100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (19 page)

“You have a crush on her?” Justice sort of laughed from behind.

He tried to play it down, but his face gave it away. “My therapist said Clementine is like seasonal fruit. I can only like her for one season, and that’s it.”

I’m sure there was a story there of restraining-order proportions, but I’d tackle that another day. Picking out a grease-dripping slice of pepperoni pizza, I balanced it on the edge of my plate and looked over my shoulder for Dylan. He’d returned to his seat by the windows with Finn and Grumpy. At that second, Brynn brought her tray over and squeezed into the chair that should’ve been mine between him and Finn. My heart peeled back like a tuna can. She placed her hand on Dylan’s.

He moved it away, but still…

I wanted to break her fingers. I swear, I wanted to break her fingers and make her eat them. I shoved a bendy straw in the milk carton, downing my chocolate milk, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.

Finn caught my gaze, his eyes swearing it meant nothing. I’m pretty sure my quivering chin said otherwise. I walked up to the cashier, fished around in my pocket, and realized I’d forgotten my meal card. Each semester I lost something different. Last year was my glasses; this semester it was my smartcard. Figures. The keyword there was “smart.” The only things in my possession were blue-foiled chocolate gelt coins from Rookie. A frown from the cashier told me she wouldn’t accept the candy currency.

Racist
, I almost laughed.

Our school had a strict rule about smartcard usage. Friends couldn’t purchase grub for a fellow student on their cards, so unless you had cash, you pretty much were SOL. I stole a glance over to Dylan who’d pulled away from his conversation with Brynn. He was deliciously grinning, already waving a bill in the air.

I loved him, (sniff, sniff.) I hated it, but I still went all mushy when he gazed at me. And he looked yummy. He wore an oatmeal-colored sweater that hugged his muscled chest and served as a nice contrast to his coal black hair. When I parted my lips to say “No thanks, sugar daddy,” someone came from left field and placed a ten-dollar bill in my palm.

What the…?

“We need to talk,” this person said. Holy-freaking-moly, it was Slapstick Wilson. I knew Slapstick was big, but standing beside him made me feel like Tom Thumb.

When I tried to talk, nothing came out but shock. I didn’t know if shock had a sound, but I sure did hear something strange in my brain. Slapstick didn’t stick around. He merely slipped the money in my hand and exited the cafeteria.

Hold on. Hold on. HOLD! ON!
I thought. But still didn’t manage a sound.

I threw the money at the cashier and ran after him.

Problem was, I was one slip-slide away from a school-wide embarrassment because my feet had different plans than my brain. I went down on my knees with a clonking thwack, and my tray slid like it had rocket boosters up its butt. When an accident happens, the first thing you do is grab for safety; secondly, you try to figure out what or who in the heck caused the problem. Since there was no one around, I grabbed at the air, and when a quick perusal showed nothing, the only thing I could figure was the Lord was taking me out.
Mmm-hmm, I looked like an idiot
. Then I realized I couldn’t feel my legs. I’d either paralyzed myself or my legs were in on the conspiracy. I lay flat on my face with a garbanzo bean from my salad smashed to my upper lip.

Poetic justice
, I laughed.

A bean.

My iPhone belted in song
where it had popped out of my jeans, laying face-up at my side. Once again, I felt it fitting. I shouldn’t have made fun of Grandma all month long. As I flicked the bean away, I propped myself up on my elbows, glancing at the unknown digits. “Hullo?” I mumbled into the receiver.

I heard a moan. “How’s the hottest hood ornament ever to grace a car?”

I knew that voice. Slight British accent. On a really hot, copper-headed, silver-eyed guy my gut screamed was trouble. “Oh, God,” I sighed. “Ben Ryan.”

“I don’t have time to talk, but I must say you’ve been extremely difficult to track down.”

I confessed (sorta) I gave him the wrong number off the bat. “I was hoping you could take a hint,” I mumbled.

Ben chuckled, and I almost felt naked. “Actually, I liked the challenge but knew there was no way in the world to mess up the
meant to be
.”

I could’ve sworn he licked his lips.

