No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (23 page)

He lowered his gaze with a no-more-Mr.-Nice-Guy
look. “He wants to do more than putt a golf ball, Darcy. He wants to be
me
.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does,” he said louder.

“Hold on, Attila the Hun. I offered a long time ago to make you my brother. It’s not my fault that you repeatedly refuse.”

Dylan expelled a string of expletives, his voice coming out in a brutal growl. “The last thing I’ll ever be is your
brother
, Darcy. This whole situation is absurd. I warned you about his type, and if memory serves me correctly, you swore that you understood. That’s a lie, and I absolutely
hate it
when you
lie
to me.”

I grabbed a handful of his shirt, squeezing it between my fist. “Listen, bud, you don’t own me, and I never swore to you that I wouldn’t talk to him again. Plus, it’s not like we don’t know what those girls are after. You just
met
them. Obviously, they thought it was okay to call, and why wouldn’t they? You told them to smile and say freaking
cheese
!!”

I shouldn’t care what he did, who he did, whether it was Rated-G or hard-core porn. But dang it, why did I??

All we did was demolish the other with our eyes. Dylan eyed a football that Zander had left on the floor. He gave it a swift boot, ricocheting it off the wall. It knocked over a lamp that by guestimate cost close to a thousand dollars. When realization hit what he’d done, he thundered over, picked it up, and verified that it had shattered. One of two things was going to happen. Dylan would feel remorse and perch the lamp back on the end table, or Dylan would feel remorse and launch it again. After one long pause of deliberation, he torpedoed it up against the wall where it left a divot the size of a softball. Drywall and plaster crinkled to the ground like a bucket of spilled marbles.

“Well, my phone calls aren’t dates!” he spat back. I flinched and jumped backwards like I’d stepped into a bear trap. “Do you want me to delete their information?”

My face said yes, but my mouth said, “No.”

“How magnanimous of you to concede like that,” he deadpanned sarcastically. “You usually only concede when you’re guilty of something, Darcy. Exactly what
are
you guilty of? Did he
kiss
you? Did you wait until I left to jump right in with both feet?” he marked in air quotations. “I know you’re remarkably clever, but honestly, this is a little low even by your standards.”

Any residual hurt was now officially extinguished. I missed him today. So much so that I napped in his room to merely smell his sheets. My thoughts surprised me.

“It wasn’t even a
date
!” I screamed. “I feel like you’re punishing me for something, Dylan. Tell me what I did, and I’ll apologize!”

“Can you tell me why Kyd came over here last night?” he asked. “And I don’t buy the fact that he was checking on you after you found the head. You were the least affected.”

Oh, the cluster conundrum I was in.
Tell the truth
, I’m busted that I used Kyd for information;
don’t tell the truth
, I’m deeper into an argument I don’t even understand. I’m amazed that what I thought was a tender moment last night meant nothing when he opened his eyes this morning. The answer was, he thought Kyd and I had some lurid, secret affair going on. Granted, it felt like that today, but a relationship with Kyd was the least of my concerns.

“It’s not what you think,” I gulped.

“Then give me a reason to think something else,” he said, his voice losing some of its edge. “If it was so innocent, couldn’t you have talked to me about it? We’re friends, sweetheart. Best friends. We talk … at least, we used to.”

In the blink of an eye, Dylan’s anger suddenly abated. Just went way … poof, kaput, gone. His chin quivered, and he looked like he’d break in two with the vulnerability. I shook my head. Scratched the back of my neck. Dylan was nothing but raw passion, but this unusual display of emotion had surprised even me. He was up. He was down. His heart beating on the outside of his chest. My God, he had PMS.

“You’re torturing me,” he whispered, “don’t you understand?”

Duuuuuude. Still don’t really get it.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and then realized whatever I said would probably make things worse. If I thought I understood the spectrum of emotions that could encompass an argument, I was sorely mistaken. I’d gone from shock, to anger, to desperately wanting to wipe the tears that now fell freely down his face.

