100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (28 page)

Tito inhaled deep. Forced an exhale. “My source informed me that a black and white was called to Calypso Cove when a UPS driver dropped off a box. The door was wide open, along with a bloody mess and the skeletal remains in the closet. From what we can tell, the remains in the closet are the real owner, Bishop Fowler. He wore a watch monogrammed with his initials, a neighbor identified as his. Apparently, he was single and a hermit because it wasn’t abnormal for him to not be regularly seen. It bothers me, Jester, that you have extensive knowledge of the crime scene. A scene where you were concerned that there might be two more dead bodies. Don’t put me in a situation where I have to give you up to the authorities, and murder is one I won’t cover up.”

“I already swore to you I didn’t kill anyone, Tito. I’m guilty of leaving the scene of a crime. That’s it.”

Tito wouldn’t give me anything more when I’d given him everything except the name of Brantley McCoy. And why hadn’t I? I’m not exactly sure. That would help unmuddy the waters to a degree because the question would then be,
Why would a teenager be living with a hermit, with a different last name, who more than likely wasn’t his parent?
“So are we going to play or not, Tito? I feel like I’m in a one-handed game of poker.”

“Just who
are
you that you can piece all of this together?” he asked.

Someone that reads the paper, someone that watches television with mature subject matter, someone with an overactive imagination, and someone whose father…was standing in the doorway growling like a freaking bear.

“
Shiiiit
,” I actually cursed. I dropped the phone and prayed it disconnected.

Hoover was dead…

This morning he floated belly-side up, staring wide-eyed at the Pearly Gates. It felt like I took a double-barrel to the chest. When would it end? My mind needed a recess, if only for five minutes, but Dylan showed up bright and early, all crazy-eyed like he wanted to eat me alive.

Believe me, my mood nuked his hormones in a mushroom cloud.

And that wasn’t the only thing that started this day wrong.

Nico Drake, bless his rat fastard heart, was found dead in his driveway this morning. Knife attack. To the chest. Blunt force trauma. To the head. Assailant still at large. Sweet Lord in Heaven, someone had moved the boy’s body from Calypso Cove because by God he wasn’t in the talking mood yesterday! The morning DJ on 700 WLW had all the grisly, gory details. Dylan actually pulled his car over just so we could stare into space and process. Then we both looked at one another and rehashed our yesterdays in case the cops came knocking. Dylan was with his father all day except for when he was with me. I was at The Double-B and burning rubber all over Valley with Vinnie. Vinnie would take our secrets to the grave. Our only hope of not seeing handcuffs was that no one saw us at Calypso Cove.

My sanity was currently frayed around the edges. I was in deep, so deep Nico might’ve wanted to warn me or kill me. I could either buckle under the pressure or go with the lie of it being an A-OK day. I chose to put my head in the sand—and lie until the cows came home.

I’d just crawled out of career development. One of those gimme classes students like me took who weren’t busting their chops in college-prep classes.
Stupid overachievers
, I grumbled. Anyway, in the middle of class, I received a Snapchat of Vinnie’s foot…what the H? I took that as opportunity to update him about Nico to which Vinnie responded,
No shiz
. I pecked back,
Yes, shiz
. I also informed him Herb Ferrari was more than likely not a murderer, and Brantley McCoy probably killed Bishop Fowler, the man rolled up in the navy quilt. Cause of death (or COD) was said to be gunshot and knife wounds, and according to the news, the coroner merely waited for positive DNA identification. So unless the skeleton came back as a zombie, more than likely we were good.

Vinnie’s response? A one-worded,
Cool
.

I needed a hit of what he’d been smoking.

The hallway seemed extra congested, and unfortunately I needed to motor to the front of the building fast. I decided to cut through the gym. Its second floor ran parallel with the hallway, so you literally could go in one door and right out the other in a shortcut. Big mistake. Coach Wallace was headed for his office, and although I normally welcomed his conversations, today was a huge reminder I had bupkis.

“How’s life treating you, Walker?” he asked.

