100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (51 page)

Ben sighed, “I’m not sure that I’m very much of anything, Darcy. I’m sort of a rolling stone. My father is Lieutenant General Vaughn Ryan. Most of my life I’ve been a denizen, jumping from base to base, but he promises this will be the last stop on his quest to conquer the world.”

I pivoted around to peer into his eyes. Nothing but purity and truth resonated in his gaze—not one hint of sarcasm. And by the sound of that title, Ben’s daddy might just run the place. “That might be the first time I’ve heard anything sincere come from your mouth,” I gasped.

He shrugged. “Not the first time, but the statement is definitely the truth.”

“So you’re a citizen of nowhere, huh?”

Once again, the flirty smile quirked up at one corner. “You actually know what denizen means?”

Annnnnnnnnd just like that, Ben ruined the moment.

I turned and slammed the register shut. I swear, he hadn’t been in town long and must’ve heard the rumors I was the dumb type. “Goodbye, Ben,” I muttered.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, sounding panicked.

I headed back for the break room to see if Mr. B had passed out in the corner or, God forbid, choked on a ham bone. Rudi, Chichi, and I hadn’t seen him for the ten hours we’d been on duty. No lie. So there we were, three teenage girls, manning the store.

Not exactly safe.

Ben grabbed my arm, twirling me toward him, his eyes softening to liquid silver. “Hey,” he said seriously, “let me take you out tonight. It’s not like I ask you to pick out china patterns or anything, Darcy. I’d just like to get to know you better. Let me show you I can be someone who doesn’t put his foot in his mouth every five seconds.”

Here’s the thing about Ben. Sure, his good looks and rocker snarl were tempting—but a conversation with him was like riding an unending freight train. You either hung on, or got flung off into a ditch. I already had one guy like that in my life. God help me, there was no room for another.

“My shift ends at nine.”

“Supper,” he grinned.

I. Flat. Out. Turned. Him. Down.

Ben left his number (already had it), new address (didn’t want it), and the lingering scent of an evening all too tempting. Why tempting? Ben had secrets. Secrets I needed to put names to. Anything would be better than the sauna of disappointment currently suffocating me.

When he cockily strode out the door, Ivy and Collin blew in about a minute later. Well, well, well, wasn’t there a story there all in itself. Zipped inside a white North Face coat, Ivy unloaded a scowl that shriveled my self-esteem. “Don’t you look all Belinskified.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ivy, Collin,” I greeted. “I was hoping you’d stop by.” NOT.

“So how was the dance last night?” she asked.

I ignored her but couldn’t help but notice Collin seemed even more interested than her. “You missed one,” he said.

“Huh?”

Collin pitched his head toward the register, eyeballing a five-dollar bill hiding behind a stack of books.

“Oh, er, thanks,” I muttered.

“Need some help?” he grinned.

I stepped behind the counter, keying in my employee number to open the drawer. Once I hit “enter,” the register dinged, and I tagged the Lincoln in the appropriate slot. “My math isn’t
that
bad, Collin. I can handle placing a five in a drawer of five hundred.”

Ivy leaned across the counter and deliberately allowed her eyes to drift to my Chuck Taylor’s. “Sneakers,” she laughed in an amusingly breathy voice, “how fashionable.”

“Don’t hate on the Chucks,” I said. “You should count yourself lucky they haven’t found their way up your butt. But hey, the evening’s still young.”

Ivy straightened her hair and smoothed her coat down with blood-red nails, like she worked on her appearance while she conjured up more atrocities in her mind. “So where is Dylan?” she sneered. “He looked gorgeous last night at the dance, but then he always does.”

“I don’t have my crystal ball on me, Ivy, but he’s somewhere shopping,” I declared proudly, immediately wishing I hadn’t even given her that.

Ivy gave me one of those shrugs to say she knew more about Dylan’s private life than I did. So wasn’t true, but God knew she threw enough gasoline on the fire to make me doubt it. Picking at my nails, I couldn’t help but wonder what Collin’s take was. He looked physically drained, as though the emotional rollercoaster of Hathawaywood had taken its toll.

Shoving his hands in a navy parka, Collin gave me a head jerk in acknowledgment, his blond hair so gelled-up it looked crispy-done. When his cell phone rang, he removed it from his jacket, answering a text with what had to be a simple yes or no
command. The moment he finished, he and Ivy headed straight for the magazines while I discovered more areas that needed cleaning—wasn’t that one heck of a metaphor considering the current clientele.

