100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (33 page)

It was a coping skill.

Problem was, when we got down to it, I felt like I’d be disloyal to Dylan if I uttered a word. Instead, we shot the breeze about whom we liked and didn’t like in school. That’s when Rudi unloaded the knowledge she thought Jagger Cane was beyond cute—uh, she’d drank what I called The Jagger Juice. I’d cover that later. She also said Slapstick told her in Study Hall he needed to speak with me. We talked a little about Nico Drake, and even though I wanted to tell them about Madison, I wasn’t sure how Justice would handle the news. To paraphrase? She might kill her.

I ended the chat, still overwhelmed, and right when I’d decided to curl into a ball and fall into the land of delusion, my iPhone pinged with a nightly invitation to SKYPE.

Dylan was one shrewd businessman.

He hadn’t said a single word during our morning-after conversation, wasn’t any
more
or
less
touchy-feely than normal when he drove us home, and in fact was back to status quo. I didn’t know how to interpret that. Regret, indifference, or stalemate.

“Speak,” I smiled.

Honest to God, he was so deliciously disheveled it made my chest ache. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like he fought sleep. His lips gave a lazy smile, and his hair might’ve been in worse shape than my hot mess, but on him…well, it almost looked
edible
.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grinned. “You talk in your sleep.”

I shook my head, refocusing. Crappity, crap, crap, crap. I’d begun to grow fond of stalemate, and Dylan’s grin said he planned to get in touch with his pushy side.

“Noooooooo,” I laughed.

“Yeeeessssss,” he mocked. “You mentioned the school parking lot and Coach Wallace. Wow, sweetheart, I must say, I admire your work ethic. You’re on the case even in your dreams.”

Thank my lucky stars I hadn’t spoken of his boom boom, hoo-hah. My name for his otherworldly butt. The subject of Coach, however, reminded me Dylan didn’t look so shocked when I found out about his not-so-secret marriage. He’d hidden details, and now seemed as good a time as any to yank them out of his gorgeous mouth.

“Why didn’t you tell me Coach was married and divorced, D? Why didn’t something like that ever come up?”

Dylan frowned a little, guiltily. “He was so upset I guess I kept it private for him.”

Of course, that’s what he’d do—because he’s almost gosh-danged perfect. “So she honestly bashed up his stuff?”

“So he says.”

“Any proof?”

“He found her standing overtop his car with a baseball bat. I assume he thought that corroboration enough. I don’t know any other details. I simply overheard him talking to my father, Darc. He didn’t confide in a teenager.” I must’ve been frowning. “Would you like me to tell you things like that in the future?”

Let me see if I heard this right. He asked if I honestly wanted to know the gossip? I decided to blame his idiocy on the late hour. Touching the screen, I ran my index finger around the collar of his dark sweatshirt. “It’s just that I thought we told one another everything,” I sighed.

The angel on my shoulders gasped,
You’re a liar
. The devil laughed,
So what
?

“We do,” he said as an apology.

“We do,” I repeated like a dishonest cockatoo.

Dylan held up three fingers, as if he recited the Boy Scout’s oath. “Scout’s honor, we will have no secrets.”

“Scout’s honor,” I echoed.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment, guilt, or something. Dylan’s eyes sparkled with unreleased laughter. He knew, dang him; he knew I’d have trouble holding up my end of the bargain. I hadn’t failed to notice he hadn’t pinky swore—our failsafe of always telling the truth. Could mean nothing or could mean everything—like he had many (or, God forbid,
more
) secrets than me.

Scanning the sound bites in my brain, I weeded through the things I could tell him, separating them from things that seemed downright dumb. For the next ten minutes, I confessed everything—or close to everything—I’d uncovered about Coach Wallace’s car. Since Dylan had already deduced I had a mission once inside detention, I told him what I’d learned about Slapstick Wilson and Damon Whitehead: Slapstick was a follower who couldn’t read, and Damon was a raging hothead.

After Dylan ruminated the fact Damon had a screw loose (believe me, I didn’t tell him Damon went bat-poop crazy on me), he then asked if I thought they were guilty. I took a deep breath and explained, “Slapstick doesn’t smell of guilt, but Damon smells like twenty-to-life.”

I was unexpectedly
thrilled when he murmured, “I can appreciate that.”

Feeling it’d be a behemoth mistake, I omitted Slapstick wanted to speak with me. I had no inklings to what that conversation would regard, but I didn’t want Dylan to run interference and spook him away. Believe it or not, I also divulged I’d run reconnaissance in the parking lot yesterday afternoon, trying to judge whether the guys in the red Mustang, white van, or Chevy Colorado knew anything. This part of the conversation I watered down—as in almost drowning it altogether. The one detail I’d disclosed, however, was that all three morons claimed their innocence.