He’d dressed in head-to-toe Under Armour: a black hoodie, athletic shorts, and black sneakers. Me, I sported the goth gear: a black polyester tracksuit, black Nike Cortez sneakers, texting gloves, a t-shirt that said “Meh” in the center with a black and gray striped toboggan on my head. It had a twelve-inch tip and a pompom on the end I’d used to clean my glasses.

I fake-smiled. “Just cozy.”

He frowned, “No, you’re not. You hear about Drake?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

Both of us let that part of the conversation die a natural death—which happened to be about twenty something seconds. He then muttered, “God help us,” to which I muttered back, “I’ve already asked Him.”

“So how’s the investigation going?” he asked, breaking another ten second pause.

Personally, I’d pretty much term it a bust; professionally, I decided to answer, “I’ve got some leads.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire
, the angel gasped in my ear.

He chuckled, “Time’s running out, dollface.”

No kidding, but I didn’t see it as a laughing matter. I muttered, “It’s only Monday morning, and in fact I’ll be asking for a bonus if I have the culprits delivered in cuffs before Break begins.”

He laughed so loud the rafters shifted. “You’re unbelievable.”

She’s genius
, the devil countered in the other ear. “I will deliver as promised.”

“I swear, Walker,” he chuckled, “if you weren’t so sweet, I’d be tempted to say you had no conscience.”

That was certainly one way to term supernatural disillusionment. I sincerely prayed for Divine Intervention, namely some juicy information, and what did I get? Nico Drake dead and two more years of psychotherapy if I cared to pay for it.

We did some sort of awkward teacher-student side hug thing while I jumped into oncoming traffic. Walking the halls was usually so mundane I normally didn’t think about it. Today I couldn’t help but ponder two points. Actually three. Number one, did any of the students know The Ghost and/or Brantley McCoy; and number two, did any of them knife the life away of Nico Drake? My guess was number one had endless possibilities; number two was your normal crap that happened to Darcy Walker. I attracted death—it was bizarre. The third point—the current bane of my existence—how would I occupy myself during science next period? Mr. Himmel hadn’t changed or softened his opinion toward me. All he’d allowed me to do was walk into class, copy the assignment, and then find whatever little corner of the school I could to complete it.

My refuge today would be the Media Center, but my plan was to cry, write down the songs I’d put on Dylan’s iPod playlist (if I ever got the cash to buy one), and imagine him naked underneath my tree Christmas morning (a girl’s gotta have a dream).

Suddenly, my stomach was in my mouth, and dread crawled over me like another death. Brynn Hathaway was leaned against the door of my locker…
like it was hers
.

Freakin’ A.

Even though every inch of my body trembled, I cranked up the wattage on my smile. “Hello,” I greeted. Right then, the smell of voodoo cream bombarded me like the Japanese took Pearl Harbor. I practically OD’d on it this morning, wanting to look as good as Brynn Hathaway’s…um, hooters.

Eh, it didn’t work, but it did birth a chest hair.

I held my notebook tight to my body. Being within close proximity of her was gut-wrenching. Her hair had been pulled away from her heart-shaped face with a tortoise shell headband. She wore a v-neck black sweater a size too small to be comfortable, skinny jeans, and black boots. Her own version of goth, I suppose, but hers worked within the laws of fashion.

Mine looked like…well, like an idiot threw it together.

She smiled back, pitching her french-manicured thumb to Dylan’s locker. “Is Dylan around?”

Gag…

“He’s due,” I told her stonily.

She flashed her perfect white teeth, and my pits instantly drenched. “I’ll wait.”

She said she’d wait. OHHHH. BIG. FREAKING. SURPRISE. Sigh.

“We got separated,” she beamed, “and I wanted to finish our conversation.” Awww. “Did you know Willow is coming into town? She’s going to work with me on my runway walk.”

I metaphorically twiddled my thumbs so much I got carpal tunnel syndrome in the process. Willow was Dylan’s aunt—on the cover of
Vogue
magazine at only sixteen. And to answer her question, no I didn’t know, but wasn’t Brynn too short for runway work anyway? I’m guessing her to be around five foot five. Willow was six one. I could rock the shiz out of a runway. All you had to do was act hungry and PO’d.

