100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (16 page)

Yahtzee, I’d take it.

I clocked in with Tito next. Trouble was, Tito wasn’t there, so I made nice with his answering machine and told him I’d mailed something über important and to keep on the lookout. Worried he’d find out I was Darcy Walker, I’d used Claudia’s cell phone. Claudia only answered if she recognized the number. I was as safe as safe could be.

Padding over to the corner window, I pulled the curtain aside and peered through the blinds. It was a stormy, tempestuous night. But even though the wind whipped and whistled violently, nothing became of the early morning weather alert. We were sent home due to someone’s panic attack. One inch had fallen, and the subsequent gusts blew it all away.

Rookie and I left Murphy and Marjorie eating fried chicken, and where I figured we’d go to the nearest Gold Star Chili—only a few miles away—Rookie drove downtown to the one closest to his office…where Red supposedly burned the midnight oil. I wasn’t a fool; his frustration had evaporated if not totally disappeared. I mean, he even blasted Christmas music in the car. I got it…that was love, I guess. But I’d experienced too much disappointment for one lifetime to think love always saved the day. An unrequited love—or love that sucked you dry—wasn’t something I was interested in.

And Dylan, I think, would suck the marrow from my bones.

Rookie pulled up to the side of the road, maneuvering his silver Mercedes SUV to a stop. A vertical line marked the space between his eyes that had Red’s name all over it. Rookie massaged the area, mumbling how Tabitha would give him a heart attack one day soon.

I wasn’t a patient person, people, especially when I had an empty stomach. Once the hotdogs were in front of us, I destroyed my first cheese coney slathered in sauce, onions, and mustard in barely one bite. Rookie’s was in two.

Rookie always had that boy-next-door thing going on. Thing of it was, his brown bedroom eyes milked it for all it was worth. Rookie was sharp, calculating, and as ruthless as a Wall Street broker…and pretty much anatomically perfect. He sported a dark gray suit and gold tie, and when you stood six foot four with big shoulders and narrow hips, you were a commercial for
Please Be My Baby’s Daddy
. So why was my aunt so stupid? The cute brunette manager sure as heck wasn’t.

She wanted to bathe in his saliva.

Early thirties, she was painted into a Gold Star orange long-sleeved shirt, wearing tight jeans and a Santa Claus hat. Her nails painted a candy apple red.

A television was mounted in the corner of the room. Rookie apparently didn’t like the news station because he pushed out of our red vinyl booth, asking if the channel could be changed, pacing like a caged critter.

“Of course,” the manger obliged with a toothy smile. She strolled over to our booth, squatting at my side, pointing to Rookie who had the TV control in his hand. “Red or Tabitha?” she whispered jokingly. Apparently, it was no secret Rookie only uttered Tabitha when he was angry.

“Tabitha,” I whispered back. “They had a fight, and it was a whopper.”

She frowned. “They eat in here all the time, but he always makes an effort during Hanukkah. You must be her niece. I must say, you’re practically identical.”

Similar, but not
identical
. Everyone said I inherited my aunt’s looks. People at the grocery, next-door neighbors paused to stare; even her housekeeper was struck dumb by the similarities. We had the same dimpled chin, truck driver laugh, and legs up to your armpits. Hers fit together nicely with a body that went va-va-va-voom. My body was a car crash of limbs that belonged on an inbred cave woman.

My cell phone pinged with a text when the manager excused herself. I pulled it out and choked on my tongue.

Hello, angel. Did you think I wouldn’t find you?

It was signed with a smiley face emoticon, followed by the name Ben. Oh, jeez…I felt like I ran into a concrete wall. That was Silver-Eyed Boy’s first name: Ben…Ben Ryan. Ben. Ben. Ben. The epiphany hit me as soon as I saw the letters linked together. Should I ignore it? Delete? Claim he had the wrong number? Ask him how in the heck he got my number in the first place? I decided to return a frown face and be done with it, but my body had some sort of weird systemic reaction. It felt like I’d been struck by a car all over again. My arms and legs went rigid, like a tree about to snap in the wind. Only one other person ever incapacitated me like that, and today he pulled me off the top of the building and practically spanked my behind (here’s to wishing).

