100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (31 page)

Great if this turned into something everlasting.

If it didn’t? That would plain suck.

I lifted my hair off my neck and turned my back to him. Dylan stood up, placing his right hand on the small of my back, pulling my zipper up with the other. His hands were hot on my skin. I shakily pivoted to face him, trying my best to act unaffected.

“What do you think?”

He ran both hands down the sides of my dress—leaving them on my hips a little longer than warranted—then held his index finger up over my head, twirling it like a merry-go-round. I gave a slow 360-degree turn.

“We’re done,” he murmured resolutely.

“Does it make my chest look bigger?” I asked, still not convinced. Dylan rearranged his hat, nervously looking over his shoulder like he dodged a spear. “It doesn’t,” I whispered when his eyes grew wide.

“I do not concur,” he grinned. Dylan was dumb. Grabbing my face in his left hand, he tilted my face upward. “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. There’s not one thing about your body I’d change.”

I turned, crashed on the couch, and burst into tears. I looked like an idiot, and Dylan was the biggest liar that ever walked the face of the third planet. My athletic socks hung at the ankles, and my glasses were coated in a misty fog. I not only looked like an idiot, I looked like a depressed idiot.

“I’m a freak,” I sniveled.

“You’re too cute to be a freak.”

I looked down at my chest and knew my own personal endowments weren’t anything to jump for joy over. “Maybe I would be less freakish with a push-up bra.”

Dylan gave me his TMI face. “Oh, God,” he whispered, rearranging his hat again. “I shouldn’t have taken this job.”

I blubbered like the fat on a whale. “Best friends are supposed to talk about these things, but you won’t talk anymore. Then you want to…
date me
. What would that do to us, D? Don’t you see a pattern here?”

Surely to God, he saw the signs…right? My God, did he not watch talk shows? “Please, don’t cry. Dating would only make our relationship better.”

No, dating me would be like an eventual death sentence, but he seemed determined to shake hands with the Grim Reaper. “Then answer about the bra,” I sniffed.

He swallowed, “I think I feel nauseous.”

God help me. This crying jag was worse than the first. Dylan scrubbed his forehead so hard he left a red mark. “D, I don’t like change. And you’ll barely talk as it is.”

“We’re talking.”

“I’m
making
you talk. There’s a difference.”

He pushed my hair off my face, sliding into the seat beside me. “Okay, ask me anything.”

“Everything is overwhelming. Push-up bras are overwhelming. School is overwhelming. The things you make me feel are overwhelming.”

Dylan stared hard—a brief moment of triumph in his eyes—but it quickly dissolved, and he rekindled the staring. He eventually found his way back to the subject at hand.

“What’s Murphy say?” he asked.

“About three years ago, Murphy gave me a book about the changes a girl goes through. A
book
,” I whispered, “that’s all.” I shook my head and waved my arms in exasperation like I’d been gypped in the parental-guidance department. “Who gives their kid a book?”

Dylan ran his hand down his jaw, crossed and recrossed his legs. He sometimes got fidgety when conversations made him uncomfortable. That didn’t happen often, but he looked like he’d rather play twister with a python. “Was it a good book?”

“It was a book of Grandma Marjorie’s from the turn of the century.” Dylan burst into rumbling laughter, throwing his head back. “Haven’t there been medical break-throughs in the meantime?”

He laughed even louder, covering his mouth. “The body still works the same,” he chuckled. “The wording in today’s books might be more user-friendly, but anatomy is anatomy. Have you talked to Red?”

Listen, my problems ran deeper than Puberty 101. It stemmed from having a father who was
afraid
I’d turn into a ’ho with too much information and an aunt who was
convinced
I’d turn into a ’ho out of curiosity. “Red is happy I finally got a chest,” was my answer. “I think she hopes I’ll get the rest on the bus.”

I felt like an idiot. Add Claudia and her malfunctioning voodoo cream and my closest girlfriend being a boy, there was no wonder my grasp of the birds and the bees—let alone the flowers and the trees—was severely stunted. “Can’t you see why this would never work? I’m asking you to explain the birds and the bees when you’re asking me to experience the birds and the bees
with
you.”

