No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (18 page)

I couldn’t help it, but a sigh tumbled out. I didn’t want to see a head today, but I had to admit a feeling growing in the pit of my stomach that this wouldn’t end well. Cisco, Gertrude, the man in her pool, and a now bodiless-Howie were related in some way … a relation I planned to expose. But could I actually do it? Situations like this broke down to one of two things: skill or just dumb luck. I wasn’t sure I had either, but I did have the dumb part down.

12. WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA

A
PRIEST WOULDN’T TOUCH MY LATEST
dream with a ten-foot crucifix.

It was early Tuesday morning, and my nightmare was so horrifying, I needed a dose of Dylan to calm my nerves.

His bedroom sat at the west end of the house. As the rest of the house, it was timeless sophistication, but like its occupant, it held an air of modern masculinity. Every designer element from the pewter fixtures to the snowflake, gray paint reflected young, virulent male.

Once inside, your eyes shifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting a moonlit view of the lake. When the night sky was clear, you could lie on his bed and gaze at the stars. Sirius, located in the constellation of Canis Major, is the brightest star in the Milky Way. From Dylan’s room, you could almost reach out and touch it. Perhaps on some metaphorical level, I needed its brightness to shine on me.

Something that would provide answers…

Flush against the wall stood a gigantic platform bed adorned in a black satin comforter and sheets. A large flatscreen TV was mounted in front of it, and a desk fit for a king sat in the right corner. On the opposite wall existed a bathroom that had black granite countertops and a walk-in-shower with a faint smell of chlorine and shower gel. Over in the far corner, a black leather recliner occupied the space that appeared to be Zander’s bed for the evening. He snored rhythmically, curled on his side, one arm grazing the floor. The nook also included a mini-library, housing the books of a deep thinker.

Dylan journaled. Leather bound notebooks lined the shelves from as far back as grade school. No doubt, the subject matter grew deeper, but it wasn’t unlike him to pull one out and pore over it for hours. They weren’t under lock and key—which was carte blanche to a snoop—but I had no desire to invade his thoughts. I’d always figured there’d come a day when the time was right. I’d just never felt it knocking at my door.

I couldn’t make these things out clearly at 2AM—the only thing for certain was a snoring Zander. The reason? I’d lost my glasses. My nose had been on the trail for fifteen minutes, and I hadn’t unearthed anything but a letdown.

Stealthily puttering inside, I knelt down by his pillow. Dylan lay flat on his back with his hands propped behind his head, the black satin sheet spilling around his waist. This qualified as Shangri-La, and here I sat within groping range and should probably cop a feel for female-kind. Unfortunately, the angel on my shoulder “Eeeked” it was morally wrong. Plus, Grandpa Winston said,
If you look on a naked boy, you’ll be struck blind
. Well, that momentary blindness might be worth it because Dylan had a washboard stomach, and Darcy wanted to wash some clothes.

“D,” I giggled, lightly touching his abs, “just lie there, and enjoy yourself, baby. I’m going to do a little laundry.”

Dylan took one deep breath, rolled to his side, and tunneled the fingers of his left hand through my hair. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” he murmured softly.

Nope. Insomnia was a pain when Howie screamed for you to sew his head back on. Plus, Dylan had just busted up my moment of immoral domesticity … the bugger. “I can’t sleep,” I told him, “and was hoping I could sleep with you.”

Dylan lightly laughed, stretching over to check the time on his alarm clock, leaving his palm curled along the side of my face. “Darc, we can’t do that. My father will crucify me.”

“I can’t settle down,” I whined. “Can I just lie here on the floor?”

Dylan sat up and swung his legs around when I realized my hand now rested on his muscular thigh.
Down hand
, I told it.
Be a good hand and get on down
.

Wearing what I assumed were dark shorts or boxer briefs, my goody two-shoes angel went red-faced and jumped up and down for me to find my manners. Frankly, I’m not sure why it even mattered. I was one step from legally blind and barely had on much more than underwear myself. I sported a white cotton camisole with matching boy shorts. Feminine enough, but then again, I didn’t understand feminine anyway.