Brynn wouldn’t shut up. “I wanted to see if he was free for the Winter Formal. I mean, I think he is, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask me to go with him.” She paused for effect, her insanely white smile getting bigger. “Has he told you about our relationship?”

I let that fear worm its way into my soul until it’s an inoperable tumor. What in the heck had they been talking about? Or better yet
doing
? I could ask since God knew she wanted me to, but I could do without the will-he-or-won’t-he theatrics. Placing my textbook on the top shelf, I took the time to alphabetize it amongst the others. Then I removed my science book and imagined she was gone (or at least wart-covered) when I turned around.

She wasn’t.

Seriously?!

I desperately tried to locate a smile, but she gave me a face like she believed in addition by subtraction. “You like math, don’t you?” I mumbled.

She twirled the end of her hair, pulling it to her eyes to inspect for split ends. “I’m actually very good in math. I don’t even have to study. I should’ve taken that advanced placement class last year, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Dylan’s so smart,” she gushed, “he barely lifts his pencil.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a lot of things, Brynn. And I have firsthand experience with all the intimate parts.”

Ho. Ly. Cow.

Darcy Walker pulled out the big guns.

Was that illegal in the laws of God what I’d just said? It sounded like we’d done the shama lama, ding-dong. Brynn’s mouth parted in shock, quickly replaced with a you’re-lying look. Her nostrils flared, and I could tell I’d hit a nerve. We stared at one another, both of us knowing we were the indisputable competition for Dylan’s attention. I thought about telling her to back down; heck, I thought about decking her button nose, but right when I just about did both, Bean bounded up to my side. “I looked for you on the roof today,” he belted out, “but you weren’t there. Does that mean you’ve found out anything?”

I resisted a face palm that was begging to live.

Bean was dressed like a monk. He sported a brown wool, oversized hoodie hitting him at the knees. A frayed rope draped around his waist, dangling to the floor. I didn’t dare to look if he wore tights or leggings. I didn’t want to know. His hair had been styled in its usual bowl cut, but his bald spot seemed more noticeable. The shape was a perfect sphere around his crown. It dawned on me he’d shaved it on purpose because it now resembled a Roman tonsure—one of those religious rites men underwent to show their subservience to God. I didn’t waste the energy trying to figure out what any of it meant.

I snuggled in close so Brynn wouldn’t hear. But before I said anything, I spotted Dylan effortlessly maneuvering in and around the crowd. He met eyes with me first and then smiled to Brynn, leaving his gaze locked on Bean and me until he reached the three of us. He touched me on the small of my back in greeting, leaned down, and breathed, “Missed you” in my ear. Cue some animalistic desire. Like monkeys screeching and guppies getting their naughty on. When I sucked in a sharp breath, he chuckled and said, “Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?” Brynn interrupted with a snap.

Dylan winked at me and turned to her. “Hi, Brynn,” he said, opening his locker. “Did you need something?”

My ears bled when he said her name. And it probably wasn’t a good idea to ask that specific question. She probably had a lengthy list including fornication, tattoos on private body parts, and naked selfies.

Bean tugged on my sleeve. “I think she likes him.”

Um, yeah. Unfortunately. Brynn had that come-hither thing going on in her eyes. Well, you know what? My come-hither was
waaaay
better than hers.

While Dylan nodded during her story time, I asked Bean, “What makes you think so?”

Bean sort of giggled, “Watch the way she looks at his lips.”

Whether Dylan was aware or not, Brynn was devouring his mouth with her eyes. An X-rated picture of them together flashed into my mind, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t erase the skin. Brynn was the Cadillac of girlfriends. Instinct told me it was a matter of time before nature took over, and I was a distant memory. A snarl worked its way to my lips. I felt too much pressure in my head—like I was in an airplane and my ears wouldn’t pop.

My iPhone cranked out “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” and when Dylan gazed over with his girlie giggle, Brynn went into brat mode and rolled her eyes.