100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (14 page)

Bean acted like we were in this thing together. You wake up in the morning thinking you’re best friends with Mr. Do-the-Right-Thing (um, Dylan), and then you find out you’re running deals with ponkeys. I had to admit it was an exceptional idea.

When I did nothing but choke on my own spit, Bean pushed for an answer, “Yeah?”

I looked at Bean; he wasn’t going away. In fact, he acted like a stray dog that’d finally found a home.

“Fine,” I heard myself saying. “But this is only between you and me. One slip up, Bean, and you’re out.”

Bean excitedly nodded up and down, already giving advice. “Why don’t you give everyone your cell number and have them call if they find anything out?”

I reluctantly returned Bean’s nod. He had a point. I could look for these guys, or I could really be stupid and have them come looking for me.

8. Political Football

E
veryone that jotted down so
much as a pencil smear got my digits. I tacked on the request to feed information on anything they’d hear about Coach Wallace’s car too. My deal with Coach didn’t stipulate I had to fly solo, and even if it did, I wasn’t above bending the letter of the law. Against my better judgment, I confessed to Bean that a school contest was merely a front. I didn’t say the front was actually to out an identity thief; I allowed him to believe the front was simply to find out who’d wronged Coach. When he continued to act all Dr. Watson to my Sherlock Holmes, I commissioned him to interview two students Coach thought might have motives (Owen Lancaster and Wyatt Brown). I realized I’d have to sift through a lot of “Beanisms” to get to the truth, but my gut wasn’t leading me toward those two anyway.

Buses had been called to school early, and after a quick check-in at homerooms, we were released to the pick-up line or parking lot. Finn, Grumpy, and I took off toward the gym to meet up with Dylan, our ride home. Grumpy complained, or should I say
mumbled
, how Clementine Miriam Rabinowitz needed to date his Gentile body. Grumpy could have his finger lopped off, and he’d barely crack a wrinkle. But Clementine brought a whole herd of mumble I’d never experienced.

He ran a hand through the tangled mass on his head society called hair. “I want to date her, and get her a nice Christmas gift, or Hanukkah, or whatever,” he said to whomever would listen. “I don’t know what Jews do. What do Jews do, Walker?”

Finn and I never slowed our gait. Grumpy didn’t want a response, and the wallflower in me sure as heck didn’t know how to advise him. While he fretted over his private life, I worried about the promises I’d made. Like a gift from Heaven (or elsewhere), I got the bright idea to tap into the school’s database. Due to Bean’s suggestion (and the notes students scrawled on the backs of the photographs), I now had a “semi” idea of the days of Slapstick Wilson and Damon Whitehead. What I needed was their full schedules which would up my chances of bumping into them. Then I could stake them out. See how weird or unweird they seemed.

So whose computer to use? Since we were on our way to the gym, Coach’s computer seemed as good as any. But let’s face it, I wasn’t sure it’d work, or if I was smart enough to resurrect what should’ve been put down decades ago.

My iPhone belted out “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” and a glance at the number showed Murphy’s frowning mug. Whenever there’s an early dismissal, the school sends a robocall, informing parents their kids were being sent home, unattended. For most, that’s not a worry. For Murphy, it’s like finding out a fox was in the hen house.

“Hey, Murphy,” I greeted.

“Hop on your broom, kid, and hurry home.”

I took a second to laugh. “Finn, Grumpy, and I are meeting up with Dylan. Then we’re going to smoke pot, rob the liquor store, and make naked snow angels in the front yard. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Watch out for frostbite,” he grunted. “And hey, tell Finn I think your toaster has some sort of toaster virus. I could swear it said, ‘Mmmmmmm, girl, your butt looks good in those jeans’ when a waffle popped up.”

I repeated the message to Finn who gave me a devilish wink as Murphy unloaded a dial tone.

Finn invented a talking toaster as a gift for my sixteenth birthday. If a Pop-Tart was set on the lowest setting, it whistled out an, “Oooh, that feels good.” The hottest growled, “Oooh, baby. Gimme more of that burn.” Anything in between was so off-color it made me feel like I’d lost my virginity.

That got me to thinking. If you wanted to tap into school property, who better to assist than someone smart enough to do it with as little of a conscience as you?

While Grumpy scouted around for Dylan, Finn leisurely tagged alongside me, sawing logs even though his eyes were wide open. No kidding…I too felt school was a snoozefest. I blurted out, “I need to break into Coach’s computer.”

