100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (20 page)

Dwarfed by his towering frame, I was drawn in even deeper when Slapstick talked about the book he was reading. Slapstick had a soft spot. I’m not sure why he always wound up on the wrong side of the law, but if he’d get his head out of his rear end, he could actually land a girl and turn into something.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admitted, downing my second can as we made our way to the junior wing.

Slapstick paused for a moment, debating something in his mind. “You’re exactly what I expected, but I don’t work for free, Walker,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t aware I’d offered you a job.”

“Yes, you were,” he countered.

Ugh, I guess I was, but this was
my
gig. I wasn’t being selfish. Half the buzz was realizing I could figure things out on my own. But a flip of the calendar in my brain reminded me time was my enemy. I added him to the list with Bean, wondering if I’d invited the devil over to play.

11. Science Experiments

“T
hat thing in your purse…with
the apple on it…you pick it up when it broadcasts that grandma got murdered,” Dylan murmured.

“Uhh…”

“Let’s just go with the thought that your phone is broken.”

“Yeah, that’s a good thought,” I mumbled. Dylan stalked through the door, proving once and for all if he wanted to talk, he wasn’t above driving over in the dark to speak his piece. It was Friday night, and he’d just played in VHS’s basketball game (he scored a career high forty-nine points) but acted as if his dog had died. I’d bragged all over social media to anyone that’d talk to me; evidently, Dylan didn’t see his success quite as extraordinarily as I did.

Murphy couldn’t make it to the game. Apparently, some lowlife scum hacked into his bank account and bought a used four-wheeler in Hyannis Port. I didn’t know Massachusetts had hillbillies, but Murphy burned up the phone all evening, cancelling credit cards and cursing his luck.

First my Twitter was hacked; now Murphy’s bank account.

A little too close for comfort.

As a result, Murphy mandated I stay home because he feared there’d be a repeat of the Nico Drake incident, and he wouldn’t be there to settle the score. I was bummed because it was the official end to being grounded, so my only recourse was to cheer on the team via the school’s website’s live-feed. And down Coke…lots and lots of Coke.

It was a little past ten, and my hands shook from too much caffeine. Murphy and Marjorie had fallen asleep in his bed an hour ago, and I’d been doing the usual…channel surfing the Adult Channels Murphy didn’t know were free this month. I considered it research since he still hadn’t dispensed the standard “birds and the bees” conversation. Plus I was feeling a little unloved—and even raunchy love sounded good at this juncture.

Dylan seemed tense when you’d think he’d be on cloud nine. As he sauntered to the couch, his back was extra straight and stiffer than normal. Not the normal ease in which he carried himself. I traveled behind him, tiptoed up, and helped him shrug out of his school jacket. I gently pitched it on the recliner as he fell into the couch. I stood in front of him with my hands crossed defensively at my waist, realizing I didn’t look like anyone’s dream girl. Ready for bed, I sported a Victoria’s Secret mint and white leopard pajama set. The hem had frayed on the shirt and the bottoms had Coke stains dotting one leg where a can exploded. Add a lop-sided messy bun, smudgy glasses, and hotwired nerves, and I looked like a hobo who’d fallen off the train.

“You’re quiet, D? Would you like something to eat? Drink?”

He inhaled and expelled a deep breath. “I’m good, sweetheart. But I’m beat. Lie down with me. One of my favorite things in the world is lying next to you and doing absolutely nothing.”

Could. He. Be. More. Perfect.

Well after midnight, a scary movie on TNT hummed low in the background, and Dylan and I lay cocooned under a fake fur blanket. He looked amazeballs in dark jeans and a navy henley. All I knew was, by the way it hugged his muscles, it screamed money, stud, and fertile ovaries I needed to keep in check. Earlier we’d had popcorn, and I’d pulled off his shoes—doing all of those coupley things that showed you loved someone. When I relaxed back onto his chest, I’d nodded off twice. When I woke this last time (okay, when I snored myself awake), Dylan was sleeping, and I knew we were moments from his mother’s please-don’t-be-dead call.

I crawled on top of him, my hand stroking the planes of his chest as I continued to tell him how proud he’d made me. “You’re such a stud, D, and you smell wonderful. Normally, you smell like dirt,” I joked, “but tonight you smell so good…I love you.”

I couldn’t swear to it, but I think he growled.

