100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (2 page)

He went ballistic. “What are you doing?” he barked.

It was my turn for the smile to go wicked. “I’m taking a video of you and your dumb-butt friend. You’re giving me a weird vibe. If I wind up dead, I want the po-po to come after you specifically as a person of interest.”

At that, he and Creepy Teenager quickly headed for the door, waving goodbye with less than five fingers. I quickly replayed the video, depressed as heck when I realized a piece of hotdog had been stuck to the camera lens.

Ugh, all I got was pork on a neck.

Massaging my forehead, I negotiated with my brain. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d been watched lately. Every little peep spooked me, and every headlight that shone on the building made me dodge imaginary bullets. I wondered if a mobster named Turkey Cardoza was still after me. He’d tried to kill me before via one of his cronies, and there’s a good chance he’d be back to finish what he’d started. I mumbled to myself, “Your imagination’s working overtime, Darcy. You’ve been bored too long, and this is what happens.”

The effects of being vertical all day played nasty games with my lower back. As the clock ticked closer toward nine, I jumped on my orange RipStik and rode a path around the store, trying to realign my spine. I straightened the snowflake holiday decorations dangling from the ceiling and dusted off the mistletoe hanging by a red velvet ribbon in the main aisle. For a brief moment, I thought about the mistletoe. It was a vibrant, earthy green and had seen occasional lip action—but for me personally, it was simply a twig. Mr. B, however, saw mistletoe as a vehicle for a true love match. He was a romantic at heart and always looked for an opportunity to get his sexy on.

Perhaps that’s why there were so many holiday parties. Parties meant more opportunities for a love connection. It was that “peace on earth, goodwill toward men” sort of thing permeating the air. Breakups became makeups and differences were set aside to celebrate the holiest time of year, the season of faith. But sometimes, even if you found a connection, the love was temporary. Every holiday season came to an end.

The holidays at my home were bittersweet. Sure we were happy, but ache tugged at my heart when I thought about the empty chair at dinnertime. I tried to be emotionally numb and go through the motions, but it didn’t always work.

I felt everything…

After two 360s around the store, I parked my RipStik next to the space heater. The Double-B felt colder than the Klondike. Mr. B had bought a heater at Costco that threw off enough BTUs to fry an egg, but the heat still hadn’t reached my bones. Taking a second to warm my hands, I swiped the countertop one last time, scooting the breadcrumbs into my palm, tossing them in the trash.

I was tired…not just physically, but mentally.

In my brief life, I’d been shot at, shoved into the trunk of a car, had a knife pushed up against my carotid, not to mention seen dead bodies and appendages without torsos. Yes, I felt old. Just thinking about the things I’d experienced made me ponder the loose ends in my life. The biggest being my quest to find the man who’d shoved me into the trunk of his car (more on that later).

Right then, my cell phone vibrated, millimeters from teetering off the counter. A look at the screen showed the brooding mug of one of my besties, Jon Bradshaw. My hands were so cold the screen on my iPhone didn’t recognize me as Homo sapiens. I waved my index finger all over it like an idiot, giving up and using my nose.

I hit the intercom, mumbling, “Speak.”

“I need a girlfriend…STAT,” he grumbled. “But you have to keep the desperation on the DL.”

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out of my head. Every time he called, I heard a Taylor Swift song playing in my brain. His relationships never went anywhere, and then I was doomed to hear of their demise anytime he opened his mouth. “Give it up, bud,” I laughed. “No one is dumb enough to consider you their HEA.”

“HEA?” he repeated, confused.

“Happily ever after, you moron.”

“Come on, Walker. I’m as single as a dollar bill and tired of it.”

“You’re preachin’ to the choir, bud. You’re preachin’ to the choir.”

“Then show a brother some love.”

I’d rather snag him with a cattle prod, but I’m thinking that was illegal.

Nicknamed “Grumpy” because the guy never smiled, he was one of my closest friends and inducted first into my top-secret Brotherhood. He’d become extra clingy in the past four months. Well, clingy for him since he was the emotional equivalent of a wet towel. Why the extra need? He and I almost died in a car crash on the first day of school, both of us spit out through the passenger side window and windshield respectively. In fact, let’s make things simple. Grumpy
did
die in the ambulance; they jumpstarted his heart, and he didn’t once see the light (cough, Hell bound, cough). All he remembered was a big, black hole of nothingness when he woke up with a broken nose, arm, and facial lacerations. Maybe that’s why I put up with his woe-is-me sob stories. It was my opinion he had bigger problems than not being able to land a significant other.

