100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series)

by A. J. Lape

  A story for another day.

  Both girls immediately huddled together, arms around one another’s waists like they shivered in a blizzard. Again, I put my index finger to my lips, mouthing a soundless, “Shhh.”

  Times like these I wish I had a regular prayer life. If you had a regular prayer life, perhaps you’d approach the Throne with confidence. Right now, I threw up words of desperation in every language I knew (heck, I even tried Morse code and gangsta), hoping God would answer in one of them. Then, for Heaven’s sake, my iPhone sang “Grandma Got Run”…as all three of us went for my right butt cheek to silence the noise.

  Except the number belonged to the one person who always showed up when things went all to shiz. Switching off the lights and peeking through the crack in the partially closed door, I hit redial. “D?” I whispered. Rudi and Chichi likewise started the quiet-as-a-mouse routine, Chichi unplugging the percolating coffee pot, and Rudi still paralyzed, literally gnawing on two of her fingers.

  I heard the smile in his voice. “Hi sweetheart, I’m back. Remind me to not go shopping with Sydney again,” he chuckled. “Although I did get you something that’s so insanely awesome, you’re going to be indebted for life. I’ve missed you. Are you hungry? I’m starved.” Someone’s voice resonated in the background. “That’s Vinnie,” he groaned. “God help me. We ran into him at the gas station this morning, and Syd invited him along. I deserve a medal, Darc—and a tranquilizer. My head hurts from hearing about his budding acting career and how he’s the ultimate 100 Proof Stud. Seriously, I told him that was me,” he giggled. “But as long as you think I am, that’s all that matters.”

  I’m pretty sure I’d be 100 Proof Dead by morning.

  Vinnie chuckled into the phone, “Evenin’, Dolce. Sorry I didn’t buzz you back, but I took care of it.”

  Took care of Jaws, I thought? “Yeah,” Dylan grumbled. “Why did Valentine get a call, and I rated a couple of texts? We can cover that later—”

  “D,” I interrupted in a low voice, “I’m in trouble.” Dylan instantly turned silent. Like someone snatched out his tongue and refused to give it back. “Did you hear me?” I whispered.

  “Define trouble, Darcy.”

  “Rudi, Chichi, and I are in the break room and some guys are robbing the store. Mr. B’s home sick. We’re here all by ourselves.”

  “Dammit, Darcy, this had better not be a joke.”

  “Pinky swear,” I whispered. “I can’t see their faces, but one of them has on a mask, the other a knife. At least, it looks like a knife. That’s not good, is it?”

  Dylan said something unintelligible. “You should’ve called 911!”

  “But I prayed and prayed, and you called,” I whispered.

  The phone was full of running footsteps. “Darc, let me get my house phone.” He barked an order to Vinnie to tell his father what was going on. “Stay on the line with me while I dial 911.”

  I couldn’t.

  My nose had gone down to the ground, sniffing like a bloodhound that’d been chained too long. “Dylan, I’m going to give my cell to Chichi and crawl out there. Talk to them, so they won’t be so nervous. One of the voices sounds familiar, and they specifically said they were coming for a her. I’ve got a feeling someone has a mark on their head, and if I don’t stop things, they’re not going to pass go and collect two hundred dollars.”

  Dylan bellowed, “No! No! No! Darcy Walker, stay put and no crawling!” I shook my head and handed my phone to Chichi which she wouldn’t take. Speaking rapid Spanish, Chichi called me every profane word she could think of with a remote association to “raving lunatic” in the English language. Rudi began to cry, her glasses fogging as she grabbed the back of my yoga pants, not wanting me to go anywhere.

  “Chichi,” I whispered, breaking free from Rudi’s grasp, “Dylan wants to talk to you.”

  Once again, Chichi resided in the land of Mexico. “No, I don’t!” he growled. Right then, I heard Dylan tell the 911 operator where we were and what’d happened, in between begging me to heel.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “Aw, Darc, don’t,” he whispered even lower.

  Rudi squeezed my hand as I placed my cell phone in hers. “Darcy, please,” she mouthed.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I know that voice. I’ll be quiet.” I was an absolute moron. Why I liked to live on the edge befuddled me as much as it did my father and best friends. But I knew that voice. Question was, Where? Gas station? Metro stop? Mall? Christmas Party? I dropped to my knees and army crawled into the aisle, took a left, pausing behind the fourth and fifth rows.