Dylan slowly ran both hands up and down my back, murmuring, “Always,” which was the standard response when the other uttered the L-word phrase. This was one of those classic Dylan and Darcy moments where the love felt bigger than words. Our hugs could go on for five seconds or five minutes, but he always left the duration up to my discretion. But something suddenly short-circuited the mood. He stiffened, his shoulders tightening, his arms quickly squeezing and falling to his sides.

For once, he broke the hug first.

Out of the blue, he grabbed my hand, holding it to his heart. “You do realize it’s not normal the way you’re touching me, yeah?” he murmured.

It’s a scientific fact once someone says something like that you immediately get defensive. My hand instantly stilled. I attempted to jerk it away—heck, I wanted to cut the dang thing off—but Dylan tightened his grip, holding my fingers in place. I couldn’t look at him.
No, no, for freak’s sake, nooooooooo
. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, sweetheart. Give me your face,” he murmured hastily, putting a gentle hand to my chin.

Couldn’t do it. So I buried myself deeper inside his neck.

Dylan did an ab curl, attempting to capture my eyes. “Darc, look at me.”

Slooooowly. Slowly, I met his amber gaze. Dylan acted as though something dark and painful lived in his head. Some demons I didn’t even know he battled. “Does this make me like a slut or something?” I whispered.

Sweet Lord. I didn’t know whether to be mortified…
or proud
.

His temper took off at warp speed. “For God’s sake, no, Darcy. You’ve only been with me. Let alone do anything else that qualifies in the slut territory. Don’t say that.” No matter his words, I still shot up, pushing myself away. Far, far away from the heat I didn’t understand. “We’ve got some things to talk about, Darc,” he exhaled.

Dylan set us both up, our thighs barely touching, careful not to get too close. I got the feeling he protected himself. Still wrapped snug and tight in the fur throw, Dylan wrapped it tighter around me, like he tried to make sure I stayed warm before he left for the evening. “Here lately, I feel like I’m hanging onto you with bloody fingernails,” he sighed. “You mean everything to me, Darc. So much that it…”

“…hurts,” I completed softly.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “So what had you so busy you couldn’t pick up a phone call from your best friend?”

So Broody Dylan made an appearance because he thought I’d been blowing him off?

Well, let me give a synopsis of what I’d been doing. And let me tell you it’d distract the President of the Freaking U.S. of Unholy A. When Dylan called, Vinnie and I were on the phone—plotting our next adventure. I’d given him the information Finn had provided—the addresses and photographs of the people in the detention rotation for the past two years, plus a list and photo ID of those tardy on the day Coach’s car had been vandalized. Vinnie said he’d be home tomorrow for a short trip to see his grandmother, and we’d stake each of them out. Our plan was to see if any of the teenagers living in those homes resembled Motor Oil Hair and Coffee Blot Boy. It was a major long shot, but Vinnie was my good luck charm. If anything, it’d be a starting place and a way to widen the net. If I widened the net, God only knew what I’d reel in.

Dylan blew out a sigh, all but convinced I’d ignored him because of some deep-seated reason I refused to address.

I dropped the blanket and took his hands, leaning forward as though I was about to hear a secret. “What are we talking about here, D?”

The subject matter gnawed at him. He gazed to the ceiling, blinked twice, got up, and immediately sat back down. Rubbing the back of his neck, he inhaled and exhaled like he was in the middle of an asthma attack and couldn’t find air. Honestly, I’d never seen him so rattled, and his lack of control made me almost jump on the crazy train with him.

“Say it,” I coaxed softly.

Big breath. “I intend on finishing a conversation tonight we should’ve had four months ago. And before you make a joke out of it, I’m begging you to take me seriously. This is my heart, Darc. Please respect that.”

Sweet God Almighty.

Wasn’t that an H-bomb?

And no wonder he thought I’d joke because I’d done that before and predictably clammed up when my internal dialogue (my own fears) went haywire.

“Let me get this straight. If I understand correctly, you want something more from me than best friends?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“You want to make me Mrs. Hottie.”

“Yes.” Not even a blink.

“Am I allowed to laugh?” I half giggled. Because let me tell you, folks. This was the most ridiculous thing I’d heard in a while.

Still no blink. “You said you wouldn’t, Darcy…
please
.”

