100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (34 page)

After I snagged a book to use as reference, I stared at the landline phone mounted to the wall. Scanning for Mr. B, I lifted the phone off the receiver, squatting down on the green carpet to call Slapstick. I thumbed in the digits Rudi had given me. I’m not sure why I remembered phone numbers when I could barely tell you what I had for dinner yesterday. Funny, how that recall never transpired into schoolwork. Made me think my learning curve was more psychological than skill-driven.

One ring…two rings…three rings…

I almost cut the call but heard a “Hullo?” on the fourth ring.

“Slapstick?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Darcy Walker.”

I heard rustling of papers and what sounded like a door closing. “Hey, I’m assuming Rudi told you I needed to speak with you, so here it goes,” he said quickly. “Damon knows more than what he’s giving you about this guy called The Ghost. Like
a lot
more.”

When I asked Slapstick if he cared to expound, he stuttered, “
I
-
II
’ve already said enough.
Bb
-e careful.”

He delivered that blow and ditched me. Seriously, that’d been a total waste of time. Thumbing in Tito’s number, I didn’t even care if The Double-B showed up on his caller ID. My guess was I could explain it away.

I shoved two books on the middle shelf and lined up their spines when he answered, “Tito.”

“Jester,” was my greeting. A bone-chilling, knee-knocking awkwardness followed. The kind you get when you find out you’re not really welcome or as smooth as you thought you were.

“Jester,” he finally repeated.

I cleared my throat. “Is this a bad time?” No answer, so I took a drag on my Coke and dove right in with what Finn had discovered. “Listen, I get the feeling you’re busy, so I’ll make this quick. Like you said, the victim is Bishop Fowler. Problem is, Bishop pumped gas at Kroger yesterday and bought a pack of cotton candy Bubblicious while he was there. Do you know what that insinuates?” Still nothing. “If The Ghost was his roommate, then that implies he committed the ultimate scam on him too. Actually, it’s rather ingenious. Kill your roommate, hide the body, use his credit cards, and rack up debt on someone who’s too dead to complain. Do you feel me? He literally assumed his identity, Tito. Like he was trying to do to you.”

He blew out a breath of frustration. “Yeah, I feel you. I’m just trying to figure out who you are, Jester. I haven’t heard of this, and I’m gonna brag, darlin’…I’m good.”

I lifted another book from the cart, placing it on the shelf above the previous two. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I munched, swallowing a bite of Ho Ho.

“You’re calling me from Belinski’s Bookstore, Jester. That’s in the Valley Galleria. From what I’m hearin’, y’all are havin’ a lot of trouble up there. Wasn’t that strip mall vandalized twice in the past week? Are you the cause?” I laughed so loud I snorted. “That laugh,” he reluctantly chuckled along. “The sound is familiar, but I can’t place it.”

Shoot, I sounded like Red. But his reference to vandalism got me to thinking. Perhaps he could find out if Jojo Wallace had any records in her past. And as they say, two heads were a heckuva lot better than one.

“My nose is clean, Tito. Usually, I’m as dirty as they come, but on that offense, I’m as innocent as a newborn baby. Can I ask you a question? There’s something…” I stopped, searching for the right word, “something…
else
I’m working on.”

Another phone rang in my ear, and by its rock-and-roll ringtone, I knew it had to be another cell. Did the man actually carry two? “Hold on,” he muttered, hitting mute on his phone.

I stuffed the remaining Ho Ho in my mouth and grumbled into dead air. “I’m giving you everything, Tito, and you’re giving me nothing. I haven’t given you Brantley McCoy as The Ghost, and by God, I’m not going to. That would mean my claim to reward money would go up in smoke if you deliver his name to Cookie Harper-Stark before me. And by the way, what self-respecting woman allows herself to have a nickname of Cookie?”

A voice murmured overtop me, “Ask if the authorities have any new leads on The Ghost, angel. That’ll wake him up. And by the way,
that’s
a project you didn’t share with
me
. And here I thought we didn’t have any secrets between us. We need to go to couple’s therapy before this becomes a bad habit.”

A figure loomed above me with a grin that spelled sin in any language.

My mouth. Gaped. Wide.

Shoot. Did I say,
Shoot??!!

Even though I fought it, invisible strands of rope pulled me toward his cocky grin. Swallowing too much Ho Ho at once, I lifted my eyes to view him dressed as usual—brown leather bomber, white oxford peeking out the top, and although I couldn’t see his legs, my guess was starched khaki pants and penny loafers rounded out the ensemble. The eyes were like liquid silver, and his copper hair had recently been cut, barely brushing the top of his shirt. I preferred the longer length. Now he looked as refined and proper as the rest of him…except for that cocky smile. It quirked up at one corner and suggested he wasn’t proper at all. In fact, the grin in his voice suggested he might be a fastard.

