100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (40 page)

“My mother and I are vegan,” he murmured after he insisted on paying for my meal.

“Oh yeah,” I munched. “Did you want to be vegan?”

He gave a small shrug. “I think I just wanted to do the opposite of my father at the time.”

“Rebellious phase?”

“An
always
phase. My father wants what my father wants, and he drags you along with him.”

So here’s Ben’s story. His father’s in the Air Force and recently took a new post at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton. Ben was sixteen and born in Great Britain (ergo, the British accent). His parents had been looking at houses in Mack County and were spending a few weeks at the Marriott Hotel in Union Center, about twenty minutes away from my home. Convenient.

And even more convenient when Ben admitted he currently used the resources at his father’s disposal to do a little detective work on his own—mainly, Jojo’s name and workplace and how he’d figured out my real cell phone number.

I licked mayo off my lower lip. Ben leaned over with a grin and placed a napkin in my hand. “The two of you aren’t close?” I munched.

Ben sort of frowned. “We’re extremely close. Just sometimes I remember what it’s like to leave your best friends behind. On those days, I don’t particularly like my father.” 

The ride was silent for a few beats. Ben came complete with deep emotions. I liked that in a guy, and I realized how surprisingly easy it was to have a conversation with him. He was a feeler, when most guys his age only felt with one body part. “Sorry,” I apologized. “Do you need a hug?”

Ben didn’t get a chance to say yay or nay. I crawled over the console, arms outstretched, and knocked my Coke from its holder. The low quality plastic of the Big Moby’s lid collapsed, and it geysered up and hit Ben in the lap.

He jumped like he’d collided with an electric fence. “Whoa!” he half screamed, half laughed.

Word of advice? Save a hug in the future.

I was mortified.

Ben ripped his shirt up out of his khakis, and I handed him one of my low quality Big Moby napkins to wipe off with. That sucker disintegrated as soon as it hit the liquid. While he dabbed at his stomach, I gazed at his abs and counted six reasons why I should jump out of a moving car.

Ben saw where my eyes had fixated and subsequently dropped his silver gaze to my mouth. “We can save that for later, angel.”

My face blushed; I felt the burn. For five point five seconds, I considered murder…something slow and heavy on pain. Ripping a chunk out of my Moby burger instead, I moved on to the greasy fries and ignored his dirty, dirty mind.

Ben leaned across the console and stroked the bill of my Burberry cap. I immediately wondered what Dylan was doing and what he’d think of Ben, me, and Ben’s abs. “I was only joking,” he said softly. When I slid over a frown, Ben gently snagged my hand, lifting my fingers to his eyes. “God, you’re cute. And the fact that you bite your nails might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Please. Tell. Me.

He. Did. Not.

Just.

Say. That.

I wanted to punch him, yanking my hand away. “Darcy,” he chuckled, “that’s just rude. I wanted to hold your hand.”

Ben’s spiritual gift was sarcasm…

“Who’s calling
who
rude? I didn’t even start it!” I yelled indignantly.

His cocky grin quirked up at one corner. “That’s
whom
,” he chuckled, “but I’m willing to overlook your lack of grammar skills if I get a kiss.”

Is that right?! Well, a goodnight kiss was sadly not in the playbook.

Ben set my teeth on edge, and that wasn’t exactly a guy I’d choose to lock lips with. I stuffed the Moby wrappers in the takeout bag and angrily collapsed it with a big pop. “Our relationship is like a verbal car crash. Why in the world do you provoke me?”

He briskly shook his head, as though he fought through shock. “I’m not actually sure, but you’re already in my blood. Listen, Darcy. I always come on too strong—even with a joke—and I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I like you. I like you more than I want to. God,” he swore, briefly wincing, “that didn’t come out right either. I’ve never been so nervous around the opposite sex in my entire life.”

