100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (44 page)

I shivered at the thought of congealed anything.

Grumpy still wore the outfit he’d sported earlier at school. His hair had been combed…I think. Like Murphy’s, it curled in humidity of any sort, and instead of it falling over both eyes, it only fell over his right. As he pushed it back, I was greeted with the scar in his brow from a headbutt gone awry with Finn. Clementine must see something that wasn’t readily apparent to me—maybe it was his I-don’t-care attitude. I knew he had a nice enough body; I’d seen him without a shirt numerous times. To only be sixteen years old, it was inflated nicely.

“Did you call her?” I asked, wondering why chests were on my mind.

Embarrassed, he glanced at Marjorie who was nothing but smiles. “I thought I’d wait until tonight,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to appear too desperate.”

I sensed the whites of my eyes rolling automatically. Wasn’t that what was wrong with relationships today—the game playing? “Then why are you here, Grumpy?” I frowned.

He groaned, “Taylor said I
had
to come and pick you up.”

A nuance I’d expected…

I think I know every little nuance about Dylan today, all the way down to the color of his socks (black, by the way). I was a stalker of the Wes Craven variety. And I may not have been a stalker in close proximity (I ditched him at lunch to sit with Bean), but I sure as heck was one from afar. To me, he bordered perfection, but in the blink of an eye, I saw Brynn…I saw Ivy…I saw the yet unnamed women over the years who’d vie to take him away from me. I didn’t have the confidence to deal with that. In fact, I’d rather slit my wrists or have a sex change operation.

“Tell
Taylor
,” I emphasized, “I’m spending the night at home. I’ve got a lot of things on my mind, and I need to rest my brain. Besides, I haven’t eaten and Murphy’s getting his Kentucky-on.”

For a minute, Grumpy debated the Kentucky thing. He licked his lips and glanced down to Marjorie who gave him a thumbs up. Rubbing his jaw, he shook his head, finally protesting, “You can eat at the concession stand.”

“I have absolutely no desire to watch the male species dribble a ball up and down the court and sweat all over the place in polyester clothing.”

My word, I think I actually felt my nose grow.

Grumpy grinned, “He said you’d say that, but I’ve been instructed to bring you anyway.” I hated Dylan because he always knew beforehand what my arguments would be. “Come on, Walker,” he begged. “Tip off is in an hour, and I don’t want to deal with him if I’m not successful.”

True. Dylan was like a Pit Bull on a bone when he wanted something. He’d lock on hard and not give up until he grounded you in one heck of a bloody fight.

Grumpy and I followed Murphy to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out milk and eggs. “Things better between the two of you?” he said to me.

“They’re better for Dylan, obviously.”

“Good to know he’s not a grudge holder,” Murphy chuckled. “Grudges are bad.”

I laughed, and God love him, so did Grumpy. Everyone—and I mean the man five houses down—knew Murphy held grudges more than the people in the Middle East. Murphy shot Grumpy a frown that made his happies shrivel. “Do you drink?” he grunted.

“No,” Grumpy said proudly.

“Smoke?”

“No.”

“Seatbelt?”

“Every time.”

“Insurance?”

“Yes.”

“What carrier?”

“Nation’s Best.”

“Wrong answer,” I giggled. “They’re a competitor.”

“Sorry,” Grumpy said quietly. “Not my call.”

“Any tickets?” Murphy continued. Grumpy got silent. “Name the offense,” Murphy demanded.

Grumpy sort of shrugged, sort of whispered, “Parking illegally.” Murphy took the time to ponder as he cracked two eggs and poured them in a stainless steel bowl. He glanced to me, back to Grumpy, and then at the clock on the wall.

“I know she’s ridden with you to your little vacation on The Island of Misfit Toys, so I suppose it’s okay if she films a repeat. But listen, son. If something happens, I’ll make you wish you died in the crash.”

Okiedokie
. Some welcome wagon.

Murphy took a step forward and towered overtop Grumpy’s generous listing at six feet. “Five miles under the speed limit the entire way. Fathers have a way of finding out if you piss on their requests. Ask Dylan. I’m not someone you want angry.”

Grumpy cleared his throat. Pretty sure he didn’t need the details.