Rookie finally sauntered back, collapsing in the seat and loosening his tie as I received another text. This time from none other than Kyd Knoblecker, a friend who lived in Serendipity Country Club in Orlando where Dylan’s family had a summer home. My finger’s cramped up. Kyd thought I was the girlfriend kismet ordained he should have. But Kyd was model-handsome and a fastard. It was wisest to stay away from guys better looking than you and notorious cheats. I had enough hang-ups; worrying a boyfriend might trade-up wasn’t one I wanted to add to the mix.

No freaking thank you.

Miss u,
the text said.

I sent five gun emojis in a row and avoided conversation. Surely to God he got the message. Rookie opened his jacket and removed his cell phone from the side pocket, checking to see if anyone had called him. After he scrolled through a few emails, he turned it off with a grunt.

I downed my drink, knowing the clock ticked away. “Rookie, I think there are a group of people at our school stealing peoples’ identities. You know, check cards, social security cards,” I explained.

I immediately shoved three fries in my mouth, acting as if I merely made conversation. Rookie squirted a stream of ketchup on the side of my white oval plate, helping himself to a pile of fries. He gave me a despondent and bewildered head shake. “Sad, isn’t it? The world’s just sad.”

Oh, boy, major case of melancholy.

I mumbled, “I know.” Rookie stuffed three more fries in his cheeks and held up two fingers to the waitress, motioning for two more dogs, fully-loaded. I grabbed my second hotdog, rethinking my attack. As plans went, this trip seemed pretty rudimentary. Get in the car with your uncle, have dinner with your uncle, ask your uncle questions, and voilà you have answers.

His grief had piped down the plan.

My phone belted out Grandma’s woes. At least he laughed a little. Thing was, I didn’t even look at the number. Just muttered into the receiver, “This day sucks.”

“Where are you?” the caller demanded.

“Dylan?”

You know, if you could predict when an earthquake was going to happen, I’m pretty sure I might’ve felt a premature tremor.

This wasn’t Dylan. The voice breathed, “Jagger Cane, beautiful.” Well, shoooot. A phone call from Jagger brought a whole new level of sucking.

“I’m at Gold Star, Jagger,” I munched, “chowing on a hotdog. I’m on the road to self-actualization.”

“You’re on the road to heartburn,” he chuckled. No, I was on the road to serenity and full-bodied awareness. Put a hotdog in my mouth, and I was standing nude in the middle of Utopia with no secrets to hide. Okay, probably an overstatement.

“Do you speak Utopian?” I asked, slurping down a drink.

“Absolutely. Does the person you’re
with
know Utopian?” he asked suspiciously. No, I was pretty sure Rookie stood in Hanukkah Hell at the moment. I didn’t know what their particular language was, but I was positive it included profanity and rotting promises to Yahweh.

“What do you need?” I asked.

“Listen, I heard about what happened after school today and wanted to check in. I hear Bradshaw and Taylor roughed him up, but stay away from Nico Drake, babe. I heard he got expelled permanently, complements of Dylan’s father, but I also hear he’s not through with you.”

GRRREEAAAATTT.

Even stranger, who would’ve thunk Jagger would care?

Regarding Colton Taylor, the fact his words held weight didn’t surprise me. Dylan’s father was a big wig at Go Glam! Cosmetics and a huge benefactor at VHS. His word—or
wallet
I should say—was gold.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I muttered.

Rookie took a long swig on his drink, raising a brow, holding his hand up for the check and saying rather rudely to me, “Who is that?” His bad-boy detector was definitely spot-on because he sure as heck hit the nail on the head with Jagger.

I placed my hand over the phone, “Boy from school,” I told him. He lowered his eyes and my stomach flip-flopped.

“That’s your third contact with whom I assume were males in the past ten minutes, Darcy. Do you answer every text, and would I approve of them?”

I found it odd it was raining men, and my sheepish smile pretty much summed things up. Teenagers answered every text they got. Even from people they didn’t like. Made you feel indispensable, I guess.