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “The conversations we have keep me up at night.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “Seriously?”

I nodded, wiping away my pathetic tears. “The Adult Channels really aren’t informative.”

With that statement, Dylan dove in like a health teacher—oblivious to anyone that came near. I pivoted toward him as we talked about the birds and bees, pollination, and the mating habits of the rabbit. Then he analyzed, dissected, and basically gave an oral report on the human version as my heart was thump-thump-thumping against my rib cage. Beads of perspiration formed over my lips, and I’m pretty sure I coughed a few times in disbelief.

When he finished, he murmured, “You can close your mouth now, Darc.” I couldn’t. “Well, at least breathe.” I couldn’t seem to do that either.

“Are you s-sure?” I sputtered.

“Happened the same way for centuries.”

Murphy left out quite a few details, and Grandma Marjorie’s book didn’t explain the gymnastics of the process. “It sounds sort of scary,” I shivered.

I felt like I needed a shower.

Dylan’s eyes softened. My guess was he hadn’t expected my reaction, but really, how did guys think we felt?

“I promise you,” he murmured, “with the right guy it will
not
be scary.” He threw in the word marriage. One prerequisite Murphy
did
drill into my head.

Funny thing was, I’d prefer living with Dylan as my roomie than marrying someone I’d known for only a few years. He was the one who picked my head up and twisted it on in the morning. How could someone replace that?

“If my science experiment or you and I don’t work out, can we live together?” I asked sheepishly. I sounded like a skanky ’ho-bag, but oh well.

“Darc, you have to be the most naïve person I’ve ever met, but if it makes you feel better, then yes. I’ll make sure you’re not alone.” I was giddy with the possibilities. I wouldn’t have to cook, and if the urge didn’t strike, I wouldn’t have to clean. Dylan lost most, if not his entire smile. “Why is it you make everything so frigging hard?” he muttered to himself.

I stood up and turned toward the mirror, literally lifting my boobs with both hands. Okay, it wasn’t my boobs; it was more like my ribs.

He massaged both temples. “Please,” he whispered, “don’t do that around me.”

Apparently, he thought it was futile. Dylan and I defied social mores even having these conversations, but these were things girls confessed to one another while they lay in their sleeping bags, talking about the hottest guy on campus. It stunk when your best friend was a boy. There was no squeezing into a single stall to give your thumbs up or down. There was no running to get another size while you safely stayed tucked away. No, I had to walk outside, hold my zipper together, and beg Mr. Too-Mouth-Watering-For-His-Own-Good to zip up the body fate screwed me with.

I rang Murphy, checking in before leaving Nordstrom’s. “You’d better hit the road, kid,” he grumbled. “This storm system rolled into the area in record time, and I’m afraid you’re not going to make it home before the accumulation hits.”

“It’s snowing?” I said shocked.

“That’s one way to term an avalanche,” Murphy grunted. “Get home. Now.”

Dylan pulled his wallet out of his inside pocket, handing the sales associate an American Express Centurion Card. That was just wrong. No teenager should have unlimited funds—which is what that black card promised—and by the look on the sales associate’s face, she could not disagree more. She’d pulled two pairs of shoes earlier—a black ankle boot with a three-inch heel and flesh-colored gladiator-like sandals with a four-inch stiletto. Jimmy Choos. My God, they cost more than Murphy’s 401K monthly contributions. When she saw Dylan hadn’t been swayed by the price, she dumped several earrings and bangly bracelets on the countertop, declaring they were the “next big thing.”

After a quick phone call to Red, my aunt ordered we purchase them all. Where the two thought I’d wear these on a regular basis was beyond me, but my guess was I’d look mighty fine lying at home on the couch.

Snow shaped like sparkly soap flakes fell gracefully to the ground. Those living in a wintry climate knew that type of precipitation was bad. It piled up fast, producing whiteouts and conditions so treacherous only the natives or those with a strong constitution were qualified to drive.

Just my humble opinion…

It was after eight. Cars moved at a slow crawl, and my stomach growled like a motorboat. My sense of humor had long died, but when you were copilot in what appeared to be the worst snowstorm of the season, your job was to keep it together.