Of course they would.

Cruella De Vil said the same thing when she stole those puppies—and we all know how that played out.

I didn’t tell him about Vinnie’s and my trip to Calypso Cove Drive, nor the fact Slapstick was almost scared impotent at the mention of The Ghost, period. It felt good to semi-confess, even if that’s all it amounted to. And wasn’t that me in a nutshell? Halfway doing everything? Halfway confessing, halfway making-out, halfway answering anything Dylan had ever asked? The duplicity had to be killing him.

“D?” I whispered. “I need to circle back around with you about last night. I know I did some things totally out of character. I basically attacked your mouth like I’d spent the last six months in nun school and wanted to shank the Mother Superior. I need to…” I paused, “I’m bipolar in the commitment department,” I spit out, “and that’s not fair—”

Dylan’s voice went gentle and affectionate, demonstrating the indisputable reason why I cared so much for him. “We’ll talk when you’re ready to talk, yeah? I’m patient, sweetheart. I’m going nowhere. Tell me one thing,” he paused softly. “Am I getting closer?”

My chest seized, and I thought,
Oh, shiz, you’re perfect. And my crush just shot from peacetime to military alert.
I could’ve sworn Dylan read my mind because his eyes briefly softened, going straight to boiling butter before I answered in a nod.

The accompanying grin was like none I’d ever seen. Smaller than normal, it held a hint of teeth, but something else that scared the living daylights out of me. It wasn’t only predator; it was king of the freaking jungle and then some—so intense I think it bruised my eyeballs.

Immediately, I took a screenshot of his face, deciding to use it as my latest and greatest wallpaper on my phone. That grin would be the death of me or give me something beyond my wildest dreams.

19. BENge
& Purge

W
ednesday night at Belinski’s Bookstore
was like any other night…a mausoleum. The only upside was a Mexican feast spread out in front of me with a Coke chaser. Afraid Mr. B would undress her under the mistletoe (a possibility, he was a letch), Claudia packed my dinner and allowed me to drive her conversion van to work—something I normally would’ve jumped for joy over, but it was a conversion van, for God’s sake. It had draperies in the windows.

Licking the fork of the last bite of cheesecake (yes, it was my first course), I popped the lid on the plastic container holding pork sofrito and watched Chichi speak with evil spirits. Let me correct myself. She said “spirits;” I was the one that added evil. In the break room, she sat Indian style with a white piece of linen cloth covering her head, the fingertips of both hands resting lightly on the little ivory pointer. The Ouija board’s a two or more person game. Technically, it wasn’t supposed to move with one person’s energy. Chichi, evidently, was wired differently. She could get it to fly across the room if the inclination so hit her.

Personally, I hated Ouija boards. When I was ten years old, I watched my neighbors play and crushed my cheekbone; Murphy had a tree limb fall on him; and Dylan broke four of his fingers.

Was I superstitious? Only a moron would walk away thinking it was a party.

Shoveling a few bites in my mouth, my mind took a little vacay and rehashed what Grumpy reported yesterday after speaking with the driver of the red Mustang. His quote was, “He doesn’t know,”
bleep
“about”
bleep
. Although the news was disappointing, I vowed to try and work profanity into my everyday language. It might make me a more interesting person.

After the Ouija distinctly spelled “gun,” “knife,” and “sale,” the timer on my iPhone beeped, reminding me my fifteen-minute break was a thing of the past. Just as well. My
heart beat so fast when the board spelled “Darcy dead,” I prayed someone knew CPR. Pushing back from the table, I wet a paper towel and cleaned away crumbs, throwing the disposable containers in the trashcan. Still hungry, I snagged a package of cream-filled chocolate Ho Hos Mr. B had left on the countertop. I’d been binging on sweets since breakfast and had the beginnings of two pimples the size of The Grand Tetons. But my sugar benders were sometimes hard to stop. The end of this one would take my blood sugar spiking or someone telling me I was fat.

Taking a tug on a Coke, I ripped the package with my teeth and removed one Ho Ho, stealing a look outside. The sky was a mousy gray with a small splatter of stars, and the snowy slosh on the ground resembled dirty bathwater. At half past seven, only a handful of people congregated in the store. I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight but picked up an extra shift since my only other option was to sell my body. I fought a sigh. I didn’t know if it was boredom, frustration, or both. After I shot a few baskets in the Nerf hoop over the trashcan, I rode my RipStik around the store and thought about my situation. There were several reasons I needed cash. Other than the obvious, I had to feed my coffee addiction, fund a weird fascination with one-of-a-kind vintage t-shirts, keep my sister stocked in slutty Barbie dolls, plus…well, I wanted to buy my own car.