I slid my iPhone out of my back pocket to phone Vinnie. I found it extremely troubling Jaws still hadn’t gotten back with me, and if the situation with Brantley McCoy was so dire, then why stay underground? I rapped my fingers on the countertop, pinky-to-thumb, pinky-to-thumb—waiting for Vinnie to answer. The call terminated with a voicemail.

“Vinnie, it’s me…Darcy, if you’re having a dumb day and don’t recognize my voice. Tell Jaws I need him. I need him in a bad way. He’ll know what that means.”

Schomberg’s Drycleaners was broken into last night
, Rudi signed as I killed the call.
They emptied the register around midnight
. She gave me a look like where’s-our-boss, but I shrugged it away. Both of us had a key to the front door, knew the code to deactivate the alarm, and the combination for the wall safe in the break room…and we were sixteen. That had to be against the law, and if it wasn’t, it probably should be. Our boss not showing all day was minor but justifiably scary when you thought of the things that could go wrong without adult supervision.

“Schomberg’s was broken into?” I repeated.

She signed,
Mr. Schomberg hid in the back but said he saw them drive away in a gray van
.
After they spray painted his place.

Mr. Schomberg was blinder than a one-eyed man in a cave. His version of gray could fall anywhere along the spectral colors of the rainbow. Casting a look across the street, the thought didn’t escape me that Brantley McCoy-slash-Moby was still at-large. But he wouldn’t come here, would he?

28. Fear Cage

W
e had ten minutes until
closing and had already closed up shop except for counting cash and placing it in the safe. Mr. B finally went E.T. and “phoned home,” claiming he’d gotten sick on too many crab cakes. Rudi, Chichi, and I hunkered on the break room floor, chowing on stale Doritos and cans of Coke and orange Fanta. Chichi argued with the Ouija that the man with a limp needed a name. The board only replied, “Limp hurt, Darcy.”

Amend that: it actually spelled my name Darsee…her board was an idiot.

Since Dylan headlined my naughty girl thoughts, I asked Chichi for a read on him. The brown cursor flew around in circles, spelling out “100 Proof Stud,” “Dylan,” and “Ben.”

I burst into giggles, explaining about Vinnie’s movie and reminding them who Ben was. Chichi sounded frustrated, her burgundy eyes growing wide as silver dollars. “I suppose the board likes the stud reference, but regarding Dylan and Ben, both have exceptionally strong yet different auras,” she said exasperated. “I don’t have my K2 reader with me which measures electromagnetic fields. When there’s a high EMF field, my abilities go haywire. Something’s wrong in here,” she muttered, casting a look over her shoulder. “They’re cancelling each other out one minute and amplifying one another the next.”

Chichi scared the pants off of Rudi and me, telling us EMF fueled paranormal activity and too much EMF could make you sick. She called it a fear cage. “The only thing I see definitively is a lasting relationship with both of them. In what capacity, I don’t know.”

By my last Dorito, I was convinced it’d be friends-only for both boys.

I couldn’t imagine Ben Ryan being the father of little Darcy Walkers or Dylan Taylor wanting to mate with a lower species.

Frustrated, Chichi placed the Ouija back in the box like she handled the Holy Grail. My first thought was to accidentally set it afire when I could legitimize the crime. Rudi tossed our empty Dorito bags in the trash, crunched up our soft drink cans, and two-pointed them into the same bin. She pulled a paper towel from the wall rack, wetting it in the sink and cleaning off the white table.

You know how you sometimes get a dark feeling of impending doom? I was all-too familiar with that shiz in my life—more so than the average chick. All of a sudden, the fear cage grew larger than my list of worries because it felt like someone walked across my future grave. Or worse yet, I had eyes in the back of my head and saw who had plans to shove me in it.

I wheeled around so fast I gave myself whiplash.

The break room was situated in the back of the store with a straight-shot view to the parking lot. First thing I did was look outside. The night was pitch black, snowy, and horror-movie scary. To add to the suspense, the front door chimed with a customer entering the store. I stole a glance at my Citizen. It read nine o’ clock on the dot, effing closing time. Who in the heck would stroll in here now?

My gut told me to duck back inside. “What’s wrong?” Rudi and Chichi asked at the same time.

I shook my head, holding my index finger to my lips in a quiet, “Shhh.”

Voices broke the silence. Males, at least two, stood in the front of the store. Normally, I’d greet them with a Double-B smile, but this felt off. And when I bravely (or stupidly) jutted my head out again, I saw both sported black hoodies, one wearing a mask. The mask was pasty white with cutouts for the mouth and eyes. Curly neon-red hair was sewn on the back, bushing out like the Mad Hatter. Here’s a reality check for you. You never wear masks to a bookstore—not ever.