Before bedtime, Dylan had been pensive, deep in thought, like he tried to deflate something that had been expanding and brewing for a while. It wasn’t just Howie, either. My guess was Kyd lay at the root. Dylan had somewhat dialed-down his anger … the key word being “somewhat.” All I knew was when Kyd knocked on the door to check on me—Seriously, did he not know who I was?—Dylan was silhouetted in the hallway like a wild animal, lying in wait.

“I can’t let you sleep on the floor,” he murmured adamantly. “Take my bed, and I’ll sleep elsewhere.”

“Why can’t I sleep in here if Zander’s on the recliner?” I said, squinting toward the corner chair. “That
is
Zander, right?”

Heck, it could’ve been a life-sized figure of King Kong for all I knew.

Dylan glanced over to the nook, nodding with a slight laugh. “Sounds like him.”

“Please?” I begged. “I’ll even sleep by the door. It’ll be like a slumber party.”

Dylan scratched the back of his neck, debating the chances of discovery. “You’re breaking my heart. I hate it when you beg, Darc, but we can’t. I know it’s
odd
, but it just
is
.”

I hated “odd” right now, and I wanted to kick “is’s” can.

“
Pretty please
,” I pleaded again.

Dylan outstretched both arms, dragging me into an embrace. Cupping one hand around my head, he let the other hang leisurely at my hip. I tiptoed up, clasping both arms around his neck, and briefly shut my eyes into the curve under his chin. “I’m just so tired,” I mumbled, “and I need to feel close to you.”

That’ll do the trick
, I smiled to myself.
Just stroke, stroke, stroke that whopping ego
.

“I love you, too,” he whispered into my hair. I’m not sure how long we stood there. I could’ve stayed like that for a million years and never complained. It felt peaceful, perfect, and unusually pleasurable … especially when Dylan hummed a lullaby. Dylan could sing like an angel, but when he hummed, it unveiled a supernatural elixir. I yo-yoed in and out of consciousness realizing the last thing either of us wanted was to break contact. “What’s wrong with your room, sweetheart?” he finally voiced.

It was too far away from him, that’s what. I bunked on the opposite end of the hall with Sydney. She talked/fought/made-up all night on the telephone. I didn’t mind; but proximity-wise, it felt like a country away from the Big Man.

“Nothing. I prefer the couch, but Lincoln’s in the kitchen with paperwork sprawled out all over the floor.”

You’d think my curiosity would be killing me, but actually, it wasn’t. Whatever was going on in Lincoln’s world remained his business. Turkey Cardoza could kiss my Chergerbritishscotch keister, and unless he came to Orlando, I was done with him.

“Grandpa’s up?” Dylan shrieked. “If Dad won’t go for it, I can promise Lincoln will spit nails.”

I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it was paternal instinct on overdrive, or maybe it’s because he worked as LA vice. But the moment my arms clasped tighter around Dylan’s neck, he stiffened and gasped toward the door like a clairvoyant episode goosed him in the butt.

“Good morning, Grandpa,” he murmured.

I circled my hand in the air in a smiley-faced wave. I couldn’t see crap, but I didn’t need to. As Lincoln thundered forward, no doubt he appraised our lack of clothing and calculated exactly what had gone down between these four walls.

Nothing
, I sighed to myself.
Abso-freakin-lutely
nothing
.

“What’s going on, son?” he questioned at a rolling boil. He paced another few steps until his jaw hung parallel to Dylan’s.

Dylan exhaled a breath. “I was having a nice dream about a nice girl saying nice things, Grandpa. Obviously, it wasn’t Darcy.”

“It wasn’t?” I laughed.

“Not even close.”

“Darcy, you’re not supposed to be in here,” Lincoln bit out.

“I’m not?” He gave me a heck-no look. “I thought you were an equal opportunity grandpa,” I frowned. “Zander’s in the recliner, and now you’re saying Darcy Walker doesn’t have rights. Well, I’m the Susan B. Anthony of slumber parties, and I’m taking what
I’ve
been
denied
.”

I stomped the floor for emphasis.

“Darc,” Dylan whispered nervously. “Not the time.”