Right hand to God, I was elated when he pulled into Kroger. Leaving the car idling by the door, with little grace and a whole lot of stupid, I fell out of the car and walked crooked—like the ground crumbled beneath me. Maybe Hell needed a new citizen. Finally, I found my pride and jogged straight to the cough medicine aisle as Murphy called, figuring I’d need hand holding on the assignment. Deciding to pick up a multi-symptom syrup, I headed for the self-checkout aisle.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“I’m still a virgin, and I turned down the crack he offered, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good God, kid. Watch your mouth.” A pause. “Your friend Chichi phoned.”

Another pause. Oh, boy, Chichi must’ve had a bad read on the Ouija. To paraphrase, I must still be dead-before-her-time. Picking up a cheese cube from a sample tray by the meat section, I plopped it in my mouth. “Yeah?” I sort of giggled.

Murphy grumbled, “Yeah, she wanted you to know she had another vision about you and someone with a limp…she said you’d understand.”

This was normal Chichi behavior. Sometimes she modified her visions, but as far as I knew, the modifications were usually spot-on. First thing to pop in my mind was when I perched myself on top of the school building, scoping out the parking lot for clues. Other than multiple frostbitten appendages, what I took away from that excursion was a gimpy guy in a white van. Speaking personally with him a second time, I realized he might possess more of a creep factor than normal. Could mean everything or could leave me with a big, heaping helping of sorry-about-your-luck.

I now knew him to be Eric Young, though, and I had his digits.

Murphy requested I snag a gallon of milk and frozen waffles. As I made my way to the middle of the store, no sooner had we hung up than someone brushed by me, knocking me in the hip with the brown plastic basket they carried. This guy should’ve gotten a cart because his basket was piled high with oranges, frozen vegetables, a six pack of beer, and bread on the bottom. When the majority tumbled to the ground, I quickly bent to pick them up, but he waved me off content to let them lie.

Thing was, the guy limped away…
yes, by God, I said limped
.

Dressed in khaki pants, leather boots, and a faded Sherpa jacket, he looked like any other Cincinnati male in the winter…just trying to keep warm. When he waved me away, I saw a tuft of dark blond hair stuffed under a gray toboggan.

Not knowing if this was destiny or something darker, I attempted to yell, but all that did was birth a coughing fit which made the woman nearby scramble for cover. Bending over the blood pressure machine, I realized I was in a quandary. I could calmly sit down and cuff myself in (probably the smartest choice), or I could rip the tab off the cough medicine, do the chug-a-lug, and run like the wind.

Reminding myself I was a verb, I tore the tab with my teeth, twisted the child-proof plastic free, and slurped four burning gulps down.

After three steps, I coughed like a car with a bad muffler. Covering my mouth with an elbow, I carried the cough syrup in my hand, hacking my way toward a young girl—early twenties in a Kroger outfit—stocking a circular display with fruitcakes.

I asked,
“Did you see where the guy with the limp went?”

The stock girl gave me her I-hate-fruitcake face. Deciding to jog straight ahead, I turned left at the International Foods aisle and spotted him. Sweet Baby Jesus, I saw the mysterious man with a limp. Hobbling at the end of the aisle, he headed for the freezer case holding frozen fish.

Stalking like a ninja with a sharp sword, I tried to be soundless—at the same time fighting the cough tickling my throat. While he talked on his phone, I hit up a sample station, advertising the guacamole of the day. Picking up a triangular blue corn chip, I glopped on guacamole, slam-dunking it in my mouth.

While he grabbed fish sticks from the bottom shelf, he barked, “It’s your own fault, you fool. What do you expect
me
to do about it?”

I glanced at my watch, discovering I’d been in the store for almost twenty minutes. That was twenty minutes leaving Ben to sit idly…which if I was a guessing woman was not one of his strong suits.

When the limper muttered, “I’ll be home in a few,” I pumped my legs to a run and immediately regretted the decision. I seal-slipped on spilled prunes and hydroplaned about six feet on my belly. I hadn’t really thought of my final demise, but I
did
know I didn’t want it to be death-by-prunes. When I eventually righted myself, my situation didn’t look much better. Goo was all over the bottom of my shoes, and I more or less swam in an oil slick.

Wouldn’t you know it? I went down on all fours.