My words were gravel in my throat. “D, why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” he refuted, frustration returning. Guys didn’t cry like this … especially not in front of girls. His chest heaved as if an elephant sat on it and smothered his last breath. Had I seen Dylan cry before? Sure, but it wasn’t to this extent nor something I’d ever advertise. Dylan’s expression was that his world was ending, and he’d fight to the bitter end to keep that from happening.

His chin trembled more. “Tears are flowing down your cheeks, D,” I whispered.

He opened his mouth to speak, but immediately a thought pummeled me that whatever he intended to say would be a half-truth. “Listen—” he said softly.

“Don’t lie to me,” I dumbly interrupted.

Dylan looked like I’d smacked him. “Wow,” he said with disbelief, “when did you get so cold?”

Someone other than me started working my mouth. “Me, cold?” I retorted. “Well, you weren’t much into goodbyes this morning, now were you?”

Dylan slowly lifted his chin, stubbornly. I’d lost the argument—or conversation—or whatever the heck it was that we were doing. I’d bated him back into debate, and nothing short of a zombie attack was going to stop him from making his point.

He took another step toward me. “Evidently, I need to spell it out to you. Kyd’s after you, Darcy, and why wouldn’t he be? You fascinate people. You’re beautiful, unpredictable, and smart,” he said, pointing to
Atlas of the Stars
. “That’s not exactly what I’d call a beach read, but on this one, you’re being
so dumb
,” he emphasized, “I don’t even know what to say. He has a damn girlfriend. You did this with Liam Woods. You’re going for guys that are already taken. Don’t you think you deserve someone that considers you the ultimate catch?”

“I don’t really want to be caught,” I mumbled.

“So you just like the attention?” he asked wide-eyed.

Whaaa...? Huh? No!!

I was just using them
, I wanted to scream, but Dylan would never understand that. That was the difference between us. I had no problem keeping secrets. Dylan, however, liked to live so honestly it was sometimes unpractical … at least in my world.

I longed to touch him but balled my fingers into a fist to talk myself out of it. I could’ve shut him up a hundred different ways—tickle him, tackle him, shake him … kiss him. Strange, that the latter seemed the most enticing.

Instead, I opened my big, fat mouth and took the argument to the highest level of stupid. “Is it time to move on?” I choked out. “Just say it, Dylan. We both knew this day would come.”

Whatever I said, it wasn’t the explanation or dialogue Dylan had hoped for. Where he’d cried in frustration earlier, his eyes were now a teary mask of pure anger—anger that he intended on stoking until it blew the whole dang place up. He closed the gap between us, the air crackling with passion about to pop. One moment I thought he’d throw me to the floor and devour me; the other, I was convinced he’d bend me over his knee. Three words came to mind: Behavior. Never. Lies. Something was definitely boiling between us—outside of the argument—and it would never go away until we explored it or beat it out of one another. And I didn’t think that would include a hug or sweet, tender kissing, either. It would be a raging forest fire. One fire ignites, and you think you’ve got it under control, only for another to spring to life somewhere else. Trouble with passion like that, it either illuminates your world or burns itself out. When the last ember cracks, you open your eyes and wonder what happened to all of those pretty, little trees.

“Darcy,” he started.

The way he said my name, like a desperate prayer, turned my stomach … I’ve hurt him as much as he’s hurt me.

“Don’t,” I begged, pushing both my hands against his chest. For once, I’m not the motormouth that won’t shut up. Where before I was struck with the feeling that whatever he said would be a lie, now I knew it would be the cold, hard truth. A truth that my churning gut said I wasn’t ready to hear.

Dylan ignored my wishes, his tears resurrecting themselves in torrential waves. “Interpret this as you will, Darcy,” he finally seethed, staring down in my face. “The contacts I made today were players, one coach, cheerleaders, and a few girls rushing a sorority. But if you continue to make our relationship a threesome with people like Liam Woods or Kyd Knoblecker, then consider me moved on. Consider me so frigging moved on you can’t remember what I look like.”

