Darcy Walker - Season Two, Episode 1 Page 3

  After being interviewed by half a dozen news outlets, Dylan maneuvered his way through the crowd, politely smiling at whoever told him he had a good game while training the majority of his attention on me. When a little boy tugged on his jacket for a picture, Dylan squatted down, borrowed the little boy’s phone, and snapped a photo of the two of them. After a few words where Dylan encouraged his young fan to work hard and follow his dreams, he whispered something to him and nodded in my direction. The little boy trained an eye on me and then to Colton and back at Dylan with a huge grin.

  “All mine, buddy,” Dylan murmured, referring to me with a smirk. Then he rubbed his heart and repeated, “All mine.”

  I giggled under my breath, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  Colton threw an arm around my shoulder. “Ah, Darcy,” he said. “I would like to say he’d stop, but I do recall making a fuss over Susan.”

  Dylan said a few more words to the little boy and then strode past some admiring girls until he made it within six feet of us, stopped, and stretched his arms wide. “Sweetheart, why don’t you come over here, and let me taste your mouth.”

  I blinked, fluttering my lashes flirtatiously. “Miss me?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not talking to my father,” he murmured.

  Colton exhaled a humored, “Good Lord,” beside me. Dylan’s duffle slid down his arm to the floor, and before my feet could do their thing, he snagged me around the waist and dipped me down to his knees. I gripped his tie and pulled him to my lips right as my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was the prank-calling weirdo—I knew it without stopping to verify.

  After Dylan swapped out his suit for jeans and a white oxford rolled to his elbows, the Taylors and Whites gathered at a barbeque joint, joined by Finn Lively, Lucas Conner, and Elias “Hootie” James. When finished, we traveled to Mudder, a local sports bar students frequented. Lucas and a lady friend immediately disappeared onto the dance floor, so the rest of us single-filed it into a large corner booth.

  While Dylan, Domino, and Hootie—cornerback and close friend of Dylan’s—dissected the game, Finn and I caught up.

  Despite being a standout athlete, Finn was a wee bit of a manwhore. He’d had his fair share of girlfriends at Florida—some pushing thirty—but here lately, he was suspiciously single. No one could deny the draw. If I didn’t have a thing for the tall, dark, and handsome type, Finn would rank at the top of my list. His phone trilled in his pocket, but when he pulled the number to his eyes, he typed a quick text and laid it facedown on the table. His hands might’ve shaken a little.

  Hmmm. Finn had it bad for whoever she was.

  “What’s her name?” I pushed when Dylan leaned over the booth to talk to a friend. “I know there’s someone.”

  Finn raked both hands through his platinum hair, giving me his I’m-a-model-in-a-J.Crew-catalogue face. “A gentleman never tells.” He winked.

  “So there is someone.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said a gentleman never tells.” Finn paused amidst the mumbo-jumbo technicalities, all of a sudden looking rushed. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” he asked.

  I raised both brows, contemplating who’d tamed his horndog ways. “Call to make?”

  Finn was smart, and when I said smart, I meant he could feasibly tap into a Wall Street computer and steal retirement funds if he got the urge. “Listen,” I said while Dylan was still talking, “whoever she is can wait. I won some money recently. Two grand. I don’t know what I’m doing, but would you invest it for me? I’ll give you half of everything we earn for your trouble.”

  Finn was a perfect blend of deviant, level-headedness, and playing dumb when needed. Perfect for someone like me, but something occupied his mind because what I’d just offered would normally be a challenge he’d accept. Instead, he halfway nodded as he glanced to the screen of his then-ringing phone. I extracted it from his hand and clicked to end the call, sending whoever-she-was to his electronic I’ll-call-you-but-maybe-not thing.

  “Darcy,” he said firmly, his blue eyes turning fierce. “Don’t.”

  Finn’s eyes were heavily lidded and intense—a vampire quality that seduced you into things bad for your mortality. One look at his face, and I knew he would take this woman’s identity to the grave. Made me fear she was married. “I need to take this, okay?” he murmured, halfway out of his seat. “Remember what I said about York. Be on the lookout. Give me five, and I’ll be back.”

