our-boss, but I shrugged it away. Both of us had a key to the front door, knew the code to deactivate the alarm, and the combination for the wall safe in the break room…and we were sixteen. That had to be against the law, and if it wasn’t, it probably should be. Our boss not showing all day was minor but justifiably scary when you thought of the things that could go wrong without adult supervision.
“Schomberg’s was broken into?” I repeated.
She signed, Mr. Schomberg hid in the back but said he saw them drive away in a gray van. After they spray painted his place.
Mr. Schomberg was blinder than a one-eyed man in a cave. His version of gray could fall anywhere along the spectral colors of the rainbow. Casting a look across the street, the thought didn’t escape me that Brantley McCoy-slash-Moby was still at-large. But he wouldn’t come here, would he?
28. Fear Cage
We had ten minutes until closing and had already closed up shop except for counting cash and placing it in the safe. Mr. B finally went E.T. and “phoned home,” claiming he’d gotten sick on too many crab cakes. Rudi, Chichi, and I hunkered on the break room floor, chowing on stale Doritos and cans of Coke and orange Fanta. Chichi argued with the Ouija that the man with a limp needed a name. The board only replied, “Limp hurt, Darcy.”
Amend that: it actually spelled my name Darsee…her board was an idiot.
Since Dylan headlined my naughty girl thoughts, I asked Chichi for a read on him. The brown cursor flew around in circles, spelling out “100 Proof Stud,” “Dylan,” and “Ben.”
I burst into giggles, explaining about Vinnie’s movie and reminding them who Ben was. Chichi sounded frustrated, her burgundy eyes growing wide as silver dollars. “I suppose the board likes the stud reference, but regarding Dylan and Ben, both have exceptionally strong yet different auras,” she said exasperated. “I don’t have my K2 reader with me which measures electromagnetic fields. When there’s a high EMF field, my abilities go haywire. Something’s wrong in here,” she muttered, casting a look over her shoulder. “They’re cancelling each other out one minute and amplifying one another the next.”
Chichi scared the pants off of Rudi and me, telling us EMF fueled paranormal activity and too much EMF could make you sick. She called it a fear cage. “The only thing I see definitively is a lasting relationship with both of them. In what capacity, I don’t know.”
By my last Dorito, I was convinced it’d be friends-only for both boys.
I couldn’t imagine Ben Ryan being the father of little Darcy Walkers or Dylan Taylor wanting to mate with a lower species.
Frustrated, Chichi placed the Ouija back in the box like she handled the Holy Grail. My first thought was to accidentally set it afire when I could legitimize the crime. Rudi tossed our empty Dorito bags in the trash, crunched up our soft drink cans, and two-pointed them into the same bin. She pulled a paper towel from the wall rack, wetting it in the sink and cleaning off the white table.
You know how you sometimes get a dark feeling of impending doom? I was all-too familiar with that shiz in my life—more so than the average chick. All of a sudden, the fear cage grew larger than my list of worries because it felt like someone walked across my future grave. Or worse yet, I had eyes in the back of my head and saw who had plans to shove me in it.
I wheeled around so fast I gave myself whiplash.
The break room was situated in the back of the store with a straight-shot view to the parking lot. First thing I did was look outside. The night was pitch black, snowy, and horror-movie scary. To add to the suspense, the front door chimed with a customer entering the store. I stole a glance at my Citizen. It read nine o’ clock on the dot, effing closing time. Who in the heck would stroll in here now?
My gut told me to duck back inside. “What’s wrong?” Rudi and Chichi asked at the same time.
I shook my head, holding my index finger to my lips in a quiet, “Shhh.”
Voices broke the silence. Males, at least two, stood in the front of the store. Normally, I’d greet them with a Double-B smile, but this felt off. And when I bravely (or stupidly) jutted my head out again, I saw both sported black hoodies, one wearing a mask. The mask was pasty white with cutouts for the mouth and eyes. Curly neon-red hair was sewn on the back, bushing out like the Mad Hatter. Here’s a reality check for you. You never wear masks to a bookstore—not ever.
That spelled at least felony and hopefully not Murder One.
The guy in the mask was relaxed, holding a Starbucks takeout cup in his right hand and collapsing the plastic lid with his thumb. He spoke so low and muffled I couldn’t make out anything, but the other voice…I knew. With my back flush against the wall, I heard him say, “Are you sure about this? Come on, man. I like her. It’s Friday night. Let’s go have some fun.” The voice had that aw-shucks thing going on, sort of country with a twang, but aw-shucks aside, my trouble-meter beeped at its highest alert.
My stomach bottomed out as the gleam caught what appeared to be a six-inch blade, death-gripped in his right hand. Oh, God, this wasn’t good.
Not. Good. At. All.
Oh, jeez, who was the her? Glancing at Rudi, I saw a paralyzed confusion, even after I mouthed we were a robbery-in-progress. Focusing on Chichi, the wide-eyed stark terror said a good possibility existed she was the her.