100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) Page 10

  “Bonjour, mon amie,” he whistled, a naughty grin on his face—and that was the problem. He was a ladies man and part of the appeal was a different accent each day. Apparently, today was au Francais.

  “Nasty,” Dylan grinned, glancing at me from head to toe.

  Nasty is one of those words in teen vernacular that could be good or bad. It was right up there with the word sick. I slid into the seat with a “Gracias,” wondering if he meant it good or, God forbid, I smelled like trash.

  “You look cute, sweetheart,” Dylan added, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

  I swear to God, I grabbed ahold of his jacket and yanked him over like a wild horse I wanted to break. While I tried to figure out what the freak came over me, Dylan said, “I love you too, sweetheart, but I’m going to need to sit behind the wheel if I’m going to get us to school safely.”

  He cupped my face in his hand, and like an idiot, I turned into it and kissed his palm. Errrgh! My feelings betrayed me. I even started breathing heavily. Dylan’s gaze grew heated, and something passed over his face that made my insides quiver.

  He upgraded his grin to the Jason Derulo talk-dirty-to-me stare.

  “In case you didn’t get the message yesterday in the backseat of my car,” he winked, “our conversation is far from over.”

  I metaphorically stabbed myself…

  Dylan was all jock-juicy this morning: letterman jacket, worn-out jeans with a small rip in the right knee, and his favorite Under Armour black and gray sneakers. The black coat clung to his chest and biceps like it’d been painted on, his jeans straining around the width of his thighs. I considered thanking him for the view but realized it wasn’t the right time or place, let alone proper.

  I was the best friend.

  Best friends hated each other as much as they loved one another.

  Yup, Dylan and I totally found one another repulsive (NOT).

  While Dylan answered a phone call from his mother, Finn leaned up and whispered into my ear. “You two have to work this thing out, mon amie. It’s like the longest, most exhausting game of tennis I’ve ever watched.”

  I took a breath in through my nose. In the past four months, there had been conversations between Finn and me regarding my particular status with Dylan. I think they remained confidential, but Finn pushed the boundaries of loyalty. I swore him to secrecy—he swore he’d have my back—but I also knew how determined Dylan could be if he wanted something. And I ultimately didn’t possess the things that bonded guys together…the ’nads.

  I refused to think of Dylan and me together and changed the subject. “Do you have something for me?” I whispered back.

  “Mon amie,” he said more sternly. “Do you call him countless times a day?”

  No answer.

  “Do you hug only him like he’s the best thing in the world?”

  Still no answer.

  “Do you seek only him when you’re sad?”

  Ugh, he had me.

  “Do you want to break the Ten Commandments with him, mon amie? Answer. That’s a big one.”

  I couldn’t help it, but I broke into laughter. Dylan slid his eyes over like I’d lost my ever-lovin’ mind. “You’re not working that blond-headed mojo on me today, Finn,” I whispered over my shoulder. “Maybe we can discuss things later when we’re deciphering the mysteries of the world,” I paused, “but now? No. Way.”

  Finn tucked a letter-sized, sealed envelope inside the crack between the seat and door. I knew immediately it contained the information I’d asked him to find. Information on the three IDs I’d found outside of The Double-B. Finn and I operated under a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. How he unearthed what he did was beyond me, but you didn’t bite the hand that fed you.

  Quickly stuffing the note in my backpack (hard to do since Dylan still held my left hand), I decided I’d read it during first period. Right now was stakeout time. The crime happened between seven o’clock and seven twenty. My hopes were the criminal had the same late habits of getting to school.

  Next thing I knew, my ADHD grabbed ahold, and I’d stationed myself on top of the stinking building, facing Valley Lane. Thankfully, the fog hung so thick you could cut it (ding, ding, point for my corner), because God knew I wouldn’t get points for being discreet. Discretion didn’t always cooperate when you were a verb. How did I get here? While Dylan and Finn disappeared down the hall, I jogged to the second floor, shimmied my way up the downspout, and made like a statue.