Finn was a little too street smart to try and manipulate. He knew something was up, and when I put my finger to my lips in a “Shhh” manner—mimicking a six foot two posture with bulging muscles (ahem, Dylan)—he grinned, mouthing in French, “Oui.”

We quickened our pace, juking around stragglers, taking a left at the water fountain and freshman lockers. The gym provided a quick cut-through to any side entrance, and it was occupied enough for us to slide by Coach Wallace undetected. He moved a portable wheeled cart around the floor, picking up basketballs and other items left haphazardly in the rush.

While Grumpy aimed for him, Finn and I stole inside Coach’s office, immediately getting down to business. He picked up the computer, looking on the back for a serial number as if he searched for gold. I dug down in my purse and pulled out a new stopwatch that I’d bought to replace the one I’d destroyed. I left it on Coach’s desk with a big note in red lipstick that said,
Love, Darcy
. I didn’t use paper, people.

Ask me if I cared.

When finished, I staged myself as lookout and explained what I needed.

This little work of sin meant nothing to Finn, and if it did, he was smart enough to know this wasn’t the time for questions, let alone explanations. He slid into the black leather chair, ravaging the school’s computer like a raccoon does trash. After a few keystrokes, lo and behold, a screen popped up that said Valley High School Registrar.

I heard Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in my mind.

Da-da-da, dum. Da-da-da dum…

Taking one last glance toward the gym, I watched Grumpy scratch the back of his neck and wonder how in the world the two of us fell off the grid. Dylan paced next to him with a deep frown, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

Immediately, I clicked mine off, attempting to do the same with Finn’s, but I found his wasn’t even charged. “Hurry,” I giggled to him. Finn typed a little too leisurely for me to feel comfortable. At the risk of feeling stupid, I decided to take his ease as a good thing and picked up the photo of Coach’s wife. It was turned upside down and backward, an angle different than yesterday. I strode over, dusted it on my leg, and then set it aright.

That made me think of the future…

…and the girl-next-door to Dylan.

I said to Finn, “Can I ask you a question?” Finn nodded, still looking at the screen. “Have you heard anything about a relationship with Dylan and Brynn Hathaway? I know they went out this past summer. Dylan told me. He even said it didn’t mean anything; but honestly, I’ve kind of found myself pulling away since our car accident. All I know is I bring trouble along with me, and I don’t want Dylan or
you
, for that matter, to be on the receiving end of the crap I conjure up. And look at Grumpy. He seems to be more traumatized than all of us. He’s a walking mood machine.”

Finn aborted the typing and narrowed his blue eyes into glaciers. He then opened his mouth and snapped it shut. With a headshake, he finally murmured, “No one wants to be strung along, but there are some things you need to understand about Dylan. Number one…”

“Walker!” This from the door.

I didn’t even have time to form a response. All I could do was turn around, hands up in surrender.

It was Grumpy…no Dylan present.

Thank God for the little things.

“What are you two doing?” he barked. “Taylor’s going bonkers probably turning over every car in the lot.”

“Merde,” I heard Finn say…no kidding.

Grumpy schlepped in and fell down in a black folding chair. He didn’t push for an explanation. His mind was elsewhere—wondering, my guess, if he needed to convert to Judaism.

But oh, I thought the coast was clear too soon. Seconds later, Coach Wallace followed, expecting to find nothing but an empty office, but instead found his own personal effects being raped and pillaged. He went beet-red, all his energy turned on me instead of Finn who could’ve cared less if a raging bull was headed straight for his gut. Coach gruffed, “I would be tempted to say this was the Nerd Squad, but that’d insinuate there were three brains in this room.”

I felt a laugh building but somehow managed to look offended. I strode forward, hoping to shield Finn’s indiscretions. “I have confidence issues already, Coach. My therapist wouldn’t like your phrasing.”

He bobbed his afro’d head from side to side, attempting to peer around me toward Finn. “What are you up to, Lively?”

Finn ignored him, typing in names, and hitting the print button.

“There’s nothing in here but us drifters,” I told him.

Coach shook his head slowly, his frown growing more conspicuous. “Drifters or grifters?” he muttered. “Because I’m sure your pretty little smile swindled these two upstanding players of mine to do something they know I wouldn’t approve of. And what exactly would that offense be?”

What we were doing was barely legal. All right, it wasn’t legal at all, but when you had a job to do, sometimes you had to rationalize the crap out of your assignment. I opted for a version of the truth, telling him I had a brainstorm regarding who painted his car (um, no), and how I planned to catch them, not mentioning Finn dug through school records on possible identity thieves. I then went for broke, being overly dramatic about how I needed money, or I’d be forced into a life of walking dogs and picking up their poop.