The noise must’ve been immense because the man startled like he’d seen a phantom, locked gazes with me, clicked off his phone, and hightailed it to the front for checkout. I yelled for him to stop, growling, “Ouija Board wacko,” knowing that was probably un-PC in the Wiccan world. “Are you Brantley McCoy? How about Eric Young?”

Totally OTT, but in the crime business, sometimes you had to multitask.

“Angel!” I heard an angry voice roar. Blech. The British accent.

I ignored him. And I ignored him more when I realized he called me ‘angel,’ even when he was angry. Weaving in and out of the glass, I crawled on all fours, ignoring the dirt and grime, trying to make it to the door. Somehow finding vertical, I juked my way in-and-out of the crowd. The more I ran, the faster he limped. This was where gym class should make me outmaneuver him, but unfortunately we’d rotated to a health segment, and I’d apparently gotten out of shape. A stitch developed in my side, and right when my peripheral vision caught a flopping white string, my other foot chose to trip over it.

My sense of humor was officially compromised…I looked stupid.

My chin bounced on the floor, and orthopedic shoes were at my head, some grandma’s pink girdle blinding me at a ninety-degree angle. After five seconds of dumbstruck awe, Ben grabbed me by the scruff, picking me up with one hand. He threw me over his shoulder, his hands locked at my thighs in a fireman’s hold. A fireman’s hold, for Pete’s sake. My butt was in the air, and if that wasn’t degrading enough, one of his hands slid up to securely fasten overtop my behind. Oh, no.
No, no, no
. I was
not
his woman, and by goodness, I would
not
withstand cavemanish behavior from one more male in my life.

I struggled to move, screaming, “Let me down, Ben! Let me down!”

Ben, however, was like wrestling a rhino. His voice came out rough, angry, and maybe a little amused. “Angel,” he murmured, “I’m disappointed in you. Next time invite
me
.”

I’d yanked on two pairs of socks, long white underwear, and a black long-sleeved t-shirt with the words, “And Then Satan Said, Put the Alphabet in Math.” Still shivering, I’d added texting gloves. Begging Murphy to crank up the heat, all I received was a lecture about rising fuel prices and a suck-it-up face. While I waited for sleep to claim me, I got preoccupied counting Marjorie’s coughs. Seven minutes apart, they sounded like a sputtering steamboat when she’d been given the maximum dosage.

The good times just kept a comin’. 

My date with Ben didn’t end with a goodnight kiss. Instead, I got a…you guessed it…a lecture. Ugh, I attracted one type of guy. It might have been the worst mistake of my life, but I looked him right smack in those silver eyes and upchucked what I’d been doing. Coach’s car (he knew this), The Ghost (he knew über little), raiding the Calypso Cove home (not a freaking clue), and discovering a skeleton while tripping over Nico Drake (he gave no reaction whatsoever…only stared). Shockingly, he found it intriguing. So if my goal was to push him away, I think I drew him closer.

I painted my toenails in OPI’s Suzi Skis in the Pyrenees and watched a rerun of
Vampire Diaries
. Amidst the coughing and snoring, sleep played at my brain…but I needed to talk to Dylan. I missed his nightly SKYPE; he missed mine, and I felt the need to cement us back together. The thing with me, the sleepier I was, the more honest my answers became. Call me a hypocrite, but I wanted to know the deep dark secrets of his soul—I didn’t necessarily want him to know mine.

Totally breaking the hard-to-get girl code, I punched in his speed dial. After four rings, he answered in a raspy voice, “Sweetheart, what time is it?”

Dylan had a sexy sleepy-voice, the kind that made you need birth control. I fanned my face. “It’s thirty minutes past the time I’m supposed to turn into a pumpkin.”

Dylan went with it, halfway giggling, “Sorry, Darc, I fell asleep. Are you okay?”

Not by a long shot. It was technically Monday morning, and I still hadn’t garnered enough courage to ask him about his weekend-slash-probable date with Brynn-baby. Sunday dinner was a big deal to the Taylors. Even if it was business related, the fact she’d been on the invite-list was enough to make my blood boil.

Curling to my side, I blurted out, “Are we okay?”