  Finn’s five turned into thirty.

  Long enough for Domino to drool over Remy Waters who’d slinked in ten minutes earlier. Remy was part Brazilian and Caucasian with a messy black shag complements of a pair of kitchen scissors and one too many shots of tequila. Up close and personal, she reminded me of a James Bond girl: boobs, butt, great smile, with a little bit of mystery. Dylan, Finn, and Lucas had adopted her, so to speak, two years earlier when her mother died. The Taylor family had come to care for her so much that she even bunked at their second home in Orlando during summer break. Did the instant family status bother me at first? Abso-frickin’-lutely. Remy was the type dirty dreams were made of, but the more I grew to know her, the more I realized the thought of any serious relationships paralyzed her. Hanging with Dylan and the others was safe because they were emotionally unavailable.

  While Remy slid into the seat beside Dylan, I leaned over and spoke to Domino who was drooling like a bulldog. “Hey, Pervy Pervinghouse,” I muttered, followed up by a giggle. “Why don’t you introduce yourself instead of licking your lips?”

  Domino’s masculine chuckle came out low and sexy while he nervously fidgeted his large frame in the booth. “I wasn’t licking my lips.”

  I threw back a drink of Coke. “You might want to have a talk with your tongue then because it went ADHD and didn’t know it was supposed to stay in your mouth.”

  “She’s gorgeous,” he whispered. Domino did a subtle around-the-world appraisal of Remy Waters. Gazing at her heart-shaped face, thick hair, perky boobs, and the way I knew guys, he more than likely fantasized about the shape of the posterior region. It was a bubble, man. I’d seen it myself. “She’d never go for me anyway,” he followed up as an aside.

  “Never know.” I shrugged. “She had a bad breakup over two years ago and hasn’t dated since.”

  Domino knit his dark eyes together with a frown. “How bad was bad?”

  I pulled a repeat on the shrug. “That’s her story to tell. Just know I’ve listened to some horror stories that made me want to go 187 on his butt.”

  Police code for murder, a 187 was exactly what Remy’s ex had done to her self-esteem.

  “Dylan and she are close?” Domino inquired. His gaze darted back and forth between the two, trying to figure out if there was a clandestine relationship we needed to know about.

  “One of his closest friends here,” I answered. “She’s an accounting major and freakishly smart with numbers. When the Dylan Taylor dynasty takes off…which God knows it will…Dylan says she’ll be his first hire.”

  When Domino’s tongue continued to betray him, I produced a musical chairs moment with Domino and me swapping seats and Dylan sliding in next to me. Right about then, a server named Sia came to our table, refilling drinks. A twenty-something single mom, she’d had several business classes with Dylan. Several inches shorter than me, I had about ten pounds on her and a hundred pounds more of attitude. Sia was as quiet as a church-mouse and one of those people you couldn’t help but root for because she did the parenting solo. “Hey, Sia,” Dylan said as she topped off our glasses with Coke from a clear, plastic pitcher. “You good?”

  I recognized that tone in Dylan’s voice. He was worried. Pensive. My iPhone picked that moment to buzz. Ignoring the noise, I focused on Sia. With her brunette hair in a high ponytail, her brown eyes held a look of terror—like she’d just outrun the swinging scythe of the Grim Reaper but still had some cuts and bruises. “I’ll be okay…just overworked,” she said quickly.

&nbs
p; Dylan’s face softened into a sympathetic concern. “You sure that’s all?”

  Sia wore jeans and a long-sleeved royal blue T-shirt with the Mudder logo of an alligator in mud over her heart. Her breathing was so labored the fabric of her shirt bounced up and down with each respiration. That was not the sign of someone pulling down too many hours. It was something else. The moment I almost asked, Sia spoke. “A customer,” she said quietly. “He thinks because I’m a single mom…that I’m—”

  “Eager to jump in the sack?” I mumbled sarcastically. Hey, I knew the type. Some of the morons I delivered pizzas to in Los Angeles thought I was the proverbial easy lay because I had a job that didn’t require a college degree.

  She blinked rapidly. “Yes,” she exhaled, glad I’d put her problem into words. “I guess it just comes with the job.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I agreed.