He said my name like a prayer—a whisper so soft and powerful it was like a breath from the gods. I had a momentary flair of panic. I’d held hands with the devil, manufactured lies, told lies, and confessed lies all in the name of my warped sense of justice. And Dylan wanted
me? Me?
Dang, that was so freaking romantic I might write a song about it.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, “and I agree. It’s about time.”

My word, there might be hope for me in the communications department yet. He glued his eyes shut as if in physical pain. “Dammit,” he cursed.

“I’m not sure how to interpret that,” I whispered.

“This conversation is scaring me to death,” he whispered back.

I punted those words back at him. “Like Brynn Hathaway scares
me
?”

The fairies of transparency just kicked me in the tail. It wasn’t normal for me to be on the up-and-up with something so darn raw. Me, Darcy Walker, Queen of Rationalization and All Things Procrastinatory asked, “
Should
I be scared of something?”

Once again, I’m not sure where this girl came from, but I was über stoked she’d made an appearance.

Dylan kept his eyes closed and looked like he drowned in an emotion he couldn’t pull himself out of. When he spoke, although quiet, his words were impassioned. “I am the
one thing
,” he whispered, “you should
never
fear, sweetheart. I love you as you are. You can trust me. That comes from the purest place imaginable in my heart.”

My mouth went bone-dry.

Dylan had “All of Me” by John Legend screaming out of his pores.

And this is why Dylan was my best friend…

There were many things to love about Dylan. First off, the way he was loyal to his friends—no questions asked. There’s the way he said my name in his sweet voice, or the way he called me Darcy when he was mad. Then there’s the fact he forgave my little, white lies and never held a grudge. Or poured all that hot-blooded charm on me and spoke “alpha” when someone messed with my heart. I loved the way he reached for my hand before I even knew I needed it.
Hellloooooo
, the way he filled out his jeans. I couldn’t forget the dimples and teeth or the fact he grilled a burger like Bobby Freaking Flay. Or maybe it was all about the eye contact and the little things that made my heart melt. Like him bringing me UDF coffee when Starbucks was closer to his house. Or the way he hugged my little sister when he didn’t even know I’d been watching. But perhaps the biggest thing I loved was he always knew when my thoughts were on my mother.

Realization hit me hard.

My crush had evolved. Evolved into something that worried me. There was a brief moment where I pictured us happily ever after. Trouble was, I didn’t fit the prototype of the girl you brought home to Mom…Brynn did.

But instead of shouting this evolution from the rooftops or declaring my undying like (or love), I blurted out, “I want to date around first. Like a science experiment or something.”

I think he held his breath. I know I wasn’t breathing. In fact, if my legs were long enough I would’ve kicked my own tail. Can someone tell me why the heck I said that? That just ensured I was one hundred percent mental. This was Dylan-OMG-Taylor we were talking about. I’d practically just turned him down.

A dark gleam flashed in his eyes, and he inched toward me and took my face in his hands. A glint of humor marked his gaze, and I swear to God in Heaven, the dang room started to sway. “You want to date around first,” he said low.

“Yeah,” I sheepishly answered.

“Yeah,” he repeated even lower.

“And the rule goes for you too,” I insanely added.

A slight pause. “It goes for me too,” he echoed.

Wow, so much for a heart-to-heart. We weren’t getting anywhere. Complements mainly of me. “Kill your mockingbird, Dylan. I hate it when you do that.” He had this dreadful habit of mocking whatever I’d say when he felt it was stupid. Believe me, it was highly effective because it threw me off of my game. But a little part of my brain told me I needed to be worried about what I’d just encouraged him to do. I’d die if he paraded someone around in front of me, and I wouldn’t give up my seat in the Beemer without one heck of a dogfight. “I want to date around,” I attempted to say firmer.

Dylan narrowed his eyes and laughed darkly. “You’re joking.”

“No,” I said.

His eyes locked on mine, and my throat went tight with a lump of emotion that felt quite a bit like regret. “Oh, do tell. Who threatens to take you away from me in this little science experiment?”

“I don’t know, but maybe he’s out there.”

Dylan was undeterred. Imagine that. He took my hands, gave them both a tender kiss, and replaced them back over his heart. We both watched as my fingers (again) stroked the planes of his chest. Let me tell you something. That thing between us? It had gone from friction…to heat…to straight up gosh-darned combustible. Drat! As usual, my mouth said one thing; my body said another.