  Before I could blink, it was six forty-four. Oh. My. Freaking. Gosh. What was I thinking? My fingers were stuck to my gloves, my teeth chattered, and my butt cheeks had all but iced over. Pulling the miniature pair of binoculars from my coat pocket, I zipped my coat to my chin and hunkered down, not having a darn clue what in the heck—or whom in the heck—I was looking for. Cars slowly streamed into the parking lot like a bunch of elephants holding tails. Normally, I couldn’t sit still. My legs bounced all day or I twiddled my thumbs to the point of exhaustion. But today I had purpose. Purpose could make you endure a lot of things your brain said was impossible.

  My eyes were peeled on the spot where Coach’s car had been parked (and again today) in space 270. Still tie-dyed, still with WANKER, in all capital letters. If I had the time, I’d laugh; but it was cold, and laughing felt like it’d hurt at twenty degrees. I’d requested he park in the same spot simply so I could see the reactions of those around him. Trouble was, you could barely see anything past your own breath.

  It had grown colder. My nose hairs had fused together, and a quick glance at my watch showed the time at seven o’clock. I’d been out here for over twenty minutes and had run out of knuckles to crack. I was a Darcycicle. I should’ve worn jeans and peed one last time. My three cups of coffee had snuck up on me, and when I tried to think warm, happy thoughts all I did was picture the bursting of the Hoover Dam.

  A whistle hummed through the air followed by a gale-force gust of wind from the West. It screamed like little girls on the front seat of a rollercoaster, ridiculously loud and then scary-soft like you had one foot in the grave. I slid forward three feet and almost flat-faced off the building. This seemed like an überly bad idea except two cars pulled into the empty spaces on the left side of Coach’s car, my guess in spots 271 and 272. One guy exited a red Mustang; another pulled the key from his silver Chevy Colorado and joined him. They circled together, pointed and gaped. Maybe they enjoyed the graffiti, but then again, maybe Darcy just got lucky. All I could make out was brunette hair color on one of them, a black baseball cap on the other. Average height and builds, all in jeans and dark down coats with hoods. Soundwise wasn’t much better. All I heard was laugh, laugh, laugh…rib, rib, rib. Not enough to raise a suspicious hair on a Doberman.

  When I stepped to the right for a better angle, a white van pulled alongside the Mustang and Chevy Colorado. The owner left it idling and then got out, performing two gimpy laps around Coach’s car. He hobbled forward and high-fived one of the guys. Well, huh…this was as confusing as a darn Rubik’s Cube. If I could only get to the ledge, I might snag a better look. Taking a few gingerly placed steps, I lifted the camera draped around my neck and clicked four pictures off in a row. But the guys weaved in and out of my view, at least a view I could safely have without falling over the ledge.

  Before I knew it, I yelled, “Stand still!” Honestly, I think I shocked my own body. My heart pumped frantically…then skipped a few beats. Next thing you knew, the weather sirens sounded, signaling imminently bad weather. Those things were annoying enough when you were safely tucked inside your home. Outside in the elements, perched in a crow’s nest, was something else. I tumbled forward until I hung on the downward incline of the roof.

  No, sirreee…this was not a setback.

  I quickly crab-walked backward and couldn’t hear a darn thing overtop the si
ren’s blare. Once the wind picked up, it’s as if Divine will had other plans. I literally fell-slash-scooted down on my butt, two feet from bouncing over the side. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I heard that song, “Do, Lord. Oh Do, Lord. Oh, Do Remember Me.” I figured if I was going out at the tender age of sixteen, I might as well go out singing a gospel hymn. Hanging onto the ledge with one hand, I shakily picked the binoculars up in my left, staring at the van and two cars. The gimpy guy returned to his van, still chatting over his shoulder. While I strained to decode his words, all of a sudden I heard a frantic, “Darcy!”

  Well, I don’t know if “frantic” was the right word; maybe it was “feral.”

  Who knows how, but Dylan sniffed me out. Wind whipped underneath his jacket, and his black hair was in motion like he stood in the eye of a storm. Even though it took an Olympic effort to stay aright, he gradually turned around and saw me dangling mere feet from multiple broken bones and internal injuries. He slowly brought both arms up, leaving them clasped behind his neck. He stared at me, I stared at him, and then he had that moment where the light bulb blinked on over his head.