That spelled at least felony and hopefully not Murder One.

The guy in the mask was relaxed, holding a Starbucks takeout cup in his right hand and collapsing the plastic lid with his thumb. He spoke so low and muffled I couldn’t make out anything, but the other voice…
I knew
. With my back flush against the wall, I heard him say, “Are you sure about this? Come on, man. I like her. It’s Friday night. Let’s go have some fun.” The voice had that aw-shucks thing going on, sort of country with a twang, but aw-shucks aside, my trouble-meter beeped at its highest alert.

My stomach bottomed out as the gleam caught what appeared to be a six-inch blade, death-gripped in his right hand. Oh, God, this wasn’t good.

Not. Good. At. All.

Oh, jeez, who was the
her
? Glancing at Rudi, I saw a paralyzed confusion, even after I mouthed we were a robbery-in-progress. Focusing on Chichi, the wide-eyed stark terror said a good possibility existed she was the
her
.

A story for another day.

Both girls immediately huddled together, arms around one another’s waists like they shivered in a blizzard. Again, I put my index finger to my lips, mouthing a soundless, “Shhh.”

Times like these I wish I had a regular prayer life. If you had a regular prayer life, perhaps you’d approach the Throne with confidence. Right now, I threw up words of desperation in every language I knew (heck, I even tried Morse code and gangsta), hoping God would answer in one of them. Then, for Heaven’s sake, my iPhone sang “Grandma Got Run”
…
as all three of us went for my right butt cheek to silence the noise.

Except the number belonged to the one person who always showed up when things went all to shiz. Switching off the lights and peeking through the crack in the partially closed door, I hit redial. “D?” I whispered. Rudi and Chichi likewise started the quiet-as-a-mouse routine, Chichi unplugging the percolating coffee pot, and Rudi still paralyzed, literally gnawing on two of her fingers.

I heard the smile in his voice. “Hi sweetheart, I’m back. Remind me to not go shopping with Sydney again,” he chuckled. “Although I did get you something that’s so insanely awesome, you’re going to be indebted for life. I’ve missed you. Are you hungry? I’m starved.” Someone’s voice resonated in the background. “That’s Vinnie,” he groaned. “God help me. We ran into him at the gas station this morning, and Syd invited him along. I deserve a medal, Darc—and a tranquilizer. My head hurts from hearing about his budding acting career and how he’s the ultimate 100 Proof Stud. Seriously, I told him that was
me
,” he giggled. “But as long as you think
I
am, that’s all that matters.”

I’m pretty sure I’d be 100 Proof Dead by morning.

Vinnie chuckled into the phone, “Evenin’, Dolce. Sorry I didn’t buzz you back, but I took care of it.”

Took care of Jaws
, I thought? “Yeah,” Dylan grumbled. “Why did Valentine get a call, and I rated a couple of texts? We can cover that later—”

“D,” I interrupted in a low voice, “I’m in trouble.” Dylan instantly turned silent. Like someone snatched out his tongue and refused to give it back. “Did you hear me?” I whispered.

“Define trouble, Darcy.”

“Rudi, Chichi, and I are in the break room and some guys are robbing the store. Mr. B’s home sick. We’re here all by ourselves.”

“Dammit, Darcy, this had better not be a joke.”

“Pinky swear,” I whispered. “I can’t see their faces, but one of them has on a mask, the other a knife. At least, it looks like a knife. That’s not good, is it?”

Dylan said something unintelligible. “You should’ve called 911!”

“But I prayed and prayed, and you called,” I whispered.

The phone was full of running footsteps. “Darc, let me get my house phone.” He barked an order to Vinnie to tell his father what was going on. “Stay on the line with me while I dial 911.”

I couldn’t.

My nose had gone down to the ground, sniffing like a bloodhound that’d been chained too long. “Dylan, I’m going to give my cell to Chichi and crawl out there. Talk to them, so they won’t be so nervous. One of the voices sounds familiar, and they specifically said they were coming for a
her
. I’ve got a feeling someone has a mark on their head, and if I don’t stop things, they’re not going to pass go and collect two hundred dollars.”

Dylan bellowed, “
No! No! No! Darcy Walker
,
stay put and no crawling!
” I shook my head and handed my phone to Chichi which she wouldn’t take. Speaking rapid Spanish, Chichi called me every profane word she could think of with a remote association to “raving lunatic” in the English language. Rudi began to cry, her glasses fogging as she grabbed the back of my yoga pants, not wanting me to go anywhere.

“Chichi,” I whispered, breaking free from Rudi’s grasp, “Dylan wants to talk to you.”