  Dylan made a sound like someone rammed a shiv in his gut. “Please, stop talking,” he said to me.

  My mouth kept spinning out. “Some guys are D-bags,” I said. “One time a customer of mine answered his door wearing nothing but a unicorn hat and a fanny pack…with a pacifier in his mouth. Then he begged me to unzip his fanny pack and free his willy…”

  Dylan placed his hand over my mouth, urging me to shoosh. I giggled behind his fingers, my eyes landing on Sia’s wrists and the bright red spots resembling perfect impressions of someone’s fingertips. My heart skipped a beat at what that implied, and the conversation took a different turn. I lowered Dylan’s hand. “Hey,” I said, adjusting my voice to a more neutral tone, “your wrists are awfully red. Did Mister Wrong give you those fresh bruises?”

  Dylan stiffened beside me. Sia’s right hand still held the pitcher. Her left fingers frantically clawed at the injured wrist in an attempt to pull her shirt down over the marks—a classic cloaking symptom of someone who’d been abused.

  “It’s okay. I’m okay,” she said quickly, almost as if she tried to convince herself.

  “Holding your wrists until they bruise doesn’t exactly produce a kickass case of the feels,” I said. “In fact, that’s in violation of Penal Code 242 in California. Give me thirty seconds, and I can jump on the information highway and find out what penal code it violates in the sunshine state.”

  “I’m okay, Darcy. It’s nothing.” Sia pressed her lips together in a quick smile, attempting to back out of the conversation.

  Dealing with a battered woman required patience and emotional finesse. I wasn’t positive I’d developed either of those qualities or if they would forever remain on my wish list. Dylan’s mouth took off before I had a chance to formulate a plan of attack.

  “No, you’re not okay,” he said tenderly with a whole lot of I’ve-got-your-back swagger. “Give me his name, Sia.”

  Dylan had one way he dealt with people who were a*sholes. His loyalty was top-shelf, and nothing else mattered. By the panic in Sia’s face, she would bolt if we pushed one more inch.

  Proving my point, she quickly memorized Remy’s order when she and Domino quit flirting with one another, leaving without further event. A power move had been the wrong call because all we had now was the back of her head, striding away. Dylan’s mind was turning, assessing, wondering who did what to Sia and whether his sorry butt was still in the club. Taking a sip from his glass, he stared off into the direction Sia went, watching those around her as she shuffled by, trying to finger the offender. A few did stare as she went by—most particularly the manager. But in all honesty, that could be because she was attractive, or he wanted her to quit chatting with the guests and serve more tables.

  “We blew that,” I said with a sigh.

  “Blowing it would not be following up,” Dylan told me. “I’ll talk to her.”

  When Dylan raised halfway out of his seat, I placed my hand on his forearm because he wouldn’t take no for an answer until he had the perp in a stranglehold. When our eyes met, I slowly shook my head back and forth to emphasize the point. “She’s embarrassed. And at work. She just needs to get through her shift first, okay?”

  Jeez Louise. Dylan unloaded a grin that made me want to drop my clothes. “You are so damn cute when you’re bossy, sweetheart. I suppose you’re right, but it’s against my nature to not protect the people I care about. Immediately.”

  “Sometimes two fists aren’t enough backup in a confrontation. Sometimes you have to have someone watching your six.”

  Again, his grin called out to my ovaries to copulate. “I feel people, Darc. It’s not going to be a problem.”

  Dylan + looking the other way. Not two things equaling a positive sum. I went numb for a few seconds, contemplating how immortal the guy actually was. Why did I fear that cocky braggadocio would one day cost him?

  Five minutes later, Dylan thread his fingers into mine, and we headed for the dance floor. After three incidents of really dirty-dancing, two friends tapped me on the shoulder, challenging me to a game of pool. I had a reputation for winning any time a cue stick was placed in my hands. Those baiting me were my regular vics.

  “Go for it, sweetheart,” Dylan said, smacking me on the rear. “I do love to see you in action.”

  Chapter 5

  LISTEN, ABE. NOT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.