  This would fall under the category of Darcy will be Darcy.

  After his what-the-heck moment ran its course, he started to yell but then figured I might fall if my ears took in one more decibel of anything. He then made some ridiculously stupid hand motions I interpreted as get the freak down. Slowly and methodically, I made my way south on the downspout, wiggling twenty feet until I met the second-floor stairs. I then jogged down them into Dylan’s waiting arms. There was no tear-filled reunion or “how was the view?” He yanked me inside the building so fast, my feet barely touched the ground.

  Since freshman year, our lockers were beside one another because locker assignments were the same until graduation. Once we stood in front of numbers twelve and thirteen, he pointed an angry finger in my face. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and opened it again with more conviction.

  “Stop,” I said, holding out a hand. “Is what you’re planning to say patient, loving, and kind?” After a violent heck-no shake of his head, I added, “Then you shouldn’t say it, D. Besides, I’m wearing black lacy underwear. Don’t I get points for that?”

  Dylan wasn’t fazed…didn’t even suck in a breath…a response more depressing than my lack of a love life. He placed his palm against my chest, backing me up against the locker until my head banged.

  “You’ve got to be frigging kidding me,” he barked.

  I stifled a giggle, knowing full well it’d only make things worse to laugh in his face. “Walkie-talkie?” I dumbly asked.

  “Walkie-talkie,” he mouthed, but even that resonated like blood and thunder.

  Oh. God. Walkie-talkie was his name for a lecture. This lecture ranged from bearing the outside elements, to dying-before-my-time, to the shama lama, ding-dong because someone could’ve looked up my skirt. I appropriately agreed, looked sad at one interval, and then somehow managed a tear. I guess I saw the error of my ways, but maybe my calling in life was to be a statistic of what not to do…or how to get killed.

  7. It Girl

  The setting was third period, career development.

  Most days you listened to students talk about their dream jobs. Doctor, lawyer, professional athlete, yada-yada, whatever. You never heard anyone dream of working sixty-hour weeks at minimum wage. High school was the time where teachers planted those seeds of hope: if you do abc, then xyz’s going to happen. In other words, if you study hard and try your best, the Fates would reward your hard work. Sometimes that rang true; others you were left wondering, Why me?

  I paused for a few moments, listening to my teacher promise the world. Meh. My brain shut down. I think it was one of those survival things.

  My world turned upside down when I was nine years old. That also happened to be the last Christmas season my mother and I spent together. I vaguely remember what she smelled like: sort of like coconut cream or lemon meringue pie. And if you were a self-professed sugar junkie like me, she was an epicurean delight. I used to mock her facial expressions, throwing my head back with her belly laugh when I was alone in the bathroom. I’d hide in her closet, walk in her shoes, and apply her makeup until all I had left were empty containers. Over and over, I told myself if I could get a fraction, a zillionth of what she had, then maybe things would be fine…for both of us. But I found out the hard way wishing things to happen didn’t always make them a reality.

  Another Christmas was here, and she wasn’t going to show up under my tree.

  In times of desperation, I caught a glimmer of a thing called hope. I suppose hope is what got me through the day. Unfortunately, hope didn’t hang around long. What usually worked in times of hopelessness was to go after the impossible and make it the possible.

  That’s me: Darcy Walker, hope-bringer to the masses.

  (You’re welcome, America.)

  Case number one: who stole Tito Westbrook’s identity? Since Tito’s source claimed he was a teenager from Valley, my hunch was he might be in Coach Wallace’s file. So interviewing those three was key. Case number two: who painted Coach Wallace’s car? Even though the weather and Dylan cut my stakeout short, all things considered, I had some things to think about, i.e., Mustang and Chevy Colorado, white van, pictures to download, what was the connection…?

  Bottom line, would it mean anything?

  Dependent upon the sky and season, sometimes you could go to school in the dark and return in the dark. Looking outside, the light flurry of snow swirled into something more fierce, blowing sideways into wind shears, rattling street signs, and overturning trashcans like the first stages of a tornado. Cars traveled at a snail’s pace, and like earlier this morning, a weather alert pierced the air. With a loud crack, the sky lit up like a Roman candle.