For once, Dylan had both hands on the steering wheel, textbook ten and two position. Even though I wasn’t driving, I could feel the tension in the car’s engine. A misty rain fell this morning, and with the dropping temperature, the pavement had frozen like an igloo. Snow accumulated on ice, making traction hit-or-miss.

We listened to the weather report on 700 WLW, and it pretty much reiterated the obvious, “Get home; you’re stupid if you’re driving in this hellacious crap!”

A direct quote from the DJ.

We pulled left onto Montgomery Road, full intentions of traveling northbound on I-71 back to Valley. We’d barely traveled one hundred yards when the Beemer skidded sideways. The anti-lock brakes strained and gripped, promising an eventual stop, but problem was you didn’t know what’d happen in the interim.

Dylan barked, “Hold on!” as he twisted and turned with the steering wheel. I threw a two-handed grip on the dash while we fishtailed into the opposite lane. Thankfully, no car moved in our path, just another driver several feet back who maneuvered his car so methodically it seemed to have stopped moving altogether.

Snow fell so fast the windshield wipers barely kept up. Dylan flashed his blinkers, asking permission from the automobile behind to enter the exit lane again. Once he put us back on course, the car to our rear hit the same patch of ice, repeating the fishtail we’d come out of. He or she wasn’t so lucky. The car behind tapped their rear.

“
Ay, caramba
,” I whispered.

Holy heck, we hadn’t even made it onto the interstate without a minor incident. A look across the overpass showed conditions more deadly. Multi-vehicle pileups decorated two lanes, and that didn’t count the areas I couldn’t see beyond the horizon. We’d be stranded for hours.

Dylan pointed to the mass of red taillights in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Ah, Darc,” he groaned. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

It wouldn’t be so bad if we had food. The gas tank was full, so we could burn it until we hit “E.” And for that matter, the company was (sigh) Dylan. But dang it, the last thing I’d eaten was a Slim-Jim and Hershey kiss I’d found in my locker at three o’clock. I digested stomach lining at this point.

Dylan rhythmically rapped his left thumb on the steering wheel as traffic completely stopped. I felt bad he was in this situation. My guess was Red felt worse. Not to mention what our parents were thinking. Dylan rarely got rattled, but he seemed pensive, wondering what move to make next. Leaning over, I braced my right hand on his knee, the other around the nape of his neck, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek.

I’d never initiated a kiss of any kind before…as in ever…as in never, ever,
ever
.

“I love you,” I whispered in his ear, “and don’t worry about us. I trust you. More than anyone.”

When I pulled back, he quickly reached up and cradled my face with his palm, forcing the physical contact to not end quite yet. A single look from Dylan could communicate something fierce, something probably best he didn’t put words to. My instinct was to crawl back to my seat, folding my hands together like a good, little girl. He’d gone sugar daddy in the mall and bought me a Burbery wool newsboy cap—to my protest. I pulled the three-figured hat down over my eyes, trying to hide. His gaze slid over me like hot, molten lava. He also recognized the never, ever,
ever
occurrence. I mean, it was only because I wanted to comfort him…
right?
Before I attempted an explanation, both our cell phones rang within seconds of one another.

I reached inside my pocket, glad for the interruption. For me, it was Murphy. “Hey, Murphy,” I greeted. “We wrecked, and I’m lying in the middle of 71 North with a severed femoral artery. My shoes and pants are missing, and my guess is it’s going to end me within twenty minutes. Bury me with my fish in the backyard.”

Dylan answered his phone. “Hey, Mom,” he murmured with a giggle. Then there was a short pause where he briefly touched his heart. “Aw,” he soothed tenderly, pulling my fingers to his lips, “don’t worry. We’re going to be okay.”

All I heard through my receiver was “Gosh-danged idiots…stupid dress…family meeting when you get home…say your prayers…be a lady,” followed by a “Good Lord in Heaven, help me.” Next was his standard Kentuckyized profanity, “I will spit on their graves, kid. I swear it. I will spit on those meteorologist’s graves.”