  I steadied my breath and scooted forward, crouching behind the self-help books, the top of my head peeking out into the aisle. Briefly, I wondered if how-not-to-get-killed-by-vandals was covered inside, but I had a feeling it was about simplifying your life—not making it more complex.

  The snowmen perched atop the front two shelves blocked the torso view of both of them, so all I could do was pray they kept talking. Balancing myself on my elbows, I tracked my vision to the sound of their voices. I gulped. Now I saw four sets of shoes—two sneakers, one loafer, and snow boots moving back and forth as though they debated whether to pitch a tent or scram. My mind was stuck on the loafers…penny loafers, I qualified with a gasp. I only knew of one person to wear them: Ben Ryan. And Ben’s build and this guy’s build were one and the same. God help me, I’d talked with, flirted with, and conspired with someone who’d obviously been playing me for weeks. And the timeline fit. Ben and his brother showed up on the night I found the stolen credit cards and social security card. Ben Ryan had been present, pulling my strings from day one. If that wasn’t bad enough, the fourth pair of shoes, snow boots, was limping. Like he had a bad case of gout or shoes that weren’t his.

  WHOAAAAAAA.

  So it’s game day, I thought. I’d take on Ben Ryan and meet up with the owner of the limp.

  “No one’s here,” Black Sneakers spoke adamantly, his body turned toward Penny Loafers who wore the mask. Black Sneakers was the largest of the four, gripping the knife. Masked Penny Loafers didn’t reply, took two steps backward, and flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed.”

  Masked Penny Loafers had my assessment as the ringleader. Black Sneakers whispered something to him too low to decipher. Then the other pair of sneakers, custom Air Jordans, touched Black Sneakers on the shoulder and pulled out an even larger switchblade.

  This was a really dumb idea, I told myself. There were a few punch-and-shoves between them, but when Black Sneakers barked, “I told you, this is not the place,” it literally felt like I took a kick to the stomach.

  Those words. I’d heard those exact words at the Winter Formal.

  Slapstick Wilson…I choked.

  And here I’d felt sorry for him and begged Dylan to intervene during his recent bout of I-must’ve-lost-my-mind. Hurt and betrayal, mixed with my own stupidity hit me all at the same time. What I’d hoped was just a gasp inside my head turned out to be the audible reality. Immediately, there was whispering and dancing around with Masked Penny Loafers motioning for Slapstick and Air Jordans to check out the noise. Masked Penny Loafers headed straight for the cash register along with Snow Boots. After Slapstick and Air Jordans checked each aisle but the back two, they noticed the slightly ajar break room door, nodded to one another, and headed straight for it.

  I couldn’t let them discover Rudi and Chichi. Rudi hadn’t kissed a boy, and Chichi needed to live another day just so she could kick the habit of talking to evil spirits. With a deep breath, I threw up a quick prayer, slowly stood up, and stepped out into the aisle, running straight into the eye of the storm.

  Slapstick.

  And Damon freaking Whitehead…I should’ve known.

  Slapstick jolted, his hazel eyes going wide with surpri
se, and maybe a little bit of anger. Anger I wouldn’t have thought possible until I witnessed him beat the crap out of Damon last night.

  Somehow I managed, “Hello, Slapstick. Did you and Damon kiss and make up?”

  Slapstick said nothing, absolutely nothing.

  My face flushed, and my blood pressure skyrocketed. I already had a bad case of heartburn from the Doritos and Coke—add a rising BP and I probably needed a daily aspirin. First thought that came to mind was I was the proverbial paper trail, and their job was cleanup.

  Where Slapstick remained mute, Damon was Damon. The douchebag of all douchebags. “It’s now gonna get fun,” he laughed, dark brown eyes bloodthirsty and merciless. “And it’s going to be even more fun when Taylor and his crew get wind of what I have planned for you.”

  “By all means, don’t hold back on my account,” I muttered.

  Slapstick’s silence was quickly jettisoned for cold, hard terror. His gaze said to cut it out, pronto. “Please,” he begged to me out loud.

  Huh…didn’t know what to make of that.

