No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1. Cold-Blooded Killers

  2. The Big Man

  3. Greek Gods

  4. Cliffhanger

  5. Ponkeys

  6. Wipeout

  7. The Louisiana Purchase

  8. Backup Plan

  9. Livin’ On a Prayer

  10. Freak Show

  11. Skill or Just Dumb Luck

  12. Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

  13. Wake-Up Call

  14. Dire Straits

  15. Fastard Magnet

  16. The Guessing Game

  17. Karma

  18. A Satirical Affair

  19. A Brotherhood of Lies

  20. Nine Lives

  21. Freudian Slips

  22. Iniquity Engineer

  23. X Marks the Spot

  24. Train Wreck

  25. Restless Legs Syndrome

  26. Catfight

  27. The Firing Squad

  28. Locked, Loaded, & Gunning for Bear

  29. What’s In a Name?

  30. Survival 101

  31. 2-for-1 Special

  32. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

  33. The Dog Days of Summer

  Epilogue: Just When You Think It’s Safe

  Bonus Chapter Point of View

  Note from the Author

  Darcyspeak

  About the Author

  NO BRAINER

  THE DARCY WALKER SERIES

  BOOK TWO

  A. J. LAPE

  No Brainer: The Darcy Walker Series, Book Two

  Copyright © 2013 by A. J. Lape. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition: May 2013

  Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at http://www.ajlape.com/

  or like her Facebook author page at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorAJLape

  This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the little guy that has a dream. You only live once … my wish is that you grab onto the bucking horns of life and hold on until that bull is yours.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thank you to my husband, Dean, and daughters, Zoe and Mackie, for happily welcoming Darcy Walker into our family; my parents for drilling into my head that anything is possible; my beta readers—Heather Mcguire, Sandra Ruiter, Joyce Stevens, Mom & Dad, and Brianne Whitmire for helping me polish things up; my critique partner, Debbie Brooks, for the many phone calls and plot “what if” conversations; LaDonna Haddock Thompson for giving me the scoop on detective life; CR Everett, Heather Mcguire, Dodie Miracle, and Kellie Mounce for proofreading; Mary-Nancy Smith, for being a joy and crutch to lean on through every phase of the process; the ’68 Zombie Comics duo of Mark Kidwell and Jay Fotos for another one-of-a-kind cover; my husband for designing the cover-wrap. Even if you didn’t know how to do something, you cared enough to learn; Streetlight Graphics because you’re lifesavers and some of the nicest folks I’ve met; Jeri Conner, Brooke Freiberger, and Justin Strasser for giving me the scoop on O-Town. Kim Shaw for being my author Valentine (I hope you like your character Spike); my sweet Justine Littleton for keeping Darcy alive on FB, the best-dressed fictional character ever, and for organizing my first blog tour; the AJ Lape Street Team, YA Ninjas, and Secret Sisters for the “shares” and support; and finally to my fans, FB friends, bloggers, reviewers, and twitter-verse who have supported me—or pointed me in the right direction when I looked like a headless chicken—words can’t express how you’ve made Darcyville feel welcome.

  1. COLD-BLOODED KILLERS

  Dear Darcy,

  My cell is cold and damp and the overwhelming taste of mold feels like a man’s hands squeezing around my throat. It’s hard to breathe sometimes—being alone like this—but the squeaking of the rats in the walls is the only thing that keeps me alive. I had a pet rat once. His name was Reaper. He used to sleep with me and was extremely smart and adaptable. I went away for a week, and my family forgot to feed him. I guess he got hungry because he crawled out of his cage and looked for dinner in my little brother’s crib. It wasn’t Reaper’s fault. He was driven by circumstance … just like me.

  MY BREATHING HITCHED IN MY chest as I quickly stuffed the letter back inside the Lucasville Prison envelope. This wasn’t the time to dissect my fifth correspondence from a cold-blooded killer. Eddie Lopez, who’d attempted to murder me last spring, had aspirations of making me her jailhouse pen pal. I’m not sure why I read her letters, but even with several life-in-prison sentences, she still scared the bejeezus out of me. Why? I’d come to believe she was part cockroach and would survive a nuclear war. She’d been whisked into the back of an ambulance with various tubes going into her body, presumably bound for the graveyard.

  Somehow, she’d survived.

  All I knew was, I’d always be watching my back, death row or not.

  I briefly buried my face in my hands, my breath choking me with the memory. Outrunning a murderer wasn’t something you filed away as the forgettable—you simply prayed your subconscious learned to deal. Unfortunately, I’d just encountered another crime scene that I’d have to process in the recesses of my mind.

  The scene looked like any other. Everything remained a clue until proven otherwise, but things were just as I’d left them. The only items in my room out of place were two dead bodies splayed across the carpet. Rigor mortis had already set in—still I fumbled helplessly with the body parts and tried to piece them back together. After five heart-pounding minutes, I realized I couldn’t resuscitate or sew back together what had been a catastrophic event.

  Death was final. I knew that better than anyone did.

  I’m Darcy Walker, and I fear death will always follow me. I’d been here before—when I was too young to understand—and it sucked just like the previous time. I grew up feeling responsible for things that technically weren’t my fault, and now Fate had given me something else I could add to the list.