  My palms began to sweat when I scanned the club, contemplating if my notorious prank caller had been someone I’d spoken with earlier. Highly possible. My first phone call from the D-bag had been when I was waiting on Dylan after the game. Perhaps someone in the stands near me? A stalker at concessions? Thing was, the area code was a 212 number. Wasn’t that New York? Then again, no one really used landlines anymore, so the normal seven-digit affair wasn’t the way it had been in the past. It simply could be a cell phone number the guy had from a decade earlier. And furthermore, how would someone from New York—or the game, for that matter—have gotten my number anyway? Whatever the answer, the caller was dumbly gullible if he thought I wouldn’t do my Veronica Mars routine and trace him.

  I shut down my phone after thumbing a quick text to the perv to go back to his blow-up doll and not contact me unless he could put some words and a name with his heavy breathing. Shoving my cell in my back pocket, I compartmentalized the incident and buckled down to business.

  Pacing around the pool table, the green felt rectangle and candy-cane-colored balls were the only thing between me and my next dollar. When I shot pool, I aimed without much thought. My subconscious mind determined the geometry of each shot, calculating what angle, stance, and grip would drop my ball into the pockets. If I made a mistake, I moved on. I didn’t dwell—trusting my gut instincts to dig me out of whatever hole I’d fallen into.

  Hootie James was cornerback of the team, and the air crackled when he entered a room. Sharp and faster than Mercury, he had the hands guaranteeing him as a first-round draft pick. Problem was, his discipline was come-and-go, and he’d had a recent love affair with marijuana. The athletic department made their players walk a straight line, but they loosened up on Hootie when Dylan’s father went to bat for him on a strike-three kind of thing, helping him broker a deal. Two caveats? A weekly drug test and a curfew. Hootie was a drifter and had spent so many nights at the Taylors’ summer home that he even had his own room next to Remy’s.

  “Girl, you’re fricking vicious,” he said to me, rubbing the soul patch under his lip, his black pony-tailed dreadlocks swaying in his laughter. “I’m out.”

  Hootie had sunk three shots but grew distracted by a chick who kept giving him the eye. He handed Lucas Conner his cue stick as I sank the rest of my balls. While Lucas snagged his lady friend a stool to sidle up beside him, I pocketed the twenty Hootie left on the side of the table, giving Lucas a look as though his bank account was dwindling as we speak. He plopped down a fifty regardless, so I dug around in my purse until I located a President Grant and did the same.

  After I racked the balls, I removed the triangular piece of wood and invited Lucas to break the balls in a game of eight-ball. Lucas
was a blue-eyed, strawberry-blond, resembling a big-muscled Viking who had one foot in sanity, the other nearly teetering off the rails. I’d nicknamed him Thor after the famous Norse god, and each time I visited, he’d lassoed a new girl—a fact oddly underscored by the open secret he had a raging crush on Dylan’s older sister. The prerequisite for his stand-ins? They resembled her—dark-haired, hourglass figures, exquisite bone structure, sexy voices—but the proxies all appeared to be crazy.

  Crazy Lady Friend said, “Nice shot, baby.”

  Thor played the solid balls and sank the number six in a side pocket. His attempt at the four ball, however, came up short.

  I positioned myself over the table with my chin above the cue stick, the number nine striped ball calling my name. With one foot on the floor, I called out, “Number nine, corner pocket,” and sank it with a clunk. I strode around to the other side, the number twelve my target. Leaning across the table, I said, “Number twelve, side pocket.”

  When the ball dropped with a double bounce, Dylan pulled up a stool beside Crazy Lady Friend.

  I performed that process on a sequel, dropping balls ten and eleven into pockets, until someone touched me on the lower back. “May I buy you a drink?” a deep voice said.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I wondered who had approached me with a standard pickup line and nearly swallowed my tongue when I clocked on the guy.

  Kirby York.

  I raised up fake-smiling, staring into deep brown eyes punctuating a face better looking than average. I hadn’t expected that. “My coffee cup could stand a refill,” I told him.

  York held up both hands. “Whoa, hold on, girl. You need to pace yourself,” he joked, dogging my lightweight choice of beverage.