As if I should be anyone’s spiritual advisor.

After a few sures and okays, I took a timeout from the convo and touched the three-inch scar on the back of my head. My head had been shaved, and the ER doc was kind enough to buzz a lightning bolt into my scalp before he stapled me shut. The scar hadn’t healed nice and flat. It was a rigid bump that’d be there for the rest of my life.

When I catapulted through the windshield, I landed spread eagle on my back on the pavement. My head split in two with the force. It didn’t especially hurt which clued me in I was in bad shape. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, the man who hit us hovered overtop me, and that’s when I deduced he was the crony of Turkey Cardoza, a mobster associated with my best friend’s detective grandfather. He’d struck the Suburban we rode in on purpose. After initial impact, our SUV skidded into oncoming traffic and looked like an accordion, coming to rest between two cars.

Grumpy and I were the worse for wear. Finn Lively, who’d been in the backseat, had a slight concussion (a fact I attributed to him wearing my lucky hat), and Dylan Taylor, my best friend, had a few bruised ribs, a black eye, and a cut in his hairline complements of the only airbag that’d deployed. Later, authorities discovered the rest had been deactivated—the second clue someone attempted to manipulate our lifespan. Dylan’s grandfather was still hellbent on bringing Cardoza to justice.

It hadn’t happened yet.

The accident still caused me problems, especially with my best friend. I could be one hundred years old with dementia and never forget the sound of Dylan’s head hitting the steering wheel. The horn’s continuous beep
still rang in my nightmares. I lay there and thought he’d died. You see, my hands weren’t completely clean. I’d meddled in his grandfather’s work, and even though Dylan and his grandfather adamantly claimed “a detective’s family always has a target on them,” I considered that an elementary summary of the situation. Dylan, Grumpy, and Finn might not have entered the picture of possible victims if I hadn’t involved myself—or the Fates hadn’t involved me. While I was chasing my latest obsession, I had a chance encounter with the Cardoza crime family gunning for Lincoln Taylor. Had I been the intended target during our car crash? If I’d minded my own business, it wouldn’t be a consideration. But such is the bane of being a verb: you acted first and considered ramifications later.

Guilt was a killer…

And I’d found myself pulling away from Dylan.

Problem was, at the time of the accident, Dylan had resurrected a conversation about us becoming a couple…as in couple-couple…or best friends dating. Can you say,
Friendship wrecking ball?
Our relationship had evolved through four stages: best friends, flirting, him acknowledging his true feelings, and then me running like an illegal immigrant across the U.S. Border.

Ahhhh, Dylan. We were almost a couple…
almost
.

I blew that, people. I blew that love boat right out of the water despite the fact he’d given me the hottest, most toe-curling first kiss imaginable. In fact, up until then my girl parts had never experienced a single jolt of pleasure. I’d all but convinced myself I was asexual, needing hormone rehab.

I stupidly recapped the kiss amongst Grumpy’s incessant rambling.

The setting was Orlando, on vacation. I’d snuck into Dylan’s bedroom for a late night chat. There were a few whispered words, but before I could say,
Hold on lover boy
, his lips found mine—slowly moving, taking, and demanding. After a few seconds of OMG, it’s as if someone else entered his body because the tempo abruptly shifted. The kiss became hungry, frenzied, and so savagely impassioned I actually crawled out of the dang room because my legs forgot how to work. I’m here to tell you that last type of kissing is why the Earth is overpopulated. And I’m afraid if it happened again, I’d get pregnant from saliva alone.

The thought made me shivery.

Dylan and I never spoke directly of the kiss, but after the accident, it hung in the air like a massive sexual humidity. The heated gaze in his eyes told me he’d actually been conscious for it. A part of me wished he hadn’t—that he’d been dreaming, and I was merely the conduit to a majorly hormonal fantasy. But that wasn’t the case. Problem was, I
felt
something which—shall I put diplomatically—lay in that dark, forbidden nether region Murphy Walker forbade me to speak of.