  Never try to outrun Fate, I told myself.

  It had a way of letting you know it had plans you couldn’t change.

  Last Christmas I received my first pet, a goldfish, I’d named George Washington. Now, in August, I’d endured the deaths of Presidents Washington through Coolidge. Obviously, I lacked in the maternal department. In one of my infamous impulse purchases, I bought two hermit crabs yesterday that I named Frick and Frack. Well, something happened in the world of Frick and Frack because I’d just discovered their mutilated corpses in my bedroom, next to the bloody mouth of my BFF, Justice’s black gerbil.

  Lesson of the day? Don’t gerbil-sit again … ever.

  MacArthur (the gerbil, AKA crab murderer), in my meek forensic opinion, had to be the culprit. Granted, I couldn’t justify how two crabs crawled out of a virtually smooth, glass bowl, but MacArthur’s two front teeth had no doubt cracked open their shells. I suppose on some level I should be impressed, but the dismembered claws were a
grisly visual too hard to erase. Glancing at the blood-splattered gerbil curled peacefully in a ball, I concluded the little bugger was psycho.

  While my father and I dropped the crab guts into a Diamond matchbox, I willed my hands to stop shaking as I looked into the round empty fishbowl they’d called home. A crucifix hung above it that my Nanny placed there when Thomas Jefferson died.

  “Help me, Jesus,” was all I could mutter.

  “Are you okay?” my dad grumbled.

  Okay? I had one foot in heck and the other in what-the-freak just happened. “Not really,” I answered.

  “Did you starve them?”

  “No.”

  “Poison them?”

  “No.”

  “Place them between the pages of a book and jump your godforsaken body all over them?” I gave him a negative nod as I talked myself out of hyperventilating. “Well, I’m tapped out,” he grunted. “Do you have any theories?”

  “No, Murphy. I’m theorizing nothing.”

  My word, if I told him my suspicions about MacArthur, Justice would be looking for a new pet.

  My father and I’d been on a first name basis since I’d turned six months old. Murphy stood 6’2” with wavy, chestnut brown hair, and deep-set dark, chocolate eyes. His cheekbones were high and chiseled, perched on a flawless angular face except for a scar over his left eye and a crooked nose. To me, they added character; they made him ruggedly real. What didn’t make him seem real, however, were his eyes. On a bad day, they looked cold-blooded, callous, and uncaring. On good days, they screamed to run to his arms.

  For all intents and purposes, he reeked of reformed bad-boy … a fastard. In Darcyspeak, a fastard’s the type to take a woman’s heart, rip it out of her chest, then move onto another girl while she’s lying there dying.

  Thank God, he’d mellowed and sworn off women.

  Today was Friday, and I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. Tomorrow I’d be flying to Florida, and needless to say, happiness was eluding him. Add the deaths of my hermit crabs, and he looked like a block of C4 ready to blow.

  “I missed you, kid,” he grumbled as we made our way downstairs. “And now you’re going away again. This will be four weeks total where your father doesn’t get to see you. That might be a first.”

  “After two weeks with Winston, I need a vacation.”

  Murphy gave me his best you’re-not-kidding look. Winston sired my father—they loved one another and vice versa—but let’s be real, they loved best from afar. My little sister and I had recently returned from our annual vacation at Grandpa Winston’s farm in Kentucky. We normally crossed the border the first two weeks in July, but we delayed our trip while he participated in a much-hyped Civil War Reenactment. We all knew how the war ended, but Winston proudly represented a group of men that reenacted it for those that failed History class.

  After two weeks, I’d hit my limit on his favorite subject: premarital sex. I’d never had a boyfriend and was nearing sixteen. It’s safe to say my virtue remained as intact as the day I popped out of the womb.

  I attempted to lighten the mood. “We talked about boys again. Soooo,” I paused, laughing naughtily, “guess what I learned?”

  Predictably, Murphy bristled up. “This is America, kid, and you have the right to be stupid, but now’s not the time for you to exercise your right.”

  Stupid’s my favorite word. It could cover all parts of speech and explain all sorts of behavior. Most might bristle at the word, but according to Murphy (and I had to agree), Stupid’s a frame of mind. It’s not an indicator of intelligence.

  Unfortunately, my frame of mind jumped back on the Frick and Frack death wagon as soon as we hit the kitchen. “Maybe they died in some sort of weird copulation ceremony,” I muttered. “You know, when they were trying to have baby crabs.” Nothing surprised me anymore, and I didn’t know much about the reproductive habits of hermit crabs anyway. All Murphy told me about the opposite sex was that I’d pee the bed if I allowed someone to kiss me before the wedding night.

  I longed to pee the bed … I really, really did.

  A sigh left his chest. “Can the potty mouth, kid. Your conversations always start in ornery then nosedive into vulgar.”

  True.

  I didn’t use the traditional four-lettered words, but I did have the urge to say things that good breeding said were for behind closed doors conversations only. Words like iniquity engineer represented sinners, fastard described the bad-boys, habaneros meant the hooters, and the boom boom, hoo-hah was the butt. And to tag a line on all the other sinful behavior I didn’t know the meanings of, in the words of Otis Day, I assigned the term shama lama, ding-dong.