  As Damon twisted my arm behind my back, I fought to find a position which wouldn’t rip my arm from my socket. Even amidst the pain and threats, I wasn’t as intrigued with my likely demise as I was with the two guys behind the register. Masked Penny Loafers cracked his knuckles and then got down to business, taking a long, four-inch tool out of his back pocket, ramming it into the side of the cash register, and popping open the drawer. As he expeditiously handed bill after bill to Snow Boots, Snow Boots gazed in my direction, purposefully making eye contact as he stuffed the bills into a black nylon bag.

  “Hello, Darcy,” he grinned evilly.

  Ho. Ly. Mo. Ly.

  I finally clued in where I’d recognized his voice; he was the guy from weeks ago, milling around in the store, not buying a thing. It was the night of the freebie hotdogs, and a guy I referred to as Creepy Teenager accompanied him. Jeez, he’d been casing the place out. Likewise, I’d chased him in Kroger.

  God help me…he was also Big Moby.

  I stared into the eyes of Brantley McCoy. “Hello, Brantley,” I said.

  Deep from underneath the counter, Mr. B’s cell phone chimed “On the Good Ship Lollipop.” It was just too freaking bizarre to not laugh. When the sound bubbled up my throat, Brantley hissed, “Shut up!”

  I did…

  While Masked Penny Loafers continued about his work, Brantley fumbled around until he found the phone, glanced at the screen, and thrust it in my face.

  Dear. Holy. God.

  Tito Westbrook.

  “Answer it!” Brantley barked. “And do it on speaker. That man has been gunning for us, and I need to know what we’re up against. We even tried to buy a house in Brunswick to start over, but he caught on too soon.”

  Brunwick, Maine, I thought. Of course…Tito said The Ghost had tried to buy a house there in his name, but the bank flagged it before anyone signed on the dotted line. A chill worked its way up my spine. Murphy’s bank account had been hacked where someone attempted to buy a four-wheeler in Hyannis Port. Another East Coast town.

  My God, they’d been after me for a while.

  Thing was, if I answered Mr. B’s phone, they might track on the fact I was Jester—the last thing I wanted—but this might be my one and only opportunity to get us out of here alive.

  Taking the phone in my hand, I nervously answered, “Hullo?”

  A relieved exhale. “Darlin’, thank God. I’ve called every number I’ve had for you in the past fifteen minutes. I’m sorry I fell off the map…long story…but listen—”

  “Tito…” I interrupted.

  “Let me finish, darlin’. Whatever you’re doing, stop right now. Here’s what happened. I’ve got a friend who works at the State Police. She found some paperwork that Eric Young has a heavy foot. Evidently, he got a speeding ticket in April and showed proof of insurance. With that, I got the name of the insurance company he and Evelyn Seacrest use. When I called them, the agent I spoke with pulled the original paperwork for Evelyn and Eric. He had a photograph copy, clear as day, of Eric Young’s license. Here’s the thing, the accompanying social security card number is for our dead guy—Bishop Fowler. Should the BMV’s computers have caught that? Absolutely, but these guys are computer geeks. My guess is they somehow overrode the system. And when I contacted Fowler’s family, the photograph they faxed me is not the image of the Eric Young on the license. I know in my gut this guy is The Ghost because even though he’s wearing glasses, he looks a little like a photograph I have of him. He messed up,” Tito half laughed. “We’ve got him. I have a feeling you may know him with another alias. I need to know that other name. Give me the name, and I can easily put a face with him. Then we can take this to Cookie tonight.”

  Oh what tangled webs we weave.

  Only in my world would the driver of the white van—Eric Young—have Bishop Fowler’s social security card number. And if I had money, I’d bet every last, red American cent the photograph on Young’s license was of Brantley McCoy. The fastards were one in the same.

  “I wish I would’ve had this earlier,” I whispered.

  “Jest—”

  I made the executive decision to go solo and struck the “end” button. I’m not sure that was the right move, but I acted on impulse. If Tito and I got into a more harried conversation, then a good possibility existed I’d get stabbed immediately. If I screamed, Rudi and Chichi no doubt would start crying. Crying means they’d be heard which meant a knife might find a way into their chests too.

  And this situation here is exactly why I should’ve given Tito the alias of Brantley McCoy initially, but my greedy self didn’t. And no one knew of the Brantley connection but me (and Jaws).