He motioned for me to disconnect. I told Jagger, “Hey, thanks again, but I gotta run. See ya tomorrow.”

I shut down the convo before Jagger could protest. Funny who you’d run into in Hell, wasn’t it.

Rookie took a phone call from Shoshanna Goldstein as we piled into his Mercedes. Shoshanna was Jewish, about a decade younger, and if Charlotte Veronica Harper-Stark ruffled Red’s feathers, Shoshanna gutted her like the English gutted William Wallace. She was dark and tiny and such a mild-mannered lady she made Red look like a prison inmate with anger management issues. Throughout the conversation, Rookie’s demeanor changed. He relaxed and melted into his seat, like a healing balm washed over his weary body. Four divorces would insinuate that Red shouldn’t care—but she did. And if she was in the dark with this turn of events, then it was my duty to tell her to wake the H up.

Rookie wouldn’t wait forever, and frankly it seemed unfair to ask him to.

Rookie’s plan had been to pop in the office and get a file—where Red was—but that’s before Shoshanna called. From what I could tell, they made some sort of Hanukkahish plans, so he walked me to the door, said I could have a short visit, and went off to reconsecrate himself or do whatever you did to get back in Yahweh’s good graces.

“Hello, Ebenezer,” I giggled, striding inside.

“Bah, humbug to you too,” she chuckled. “Rookie was eating all-meat hotdogs? He’s such a bad Jew.” Red was shoeless, wearing a black pantsuit tailor-made to fit her tiny waist. She stood five foot ten, one hundred and twenty-six pounds. Red didn’t walk; she percolated. But she was a redhead, people, percolating was mandatory. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail with an expensive-looking ivory barrette. Her skin was creamy, and the shade emphasized the small beauty mark on the right side of her dimpled chin. Her current hair color was blonde like mine, not the rich auburn hue Rookie loved.

Sitting behind a dark oak-stained desk in a black leather chair, her emerald-green eyes were intently focused. Christmas carols blasted high, the television set mounted to her wall turned low. She’d been watching the weather report. A warm front supposedly moved in—probably the reason for the lightning show that sent us home. As the meteorologist said temperatures were expected to rise, Red drummed her fingers on the desk. I looked down at her hand. She wore an ice skating rink on her finger, an early Christmas gift from her Hanukkah-observing “ex” (I think) husband. Go figure. Murphy said Rookie gave it to her this weekend, wrapped in nativity-themed paper, complete with a smiling Baby Jesus in a manger.

“Nice rock,” I grinned.

She frowned while she gazed at the stone. “Rookie can kiss my ass.”
He probably wants to
, I almost said.

Red’s favorite word was a-s-s, the donkey word. She said it was in the Bible; therefore, it was okay to say. Made sense, I guess. Still, most parents went bat-poop crazy when you picked up the slang yourself. Made them feel like they’d done a royally bad job at the parenting game.

She smiled, “Kisses,” pointing to the mistletoe hanging above her head.

I walked across the navy carpet, leaned across her laptop, and pecked her lips. Then I collapsed in one of the two black leather chairs in front of her desk. I gave her desk a once-over. It had your usual telephone, laptop, notepads, and pens and pencils. On the credenza behind her was a little red mitten, a snow globe with a mermaid inside, and a picture of her and my mother when they were seventeen on their way to college. On one wall hung undergraduate and law school certificates; on the other was a corkboard adjacent to a standing dry-erase easel.

“Murphy phoned. Are you all right?” she frowned.

Ah, I assumed she referred to whom I now knew as Nico Drake. “Yeah,” I shrugged. “The worst thing that happened was he destroyed my Miracle Bra.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “Next time someone destroys your Miracle Bra in a fit of passion make sure you have a ring on your finger, baby.”

And that was the extent of my good girl lecture for the night. “Please tell me you didn’t tell Rookie,” she grimaced.

“I thought better of it,” I answered.

She nodded, relieved. “Listen, baby. I respect why you found yourself in this situation, but if you’re going to continue to fight the good fight and go all guardian angel on the masses, then make sure you’re in the company of your best friend.”