I actually sniveled.

Luckily, Coach didn’t care because he pulled his buzzing cell phone out of his hoodie pocket, glanced at the number with a smile, and exited the room.

“Facebook girl?” I yelled to his backside.

He ignored me with a snap of his hand…holy crap on a cracker. Was the Milky Way about to collapse?

Grumpy leaned back in his seat, his eyes brimming with laughter. “Did I hear this correctly? You’re trying to figure out who painted Coach’s car? You couldn’t catch a fly if your big mouth was a Venus fly trap,” he chuckled.

Grumpy had a deep scar in his right eyebrow where he’d head-butted Finn in one of those guy moments where they tried to act cooler than they actually were. His eyebrow came out the loser. It was puffy with a dozen imperfect dots, appearing to have been stitched together by the guy who finished last in medical school. I got so angered at the insult I hauled off and smacked him twice in the scar.

“Use your words, Walker!” he bellowed.

I didn’t have time to use anything because the guy that I beat up yesterday (well, slapped around because he accosted the other girl) jumped me from behind, pulling me out the door by my hair. One moment I was sideways on the tile, the next I lay on my back and was so shocked-out I feared I’d have a stroke. Once through the door, I somehow made it to a standing position but not before he grabbed me by the hair and shoved me face-first up against the gym wall, banging my forehead so hard my teeth crunched and rattled.

“I’m going to kill you!” he barked.

Here’s the thing. This guy was shorter than me. And maybe even weighed less. Problem was, when a guy was mad, testosterone always overpowered estrogen. It was an oversight the powers-that-be should’ve thought through during creation.

With every ounce of fiber in my being, I elbowed him in the gut, then turned, and…spit on him. Yeah, that felt good.

“You…
blankety-blanking, blank-blank-blank
,” he cursed. I’d heard a lot of cursing in my life, but this guy took the cake, and I’m pretty sure Heaven just struck his name from the “maybe” list.

In what had only been a few seconds, Grumpy tore through the door like a bat running out of Hell, aiming for the guy I referred to as Jerk-wad. True to a real brother’s personality—you know, I can talk about her, but you can’t—Grumpy went ape poopoo and dove into the fight.

He pounded him once.

Twice.

And would’ve gone for a dozen more, if time permitted.

After a few headshakes, I realized Grumpy wasn’t in control of this fight. As much as he’d been dishing out, this other guy was meeting and sometimes exceeding. That was odd because Grumpy packed a mean punch. Made me think Jerk-wad was fueled by something other than anger and food. I dove back in the middle, not having any kind of form or end-game in mind other than for Jerk-wad to shut the freak up.

My bra strap ripped, my tights got a hole in the knee, and God Bless Native Americans, but the ponkey tore the shirt of my people. The lace of my black bra peeked through the tear, right there for everyone to see it was padded!! Ugh, the nerve! My instincts said to bite him, but I read somewhere cannibals could get some sort of brain disease. Instead, I chose the happies. Murphy said a swift shot to the groin would down any man. Unfortunately, that message didn’t make it to the execution part of my brain. So I just swung. I swung for the moon but got nothing but freaking air and Jerk-wad’s butt in my face.

FYI, I stunk at fighting. It was almost embarrassing.

Grumpy’s eyes had gone wide, and he had both thumbs trained on Jerk-wad’s eye sockets. Oh crap. Oh, crap, oh crap, oh crap. I heard Dylan’s running gait thunder across the floor. Dylan had this presence, like energy flowed off of him. Sometimes it was good; sometimes it was so bad only a moron wouldn’t be scared. I peered through my hair that had flipped over my face and crawled out of the pile. My scalp hurt. Scratches marred both arms and legs. And I felt cold air on one of my boobs. All I could hope for was that Jerk-wad didn’t carry rabies. When Dylan got closer, his face paled and his gaze went wide, giving my body a once-over like I was one step from a medevac. He went breathless, his chest not even heaving, eyes blinking from stark, cold fear to undeniable fury. I’d found when Dylan was really angry and wrestling with adrenaline, he was almost statue-like. As if his body conserved energy for one burst of power that’d be cataclysmic.

Dylan literally picked Grumpy and Jerk-wad up by the scruff, but right then Jerk-wad squared his stance, shoved his hand in his back pocket…and pulled out a knife. Popping the six-inch blade to an up position, he brought the crazy and took a swipe at Dylan’s gut. Dylan jumped back with a curse.