Glancing over to a still snoring Zander, Lincoln’s voice barked angrier, “You don’t have rights!”

I opted for the truth, giving him a flippant answer. “If you must know, I asked Dylan if I could sleep with him.” I laughed like a naughty truck driver, smacking Dylan’s rear end so hard, he fell forward. Both his hands mauled my chest, breaking his fall—OMG moment … neither of us knew what to do. “See,” I giggled, “he can’t keep his hands off of me.”

“Oh God,” Dylan muttered, gasping for breath. “You’ve just sealed my fate.” Running a hand through his hair, he scrubbed it down his jaw, stupefied.

Lincoln sounded homicidal. “Good grief, child, you can’t sleep with a boy!” Even exhausted, my mind worked it from every conceivable angle.

“We do in Cincinnati,” I shrugged.

Dylan snapped to attention, something frightening filling his voice. “Darcy Walker! We
do not
have that type of relationship!”

True, but I really didn’t know
what
we had, and the joke was too good to pass up. Dylan occasionally kissed my forehead, we hugged longer and deeper than most, I sat on his lap like a girlfriend, and the exact words that commitment-phobes choked on—
I love you
—we’d been saying since we were six. Sneaking into his bedroom and talking to him in the wee hours seemed as normal as anything else in our relationship.

Trouble was, our normal was abnormal to the rest of the world.

“My father warned me about boys like him, Lincoln,” I motor-mouthed on. “The love ’em and leave ’em kind. I just pray our unborn baby doesn’t make the same mistakes that I have.”

All at once, everyone (but me) started cursing.

Bad words.

Filthy words.

File that under
Uh-oh
.

Lincoln clutched Dylan ferociously by the wrist. “Is this true, son? Answer me, boy!” Dylan pointed at my face; his eyes demanding a retraction, but a flicker in his smile insinuated he might actually be enjoying the drama.

When my grin grew wider, he finally released a tired sigh. “No, Grandpa,” he murmured. “This is just Darcy
being Darcy
.” He turned to me in his party’s-over voice. “I’m tired, sweetheart. You know I love you, but I don’t want to do this at 2AM.”

“But we’re best friends,” I complained, sticking my lower lip out in a pout. “If I can’t sleep, then the Best Friend Rule says you’re not supposed to sleep, either.”

Dylan rubbed both eyes with his palms. “No one’s ever told me that.”
Poor Dylan
, I laughed to myself. He truly was the walking dead, and a few more minutes of my guilt trip would have him apologizing and tucking me into bed.

I sniffed, “Well, now you know, and it wasn’t like I saw your happies anyway.”

Happies was Darcyspeak for testicles. One deep grunt from Lincoln, and I opted against a definition. Dylan giggled, tweaked my nose, and rubbed his knuckles over my scalp like one of the boys. Yeah, true love … soak it all in.

Lincoln stretched both hands high and rapidly plunged them through his hair. I’m not sure if he was worrying or debating yanking it all out. He notoriously pulled all-nighters when consumed with a case then never looked tired during the daytime hours. Turkey Cardoza—
coupled with me
, I laughed to myself—had left him emotionally drained. “I need some coffee. Follow me, dear,” he paused, motioning over his shoulder. “You’re not sleeping in my grandson’s bed.”

Not what I wanted to hear. “Can I at least sleep on the floor?”

Lincoln stopped to mull over my request. These were the situations that grandparents struggled over. Number one, you’d raised your kids. You were tired, and it was easier to give in and let the grandchildren have their way. Number two, you’d also screwed up your kids. So you were operating under a lot of guilt and woulda, coulda, shouldas.

“No,” he muttered, deciding to take the conservative route. “If you can’t sleep, then come to the kitchen, and I’ll make us both a sandwich and a pot of coffee.”

Good. Coffee usually relaxed me. For most, that was a contradiction. Coffee was like mainlining steroids.

Lincoln’s fuzzy silhouette left the room, mumbling he didn’t understand teenagers today, let alone our relationship. When I went in for one last hug, he bellowed, “Hands off, you two! I don’t get it. I swear to God, I don’t get it.”

I obeyed, metaphorically kicking and screaming the entire way.