  Simultaneously, the overhead speaker sounded with Principal Grim Ward calmly requesting we get in disaster mode. Now disaster mode came ingrained in my DNA, people. Whenever I entered a building, I checked emergency exits first and decided which windows I’d break if I got backed against a wall. Well, let’s just say I tried when I didn’t fall victim to my ADHD. But everyone didn’t think like me. There were a lot of Chicken Littles on the planet…namely Ivy Morrison.

  While the teacher waved her arms to get control of the class, I pulled the photographs out of my file, along with the names from Finn, and shoved them up under my Homeland Security t-shirt. Leaving our things at our desks, we single-filed into the hall in a semi-orderly manner. Before you could mutter Susan B. Anthony, the bulk of the females grabbed onto the nearest male.

  Seriously, that set the feminist movement back by a decade.

  Ivy, the biggest wuss, had plastered herself to Finn’s side, batting her fake eyelashes against her fake-baked face.

  Finn and Grumpy were in this class, and both were charter members of my secret brother society. Jon, er Grumpy, was brother number one, yet he might be the most reluctant. We became blood kin when we wrecked on his dirt bike freshman year. We didn’t physically share bodily fluids. We held up our mangled limbs in a sign of mutual solidarity with the commitment of ’til death do we part. Gradually, I added other kindred misfits into my brotherhood, and I became Darcy Walker, AKA a teenage godfather. Finn was brother number two because he was…well, Finn. A brainiac whose skills I occasionally needed. The rule of our commitment was simple. Loyalty. We lied for one another. We spied for one another. And in Grumpy’s case, I spied on his crushes. He’d been infatuated with Ivy Morrison, Trudi Hatchett, and Clementine Miriam Rabinowitz since freshman year.

  Clementine seemed sweet and showed he had good taste. Ivy and Trudi confirmed he was a freaking moron because Ivy was pure witch, and Trudi was a minion with man-hands. Like Clementine, she had dark hair and eyes, but her features weren’t as refined and sculpted symmetrically. Her body was disproportionate with a big nose, big
hips, and hands that belonged on Goliath. Thing was, she had money—and a good stylist could camouflage where your mother’s and father’s genes screwed you.

  Grumpy was smiling, the equivalent of seeing little green men. He had Clementine on one arm, Trudi on the other. That left me bringing up the rear, staring at all of their butts. Trouble was, when I made my way down the hall, I got shoved into a group from a different class. We huddled on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder, sneaker-to-sneaker, and butt-to-butt. Realizing I was in a race against the clock, I ripped open the sealed envelope from Finn.

  He’d typed up a detailed report that rivaled a brief from the FBI. The social security card of Lucas Carlton belonged to a baby boy, six months old. His mother had left her purse in her shopping cart unattended at Meijer and reported it stolen five weeks ago. The second victim, Kelley Lowder, lost her Visa during a wedding party weekend at The Horseshoe Casino. She had no clue she’d been violated (the bride and groom paid for all expenses) until she’d returned home and discovered the thief spent one thousand dollars at the nearest Coach Store, bought curly fries at Arby’s, and several Caffé Americanos at Starbucks. The third victim, Lindsee Maroni, had her check card eaten by an ATM at Speedway. The station manager returned it to her, and she thought she was fine, but unbeknownst to anyone, the ATM had a machine called a “skimmer” attached to it. A skimmer is camouflaged to look exactly like a component of the ATM, but in actuality it is a small computer storing the data from each card once the card is slid through. Consequently, your bank account, social security number, password, address, anything else the bank has on your magnetic strip is free game. The thief will then simply detach the skimmer and take it home. This particular thief had the capacity to manufacture cards because when Lindsee discovered her bank account had been cleaned out, her bank contacted the merchants in question who had actual credit card receipts…new receipts…and a signature eerily similar to Lindsee’s. So they not only skimmed her information but also made an entirely new card containing the same data, with a practiced signature.