Right then, Bean, Rudi, and Justice crouched at my side. “Are you okay?” they all three gasped.

Nothing that two extra strength Tylenols and a thousand calories of saturated fat wouldn’t cure.

Dylan hovered overtop me, pulling me to my feet. “What in the,”
bleep profanity
, “happened?” I’m not sure how, but my mind successfully censored most profanity. When I didn’t answer, he repeated the question—profanity doubled.

Gasping, I whispered, “D, you’re gonna make Jesus mad.”

After Dylan helped me up and dusted off my pride, he murmured, “And how’s that?”

I gave him a shrug like he was an idiot. “You’ve made it a three f-word conversation, D, not me. I was just trying to keep you from going up in smoke.”

Rolling his eyes, he took my iPhone out of my hands. “Ben Ryan,” I told him before he could even ask.

He narrowed his eyes. “Ben Ryan. The ‘Ben Ryan’ that hit you with his car?”

“Aye,” I muttered.

That was juuuuuust enough to morph Dylan into the Tasmanian devil. “Well, hello, Ben Ryan,” he seethed into the receiver. “Dylan Taylor here. Learn to fricking drive, and stay away from my best friend.” When he angrily smashed his thumb on the “end” button, I bit the side of my cheek to keep from crying. The last thing I needed was angry words—even if they weren’t directed at me. My hands reached back and pulled my black hoodie up over my head to hide, well…everything.

Wow, I needed a TO.

A time-out and a Coke—and I knew Coach had a well-stocked supply. “You’ll have to excuse me,” I told him. “I’m going to go bang my head up against the wall until I pass out or die prematurely.”

Dylan grabbed my wrists, his amber eyes tenderly searching mine for answers. “Not so fast, sweetheart. Where are you going?”

The silence in this place was deafening. A reluctant glance had me meeting eyes with just about everyone. I’d cued the gossip. Heaven help me, what was I supposed to do? Pick up my food and eat it?

“Places to go, people to see,” I sniffed.

Tears to cry. Brynn Hathaway to ink-in on my hit list.

I file-thirteen’d my tray and left. I wasn’t entirely thrilled with my acting performance, but it got the job done. After I gave Dylan a rather long, suggestive hug, he reluctantly returned to his seat, and I was hot on the heels of Slapstick Wilson. He’d been hovering outside, but once our eyeballs clashed, he turned and hit the pavement. I chased him down the hall, following the swagger of his old, gray hoodie, beat-up jeans, and stained sneakers. After the third yell, I gave up and simply jogged after him to a darkened part of the building in the sophomore hallway. Sort of spooky, but no way in the world would it eclipse what went down in the cafeteria.

I finally stopped, cupping my hands over my mouth, yelling, “I know you hear me, Slapstick!”

Slapstick scratched the back of his neck, slowly turning. He smiled one of those teeth-gleaming grins your dentist would love. I wasn’t sure his smile held a lot of sanity, but I’d never know until we got a little more cozy. I walked twenty feet, careful step after careful step, my fear breeding like naughty rabbits. Slapstick was tons bigger than me, but I guess if things went south, I could always yell. Once we were within inches of one another, I extended my hand, “I’m Darcy.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged in a chuckle. “I’ve never seen someone so gaffe-prone in my life.”

Talk about adding insult to injury. “Mind-blowing, isn’t it?” I mumbled.

“I’d say. Are you all right?”

Eh, over it. I’m not sure how you live down an incident like that, but it wasn’t my first go around with the cafeteria floor. Thing was, I didn’t have time to get all woe-is-me. Besides, getting my dignity back would take more than one single act or a hug from a stranger. Public humiliation was sort of my theme song.

He clutched a copy of
A Christmas Carol
in his left hand. You couldn’t escape the irony. In Charles Dickens’s work, the main character, Scrooge, changed from a cold, penny-pinching recluse to the embodiment of the Christmas Spirit after a visit from the ghost of his dead partner. My ghost, however, didn’t have goodwill toward men on his mind. He stole the cold, hard-earned cash of his victims.

“You’re a Dickens lover,” I said, nodding toward the book.