“Ben Ryan,” I sort of coughed, sort of cursed.

“I prefer the father of our lovechild. So what do you say?”

I go to the opera, but I don’t sing. In other words, I may fantasize about guys, but I’m too chicken to participate in the things that’d make a baby—and I didn’t want to be a ’ho-bag either. “Why are you here?” I groaned.

Ben leaned into my personal space and traced a strong finger down the profile of my jaw. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Oh, shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

Ben had channeled Dylan. His touch was different, but considering I wasn’t sure what Dylan had done with Brynn’s girl parts, maybe I could get used to the change. When I dragged my face away, he nodded toward the phone still balanced under my chin. “What are you planning, angel?”

“My exit strategy,” I mumbled.

Ben threw his head back and laughed. “Get him to share, angel. By the sound of your conversation, you’re doing an awful lot of sharing. Make it a two-way street or back out of it altogether.”

Excellent point.

To make matters worse, the next thing I heard was a beep-beep-beeeeeeeep. Tito either accidentally hung up or hung up on purpose. I belted out, “Dang it!” and then sighed, “Dial tone,” to Ben.

Licking Ho Ho off my lips, I recalled I’d left the other up front by my purse. Ben unwound the fingers of his right hand, slowly sliding the Ho Ho across the shelf. “I saw this when I walked through the door and figured it was yours. But you’re sweet enough, even without the chocolate.”

More overt flirting. I didn’t know how to respond.

Standing up, I recradled the telephone, half grinning and half frowning. It annoyed me he’d figured me out so easily, but I wanted that Ho Ho more. “Um, thanks,” I giggled.

Ben brushed his fingertips across the Burberry cap on my head. I had a serious case of wardrobe malfunction going on. The hat didn’t match my ensemble, but I couldn’t seem to remove Dylan from my life. Shoving half the Ho Ho in my mouth, chocolate particles dribbled down my chin onto the front of my black t-shirt.

Ben gazed at its design, chuckling, “The bomb, huh?”

Glancing south, I shrugged at the red, sparkling grenade. He had the bomb part right. The Double-B could be a ticking time bomb, and everyone working here was willing for their guts to be spilled onto the ceiling.

“I guess it depends on who you ask,” I shrugged. Ben moved around to squat directly beside me. He cracked his knuckles and picked up the remaining six books, quickly shelving them and reaching to the bottom of the cart to do the same with the dozen or so there.

He stood back up as I swallowed the last bite of Ho Ho. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to find me, Darcy. Most can’t resist my charm.”

When my mouth stayed on mute, he leaned up against the bookshelf, looking me up and down as though he memorized each tiny detail. It left me uncomfortable, especially when he murmured, “I wouldn’t change one thing about you.”

He must not have seen the two pimples my sweat glands had been working on. I sighed, “What brings you to Belinski’s, Ben?”

Ben had a crooked smile—what I referred to as the rocker snarl. He quirked the left side up higher, and I knew immediately what he claimed about most girls not being able to stay away was true—there was no denying he was cute.

“I’m here because I’d love to go out with you this weekend,” he said.

I gave him my sober face. “I’ve come down with necrotizing fasciitis. Unless there’s a particular body part you’re not fond of, it’s not safe to be around me.” God help me, I looked right at his crotch to deliver the message.

Ben chuckled even deeper. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“Yeah, you do. Besides I’m a virgin.”

Just. Kill. Me. Now.
My mouth had no filter.

Ben didn’t cower, his grin still trying to snake charm me into accepting the proposal. My first instinct was to scram away from the embarrassment. I wheeled the empty cart toward the front of the store, tripping over my feet and praying Ben didn’t see it happen. Rudi and Chichi straightened displays, both their mouths dropped wide and short of dragging the floor. Both wore cheesy smiles. No one needed to point out the cute guy. It just sort of happened.

“Ben Ryan,” I said to both as we padded by. Neither gave their names. I opted not to speak for them.

“Tell me about yourself, angel.”

I didn’t want to give him anything. In fact, other than having an affair with sugar I was pretty sure I was cosmically insignificant. “Where exactly are you from, Ben? And how in the world did you figure out Jojo Wallace’s name and workplace so quickly?”

“Tell me about yourself first, and I’ll give you anything you ask.”

That statement made me sweat. “No,” I said firmly. “Answer about Jojo.”

“No,” he argued. “If I do that, then I may walk away not knowing anything more about Darcy Walker.”

He had a point. I rattled off, “I’m Valley born and bred and fall in the jock camp, I suppose.”

My hair lay in a messy ponytail tucked up under my cap. A few tendrils had fallen out, and Ben felt the need to retuck them. “You’re a jock but yet you might be the most accident prone person I’ve ever met.”