  Murphy scratched the back of his neck, glanced at the box in his hand, and then set the remains on the kitchen countertop with a sigh. He collapsed back onto the brown leather couch in his normal dad attire: white golf shirt, navy shorts, and grass-stained socks. “Give me the 411,” he muttered, changing the subject.

  Murphy deliberately changed topics—something he always did when relationships, or God forbid, death was on the docket.

  I pulled my iPhone out of my back pocket and pitched it on the counter. Kicking off my black flip-flops, I crawled onto the sofa, snuggling next to him with the details.

  “The usual: sun and fun, plus Dylan wants to ride a mechanical bull at a country bar and zip line over gators.”

  “Country bar?” he grumbled.

  “Yeah, it’s called Cowboys,” I told him. “I figure I’ll knock back a few shots of whiskey then strip on top of the bar.”

  “Of course,” he deadpanned. “Anything less would be a disappointment. What about this gator thing?”

  “At Gatorland you can zip line over breeding gators.”

  “Make sure to unsnap your harness,” he joked.

  I burst out laughing and glanced around the four walls, all painted in a neutral shade of khaki. Our house represented your basic single-family unit. Three bedrooms upstairs with a vaulted ceiling and a master bedroom downstairs no one had stepped inside for years. I’d miss it, but it was hardly Norman Rockwell or as exciting as zip lining over gator debauchery.

  “I want to see the naughty gators,” I giggled.

  Murphy chuckled, his eyes squinting together. “Kid, your mind is utter filth. You need to work on that.”

  “I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I wouldn’t want to let my fan club down.”

  “You put a whole new spin on the term no-brainer,” he sighed sarcastically. “How much money does gator girl need?”

  “Zero.”

  I vacationed with my best friend, Dylan Taylor, every summer, and his family was loaded. We’re talking house-in-Florida kind of loaded. Spring-breaks-in-Maui kind of loaded. Head of the clan, Colton Taylor, worked as a vice president at Go Glam! Cosmetics and made Mark Zuckerberg look dirt poor. Somewhere along the road, I became their stray cat … a privilege that earned an all-expense paid, annual vacation via their private Learjet. No kidding, a freaking Learjet. If I’d learned anything, you made a major faux pas if you tried to foot the bill for even a pack of gum. Colton had a few rules: the biggest, he paid. The money Murphy sent was reserved for clothing, gifts for my little sister, or a random donation to the destitute or homeless.

  Murphy mumbled, “I need to sell eye shadow.”

  “What’s for dinner?” I giggled.

  Murphy was still stuck in eye shadow. “Dogs and burgers,” he finally muttered, “but first on the list is a burial. Sweet Jesus,” he prayed, or maybe he was swearing. “I hate burials, plus I have to find a murderer.”

  I had to agree. Even though my mouth watered for a hotdog—my favorite food—dead animal parts took precedence. Especially when the temperature was sweltering like an erupting volcano.

  I live in Valley, a suburb of Cincinnati, OH, and today topped out at 99 degrees. Half dressed in cut-off jean shorts and a white tank, that small amount of clothing did little to combat a heat index of 110. The humidity grabbed you arou
nd the throat and squeezed like…

  “Holy hell,” I finished out loud.

  Murphy elbowed me so hard he might’ve snapped a rib. “Quit cursing, kid.”

  “I wasn’t cursing, per se. I merely explained my feelings on the temperature of the house.” Smarty pants.

  “The house is at an acceptable climate of 76 degrees,” he rattled off. “Watch your mouth, and drink a glass of water.” Murphy went ape poopoo when someone messed with the thermostat. Keeping his electric bill low was science, but he wasn’t cheap. He merely liked to beat the system … or gamble.

  My little sister, Marjorie, swan dived in between us, her pink dress riding high above her hips. She sang, “Jesus loves me,” and I thought of my two dead crabs. Ugh, I didn’t want to touch that song any more than I wanted someone to slice my gut open.

  “Hey, M,” I grunted.

  With almond-shaped, brown eyes and fire engine red, wavy hair, we rarely called her Marjorie. I nicknamed her M as a baby, afraid she’d never figure out how to spell her eight-lettered name. She had it mastered by age two.

  “Well, … ” she started.

  I heard that song Killing Me Softly in my brain. Marjorie tended to be the “wordy” type. Starting a sentence with “well,” meant a 30-minute recap of a 30-second exchange.

  “Well, what?” I winced.

  “I’m in love with Bobby Gerber. We’re going to get married or maybe live together.”

  “Oh, God,” Murphy prayed. “Live together?”

  “You know, combine their resources together in this time of economic woe,” I giggled.

  Murphy kneed me in the thigh. “You’re messed up ten ways from Sunday, kid.”

  Marjorie looked confused, assuming he’d addressed her. “I’m not messed up ten ways from Sunday. I don’t even know what that means.” I didn’t, either, but Murphy always talked in religious-speak when he was beside himself. “I’ve just found the man I love,” she smiled big.