  Stupid, Darcy. If you make it out of here alive, you now know to always CYA, or cover your a-s-s.

  My eyes landed on Masked Penny Loafers who had stopped his work to crack his knuckles. Oh, God. Red said The Ghost had the personal idiosyncrasy of cracking his knuckles non-stop. He’d done it twice since he entered The Double-B. “Why are you staring at him?” Brantley growled.

  “Because he’s the one in charge.”

  I swear, you would’ve thought I’d smacked Brantley because his head jerked like a heavy hand struck his cheek. Brantley wanted to usurp the power of whom I’d swear was Ben Ryan; it was written all over his demeanor.

  One would think I’d be little Miss Manners, but frankly, I was tired of the whole gig. I was tired of figuring things out and not getting a monetary reward; and frankly, I was tired of the leader wearing the gosh-danged mask. In that moment, it became crystal clear Brantley wasn’t The Ghost. The Ghost was the coward behind the mask. Right then, Masked Penny Loafers raised a hand, motioning over his head, bellowing, “Bring her here.”

  There were a lot of things I could do in this situation. I could kick and scream and expend valuable energy, or I could relax, hold my head high, and go out like a proud misfit when I hoped a plan would materialize.

  And then I saw it…

  A silent red light rhythmically blinked on the security system pad by the door. Blink, blink, and another slow blink. In about ten minutes, the lights would click off on their own if Rudi, Chichi, or I didn’t do it manually. All that would be left for illumination would be the security light overtop the door and one in the rear lighting the hallways by the back entrance. In this case, darkness might be good.

  If I could stay alive for the next ten minutes, perhaps I’d have a chance. But a lot could happen in ten minutes. A pot of water could boil, you could poach an egg, change your sheets, sort your bills, watch a sunset, or in my case, get stabbed and be well on your way to bleeding out…tragically, a virgin no less.

  Damon parked me in front of the counter as if I was purchasing a book, waiting patiently for someone to ring
me up. Once all the bills and checks were removed, Masked Penny Loafers shut the register drawer, turned around, and grabbed a handful of his mask’s red curly hair. In one smooth motion, he ripped off his disguise, revealing one of the most attractive faces to ever grace Valley.

  Model-like bone structure…unforgettable, luxurious hair…sky-blue eyes.

  You could’ve knocked me over with a whisper.

  “Collin Lockhart,” I gasped. “I would’ve sworn you were Ben Ryan.”

  I wouldn’t have predicted this in a gazillion years of reading spy novels. I’d always thought Collin to be ambitious, but now he reminded me of when a bull sees red. No one knew what a bull actually thought; all they knew was the color red sent them to psychoville. Other than the mask and shoes, he looked totally different, wearing a black hoodie when he’d always been Ivy League. He’d been here earlier with Ivy. Obviously, he’d ditched her and went home and pulled on a different persona.

  I drew in a sharp gasp of breath as fear clamped down on my neck. “Hello, Darcy,” Collin said drily, and when I scrambled for the back door, he jumped across the countertop, grabbing me by the hair and yanking me to his body with a thunk. Collin trailed his lips down my neck, pausing to suck my cross earring into his mouth. Let me tell you right now, Jesus didn’t like that. I didn’t even need to ask. Next thing I knew, the four-inch tool he’d used to pop open the register was poking right against my brainstem. Darcy was gone, people, but this was Darcyville, wasn’t it? I didn’t always choose these situations. Somehow they just happened, and I found myself wondering how it would ever turn out in my favor.

  One glance back to Collin unveiled the sick, sadistic smile of Brantley McCoy. They were brothers, I gasped, and no one had to tell me otherwise. But Brantley had been living in the wind. Could Collin actually have a brother—who’d gone to our school two years ago—that no one even knew was his? When he scraped the instrument down my neck and shoved me toward the back exit, I knew I should beg, cry, curse, or something. But for a second, I froze. Honest injun, I froze. I tried to have ethics in life. Don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t steal, hold the door open for the elderly, but I wasn’t above emotional blackmail. After a few seconds of scrutinizing the situation, I somehow found a tear. This was beyond…and I mean beyond…embarrassing. Not to mention futile. Did I actually think I could make Collin Lockhart birth a conscience?