I should be offended, but sometimes the truth was too hard to avoid. I could shoot a basket like I was in the NBA, water-ski like my feet were made of boards, shoot pool and swing a club like I’d mastered the art of physics, yet couldn’t walk across the floor without eating the carpet. Odd thing was, I had no desire to participate in organized high school sports. I’d burned out as a kid.

I parked the cart behind the counter, motioning to the trashcan. “Watch this,” I bragged, picking up the Nerf ball I’d played with earlier.

He gave me a grinning wink as I broad-jumped onto a bookshelf a little over four feet high. I glanced over my shoulder to ensure Mr. B was still MIA and then threw a high-arcing shot in the air. After a twenty-foot flight, it landed easily in the middle of the can.

“Nice,” he laughed. “Do it left-handed, one row back, and I promise to kiss you.”

I wasn’t interested in kissing him, but throw me a challenge and I’d bury this guy’s mouth. Once again, I stole a look to the break room, hopped down, jumped to another shelf, and fired off an ambidextrous rainbow shot.

It swooshed in perfectly. If only school were that easy. My body was tomboy coordinated; my brainpower left a lot to be desired.

He offered me his hand while I jumped down. Then homed in on my mouth. “Okay. When and where?”

I went speechless…he was serious. I got so nervous my hand went haywire, hitting the shelf I’d been standing on. Two books dominoed down an entire row of classics.

“Aw, angel,” he chuckled. “Don’t be afraid. I promise to forget the fact you smell like a Ho Ho.” I flexed the fingers on both hands ready to smack or punch. I hadn’t made up my mind which. “Are you serious?” he chuckled deeper, eying my fists.

“As a heart attack.”

“It’d be totally unfair for me to engage in combat with you, not to mention unethical and probably illegal.”

I snorted, “Is that right? Your khaki pants and loafers don’t depict the picture of masculinity, bud. The odds are stacked in my favor.”

Ben took a swipe at my head with a roundhouse kick and landed in a different fighting stance, chucking a punch under my chin with his left elbow. His chest was square and straight, legs long and flexed, ready to spring into action. “Five-time world champion, mixed martial arts. Undefeated,” he grinned. “Press releases are on the web. Of course, it’s not evenly matched. I’m a stud.”

That answered why his body was Greek-statue hard. “Show off,” I muttered.

The cocky grin returned. “I don’t show off, I win.”

I grabbed the books I’d knocked over, looking for someone to get me out of this mess. Mr. B had probably crashed in his food, and Rudi and Chichi remained suspiciously absent. And didn’t that just pile on the discomfort. “I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone so intensely,” I almost screamed. “And if you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a good time. I’m sad. All day long I’ve been contemplating my cosmic insignificance, and I feel like a big fat phony. I probably put on five pounds in the last half hour. I don’t have any money. I don’t have the name of the spray painter. And although I think I have the name of The Ghost, I can’t prove it. Plus,” I sputtered, beginning to cry, “I actually want to binge on another Ho Ho when I should find a healthier way to purge.”

And I think
, I said to myself,
I think Dylan’s messing with me
. Down deep, he might be a fastard. It didn’t get much worse than thinking your best friend might be playing kissy-face with the world’s most nauseatingly perfect teenager.

Ben gently grabbed me by the elbow, turning me toward him as my eyes flooded with tears. I tried to speak, but all that came out was some distorted, embarrassing sounds that reminded me of sick mice.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, searching my eyes. “Sometimes, I come on too strong.”

The contours of Ben’s face cut me to the core. What was hard and confident a few seconds ago now showed a vulnerability that’d be easy to give into. Yeah, he had some serious mojo power that needed to worry me. “It’s not you,” I sniveled.

“Then what is it?” he murmured. “I’m a good listener.”

“I don’t feel comfortable confiding in you.”

He wasn’t offended. “Well, can you at least talk to your mom?”

And that’s all it took for the floodgates to open…

Ugh, just…
ugh
.

A lonely, desperate tear fell. I blurted out, “I’m raised by a single dad, and the reason for that
was
and
still is
an unimaginable pain. Plus I’m a girl. You can’t talk about everything with your dad, you know? I have so many things I need help with, and I don’t know what to do.”

If either of us was going to run for the hills, Heaven knew this was the appropriate time. But neither of us moved. When the subject of my mother came up, I usually pushed that information into a mental box, slammed it shut, and addressed it to
Counseling Session Number Three
. Yet, Ben Ryan had this bewitching spell on me. He’d hit me with his Audi, insulted me numerous times, and I’d already told him the deepest, darkest secrets of my soul. I had the overwhelming urge to wrap myself around him like the first time we’d met…
but why?
Because there were no past disappointments between us?