Drive myself to school.

Beemers could crash and burn for all I cared.

The day had a decent start. I’d actually warmed up to the thought of being Dylan’s love slave until sixth period when Collin Lockhart peed on my parade. Brynn’s ex-boyfriend or soon-to-be ex (who knew with them), texted me during Spanish IV about some “concerns” he noticed during their AP math class. When I pushed for particulars, he gladly imparted the juicy, gory details. Apparently, Dylan and Brynn sat beside one another, like right on top of one another, and were math partners—whatever that entailed—all year long. Dylan had never mentioned the partnership, and God knows he’d had ample opportunity.

Here’s a rewind.

Brynn knows how to flirt without really flirting,
he’d texted.
You can get caught up in her spin before you know what’s going on.

My dumb response.
Paint a picture, Collin.

Brynn and I’d just broken up
, he’d said,
and as usual, she immediately moved in on Dylan. I was right there, front and center. She said some joke and leaned her entire body into his—like right into his grill, if you know what I mean—hugging his waist and subliminally begging to get closer.”

I bleached that picture from my mind with little success. I tried not to focus on Dylan’s package—like ever. I thought that’d take a step into slutty I couldn’t easily back out of. But put Brynn in the picture, and that’s all I’d thought about all day. Science and testicles…not a good mix.

What did Dylan do?
I stupidly wanted clarified.

He grinned so big my stomach turned.

Jeez, he’d given her The Dimples.
So…
I texted back.

So it was like watching something private,”
Collin explained.
It made everyone uncomfortable, and then Brynn did the usual.

Which is?
I typed.

She rolled out her sob story of the week. Whatever it was, he pulled on his knight-in-shining-armor.

Ugh, that sounded like Dylan. It was widely known he had a hero complex. I didn’t begrudge him the trait; Rookie made a career of it. Murphy only went hero if he liked you—otherwise, you could drop dead and rot.

Exactly what was the sob story?
I’d pushed.

Collin might be smart and good-looking, but he was a tool. He left me hanging, and here I was several hours later, still with no answers. Whether it was all smoke or if there was fire, I began to build a tiny wall where Dylan was concerned. I tried not to, but the bricks kept going up regardless.

I evaluated my situation. I could ignore Collin or go back to the original plan of performing a “science experiment” with a member of the opposite sex. Did I want to stick it to Dylan? Heck to the freaking yeah…

Right then, Justice buzzed. “Speak,” I mumbled, picking up the call.

“Hello to you too, Grouchy Pants,” she laughed.

One thing about Justice, she always had her ear to the ground. If something was to be known about Dylan and Brynn, she’d have every detail this side of the North Pole. “Did you hear Brynn was all up in Dylan’s business today?”

“Uhhhhh,” she stumbled.

“Come on, Justice,” I begged.

She groaned like a crappy lawnmower trying to start. “My information comes from Collin whining to Ivy and Trudi. When Brynn busted up the huddle, they asked for details, and she was like a toothpaste commercial. One big sickening, white smile. I actually phoned to see if you’d heard anything. Promise.”

Interesting recap. Totally unsubstantiated, but not totally ludicrous.

While relaying the story, she swore she didn’t trust Brynn, and that she really didn’t trust Collin. But what would Collin gain from lying, pray tell? Nothing to the best of my knowledge. After we ended the call, I opened a cardboard box of new books, piled five large stacks on a metal cart, and placed my second Coke on top. I wheeled them back to the science and religion section. No slam against the science and religion writers, but no one ever visited this section unless there was a report due or you wanted to nap.

Unless you were me…I had two reasons.

Dylan gave me a great idea on a legitimate science experiment on the drive home today. I’d videotape how to drop an egg two stories and not have it break. Evidently, it was a pretty common experiment, but no one would rock this project like me. I decided to name my eggs after some of the worst villains of all time. Egg One would be Adolf Hitler; Egg Two would be Count Dracula; I’d call Egg Three The Joker; Egg Four would impersonate Principal Ward (I expected backlash here); and Egg Five would be Mr. Himmel. I hadn’t decided whether to call him Mister or Doctor yet. I’d probably compromise and write Mister first and then cross it out and add “Dr.” To gain brownie points, I’d allow Mr. Himmel’s egg to live. How would I accomplish that? I’d bury him in a jar of peanut butter, drop the plastic jar, and resurrect him in one piece.