We still remained best friends. Wild animals couldn’t tear us apart. In fact, he dropped me off this morning then drove to Ohio State University to visit his sister, due to pick me up at closing. First off, I thought it odd he drove to Columbus for the day, merely to turn back around and pick me up tonight. Secondly, when he was hush-hush about the reason for the trip, I didn’t push. Believe me, a first. But he called an hour ago and said a tractor-trailer dumped a load of animal fat all over the freeway, leaving him stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Suuuuuure. Riiiiiiiiight.

All I wanted to know was if the bumper fit the four-wheeled or two-legged kind.

Chances were she was the 36-24-36 model.

That left Claudia Gonzalez, my Puerto Rican nanny, to perform taxi service. Right on cue, the moment I disconnected with Grumpy, Claudia bounced through the door dressed in a Hawaiian flowered muumuu. One step above midget, she stood five feet tall with inky black hair, big lips, big boobs, and big hips. Claudia never—and I mean
never
wore a coat. I think it’s because she’d been gifted with so much insulation upstairs.

The door caught a gust of wind, floating through the vertical blinds on the windows. I shivered and hugged my arms to my sides. I turned into a reptile in the dead of winter. My body temperature dropped, and my skin resembled a komodo dragon’s that’d been freeze-dried. Two pairs of socks usually did the trick…tonight might’ve warranted three.

Claudia grabbed my hand across the counter like she tried to catch a runaway train. “Vamoose!” she eeked, wanting to get out of Dodge quicker than the cast of
Gunsmoke
.

Why? Mr. B had a crush on her.

As in an I’m-going-to-knock-you-up-soon crush.

It couldn’t have been scripted better. Right then, Mr. B maneuvered up the aisle with a Coke in both pockets of his blazer and a leg of lamb in his hand. When he saw Claudia, his eyes went loopty-loo, and a long pause hung in the air. He thought it was destinies hooking up; Claudia felt she was dodging a cow patty.

“Vamoose, vamoose, vamoose!” she nervously gasped again. She grabbed my purse from the counter, hooked it over her shoulder, and had one booted foot in the doorway when he appeared at her heels.

Turning her around by the elbow, he pointed the leg of lamb in her face. “You, woman, are going to be my porkin’ Jezebel by Christmas. Pork,” he grunted, “you’re one hot chiquita.” No kidding, her boobs weighed about as much as his head. I felt the need to laugh but shockingly squelched it back.

“Castro needs to clean up his mouth!” she snapped, slapping his head. “Or my niña quits! Do you understand this ‘porks’?” she said, turning to me.

Not really.

I didn’t want to plumb the depths of Mr. Belinski’s brain. Talking with him was tantamount to reading the King James Bible; the words didn’t always make sense. All I knew was he made the word “pork” a curse word—when in reality, bacon might be the eighth wonder of the world. When he grinned even deeper, she slapped him harder, her flowered muumuu swaying like a tropical palm. Mr. B’s head snapped, and he rocked back on his heels, dropping the leg of lamb. When he moved to catch it, he flat-backed in a decibel that rattled the foundation. Heck, it probably rattled the world.

His chubby hand palmed his jaw. “I like a woman who takes what she needs.”

Ugh, that statement made me feel dirty. I squatted down, miraculously pulling him to a standing position.

As he continued with the goo-goo eyes, I quickly unplugged the hotdog case, turned off the space heater, and grabbed the jacket I’d slung over a wooden chair. It was a silver, down-filled coat with a gray fur collar. I thought it was rad but feared I looked like a Care Bear. I then jogged back to the break room and “lifted”—I marked in quotations in my mind—Mr. B’s car keys. I’d return them tomorrow, but at least he’d sleep the vodka off in the store.

Claudia and I left him standing and stepped out into the gusty night air. The cold wind bit into my face like an angry dog as I hurriedly stuffed my fingers inside my gloves. Cincinnati sucked in the winter. Come to think of it,
everything
sucked, and my boredom just added to the suckery.

Snow blew in my face. And while I swatted it away, I kerplunked my new Adidas sneakers in a mud puddle. Kicking the snowy slush free, I glanced across the street to the neighboring strip mall comprised of Schomberg’s Dry Cleaners, Nowacki’s Videos, Walgreens pharmacy, and Turn-and-Burn Tanning Salon.