I tried not to let it sting, but it felt like a honeybee just zapped me with its tail. A cry strangled in my throat, and I quickly turned to view his grandfather leaning up against the wall who’d overheard part—if not all—of the entire exchange. Lincoln pressed his gaze over my shoulder, and if Dylan could’ve turned into stone, one blink from his grandfather would’ve left him fossilized. What the freak was that? Can someone tell me what the freak
that
was??

“Take a walk, son!” he growled, his brows creased and fists flexed.

I didn’t have to turn around to see if Dylan walked away; my heart felt him leave the room.

I needed an excuse to explain why I was currently a simpering, dimwitted idiot. Heck, maybe I needed an excuse for myself. The quickest thing that came to mind was Cisco who was probably crying more than me.

“I
s-s-s-saw
him Lincoln,” I whispered, voice cracking with emotion, “I
r-re-ally
did.”

He pulled me to his chest, curling a finger under my chin, tilting it upwards. “I believe you, kiddo. But is there anything else that we need to discuss?” I just shook my head, surrendering to the tears I’d been holding at bay.

The crux of the matter? I was losing my best friend.

After I did my thing in the bathroom, I curled up on the couch and eavesdropped on Lincoln talking to Paddy. The only thing good that came out of the day was I knew Cisco was alive and the name of the national crime database was NCIC. Come Hell or high water, I was going to get my hands on it. So while plans of mischief occupied one side of my brain, the other was plagued with the uncertainty with Dylan. What in the heckity heck had just happened? We’d never had a conversation with so many negative interjections.

Lincoln terminated the call, looking at me. “Sit,” he murmured, motioning to the space on the couch next to him. Trudging over, I brought my blanket with me, leaving it to hang loose around my shoulders. My eyes slid to the clock on the wall: 2AM. Shoot, I was fried.

“I made some calls for you today,” he murmured.

My mood perked up. “You did?”

Lincoln narrowed his eyes, almost offended. “You’re the sharpest kid I know, dear. If you said you saw him, you saw him.” Sharpest? Not really. Nosiest? No doubt about it.

Pulling my legs up to my chest, I folded my arms around them and hunkered down, all ears. “Spill it.”

Lincoln located his glasses and shoved them onto his nose. Next, he turned on his email account and nonchalantly typed in the password “Willow.” Wasn’t profound, but I guess it was predictable. He missed his daughter, and without saying it, my feelings were he slept on the couch opposite mine to be one step closer than everyone else when she came through the door.

He scrolled through several unread emails, clicking on one with a subject of Cisco Medina. He skimmed over it, and then read it aloud.

TO:
Lincoln Taylor

FROM:
LAPD

RE:
Cisco Medina

DATE:
August 13, 02:22PM

Hey, Linc.

Orange County and the FBI launched a nationwide whodunit, but in the past few months, they’ve come up with nothing. My source at the Bureau tells me the guys on the case are a little leery of the mother’s account of the days leading up to the abduction. Yes, she was spotted on video at Walmart, which ruled her out as a suspect, but she’s throwing off a guilty vibe. They think she knows something she’s not divulging but didn’t want to feed that to the press.

“In other words,” I summarized. “No one can come up with a
who
that
done
it.”

Lincoln pinched the space between his eyes, shifting his gaze to the clock on the wall. Willow should’ve been here at dinnertime—she wasn’t. “That pretty much sums it up,” he murmured, “but I had your information passed onto the Bureau and the cop working the case. Evidently, the number of mistakes and miscommunications involved in this one are mind-boggling.”

“How so?”

“For one, the grandparents’ English is so bad, by the time an interpreter was called in, the daughter showed up, and they clammed up altogether.” I must’ve looked confused. “That’s not necessarily odd in cases like this, Darcy. When a child isn’t located right away, sometimes people get paranoid—even good people. And dependent upon how a lawyer advises you, sometimes law enforcement is left alone investigating people that don’t truly have a connection to the case.”

“But they’ve both been cleared, right?”

“Yes, of physically nabbing him themselves,” he clarified. “In most abduction cases, it’s the other parent, but these two check out. Lola and Hank both saw him regularly, and on the day in question, he simply went to the park as he did every day. Nothing was physically out of the ordinary, which unfortunately, appears to be the situation most of the time.”