“I’m learning to read,” he shrugged.

Learning to read?
I thought. Shouldn’t that have happened in first or second grade? I found it interesting he said it so nonchalantly. Most would take that secret to the grave, but I figured if he could carry the brunt, then I’d be big enough to bury the shock. “You claim we needed to talk,” I said. “Start moving your lips.”

He cocked his head to one side. “That’s actually my line. I understand you put out word you’re looking for me.”

Apparently, he didn’t have time for games. Good, my style too.

I exaggeratedly pecked my index finger on my watch, sticking with the Veronica Mars routine. “Time is tick-tocking away here, so I’m going to show you my cards. I hear someone from our school, in Valley’s backyard, is an identity thief. I know you have a record of stealing credit cards. Are you involved, or do you know who is?”

Not one of my better openers because he looked like I’d just smacked him. Eh, my interrogation techniques could use some work. I’d offended him and sounded like a narrow-minded monster all at the same time.

Lo and behold, he burst into laughter. “Dang,” he chuckled. “You truly are the gutsiest chick I’ve ever met.”

I mentally smacked myself, still hammering away at the point. “I’m sorry that didn’t come out right,” I apologized, “but answer, Slapstick. I don’t have all day, and if I don’t put some gas in my tank, I’m going to die of starvation.”

He held his chin up a fraction of an inch, his hazel eyes cutting into me like a sharp knife. Slapstick, regardless of his outward appearance, was a darn good-looking guy. His muscles had just the right amount of definition, and you could see the bulk of his legs through his old jeans. Some lucky girl would one day land him and beautify her gene pool. “Why do you care?” he asked suspiciously.

“I was offered a reward,” I answered honestly.

Both his eyes furrowed, looking like a buzzard’s on a rotting opossum. “If there’s a reward, then that makes you a snitch.”

Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. “I’m not a snitch. I’m simply a good American. We were built on the principle it’s okay to love your money,” I said. We were also built on the principle it was okay to rebel. But if truth be known, I was bored. I was bored and had only a few weeks to make myself feel like a superhero.

“Once you get it, you owe me ten bucks anyway,” he smiled.

“I can do that,” I smiled back. “So are you involved or not?”

There was a brim of sadness marking his eyes, like he was tired of people thinking the worst of him. “Whenever I’ve stolen, there was a reason,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Yes, I did. You weren’t listening.”

I tipped my head in concession. Shoot, I wasn’t getting anywhere, and I had a feeling Dylan had already issued a BOLO to anyone that would listen. “What about a guy named Damon Whitehead?”

His face grew colder than the Tundra. “I know him enough,” he said, “and to answer the question you haven’t asked, I don’t know what he does in his spare time.” I wasn’t sure I believed him. They had the same foster parents for two years. He was merely loyal or that home had simply been a place to lay his head.

I blurted out, “Are either of you associated with someone known as The Ghost?”

Slapstick looked at me like my head was a doomsday clock. “You need to watch yourself, Walker. You’re skating on thin ice.”

“So I’m onto something?”

“How long do you want to live?”

“As long as you, I suppose.”

“I tend to value my life. You seem oblivious or overly reckless.”

Once upon a time, that might’ve offended me. Now it was something I’d heard so often it went in one ear and right out the other.

I regurgitated everything I knew about Tito’s identity being stolen as Slapstick watched, astonished. I also threw in my desire to find out who vandalized Coach’s car. His face said he didn’t have feelings about Coach Wallace one way or the other. I then shared the names who Coach “thought” might have possible motives. Slapstick snorted and chuckled, “No way.” Add that to Bean’s assessment, and I mentally crossed them off the list permanently.

A teacher stepped outside into the hall, giving us a look like we were required elsewhere—you know, SOP for the normal students.

Slapstick followed me to Coach’s office where I entered the room whistling the school’s fight song. I immediately opened the refrigerator.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Open Coke. Drink can.

After I did my just-get-calm ritual, I offered Slapstick a drink, but he declined. While I explained the Nico Drake situation landed me in detention, I knocked back another can and wolfed down a stale piece of Wonder Bread that hopefully was mold-free.