He waited the fifteen minutes it took me to change into a pair of tribal print leggings and an oversized white hoodie that had “Fighting Buffalo” in black capital letters. Our mascot was a buffalo, for God’s sake. Half the time when something great happened, I didn’t know whether to grunt, snort, or moo. The hoodie was Dylan’s and had the number eleven embroidered over the heart. It seemed like something you’d wear when you were a couple…um, we weren’t a couple, but tonight I wanted to be a face-rubber (hello, Brynn Hathaway).

Whatever. Sometimes I felt like Dylan’s community service project anyway.

Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I reapplied the trifecta of mascara, blush, and rolled on lipstick called Chastity Belt (no kidding). It was hot pink with shiny sparkles. It didn’t particularly remind me of a celibate attitude; it reminded me of blinking lights and stripper poles. Afterward, I stepped into red and black Asics running shoes I kept on hand in case I ever became a serious runner.

My look wasn’t complete until I was tatted up. Dylan’s mother found a bunch of temporary tattoos she gave me for my birthday. I’d wear one on my face each game. Turning on the faucet, I ran the little white square back and forth under the water and then carefully stuck it to my cheek. After thirty seconds of pure nothing, I slowly lifted the paper and looked at a perfect number eleven.

After I slid my lucky hat on my head, I trudged downstairs finding Vinnie (yes, I said Vinnie) playing naked Barbie’s with Marjorie—in little girl voices. Marjorie’s Barbie squeaked, “Love makes you desperate.”

Vinnie’s grumbled, “Don’t I know it, but the guy in
100 Proof Stud
is worth all the drama.” Vinnie then produced an 8x10 glossy headshot of himself, giving it to Marjorie with a grin.

I broke into giggles. Vinnie was a walking advertisement for his new movie, complete with a Fu Manchu mustache the spin-off must require. “Why are you here, V?”

“I’m feeling the Valley game.”

Grumpy snagged a warm biscuit from the countertop, pitching another toward Vinnie’s open hand. Grumpy took a big bite and gazed at my sweatshirt with a grin.

I shot him a warning glare as I pulled on my coat. “I hate him,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, Taylor says he hates you too,” Grumpy answered.

Piling into the Beemer, as usual the black leather interior was immaculately clean and still had that new smell going on. Grumpy immediately played with the new-fangled gadgets, as if it would increase his odds of owning a duplicate one day. Picking a country station, he warbled away about crying in his beer while I tried to still my mind. I read somewhere if you could still your mind, you’d find the answers you sought.

Dude, all I got was white noise.

Glancing at the console between the seats, unfortunately I noticed something that shattered my attempts. An ebony-colored hairclip lay nestled inside a cup holder.
My
specific cup holder
, I should qualify. And the clip wasn’t mine. Instantly my blood boiled, and just as fast, my anger flipped into an agonizing despair—if it wasn’t mine—then whose was it?

While Grumpy continued to sing and Vinnie practiced lines for his movie, I clasped it between my fingers for a few miles. It was expensive. I could tell by its feel. My first desire was to roll down the window and toss it in Valley’s freaking gutter. But then I got hit with a better idea. In my brain, I knew my plans were the actions of an unstable girl in the throes of an unhealthy crush—but I didn’t care. If it was Brynn’s, how in the heck did it find its way out of her hair?
Passionate frenzy?
I gulped.

I wore one of those energy bracelets that supposedly emitted negative ions beneficial to your health. Pulling the red band from my wrist, I slid it over my fingers and dropped it in the exact spot where Brynn’s probable hairclip had been. Put it this way, if I were a dog, I peed on her spot. When my ringing iPhone broke the mood, I fingered it out of my purse. The screen lit up for the second time tonight with Ben Ryan. Wow, Ben must be the pushy type.

When I said, “Hey,” he grunted out, “Brantley McCoy” in greeting.

“Hello to you too, Ben,” I laughed.

I couldn’t tell where Ben was or what he was doing. It sounded like multiple adults talking in the background of a high-energy meeting. “What are you up to, angel,” he asked, “because suddenly I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous often. In fact, I’m
never
nervous, and I don’t like the feeling.”

“Spill the beans, Ben.”

“I have nothing to spill. And I tried.”

Grumpy reached over and pinched my arm, twisting the flesh between two fingers. Ben Ryan, although none of them had ever met him personally, had made the naughty list of my bestie guy friends. They were overprotective and suspicious of our budding friendship—although the accident was my fault.

With that, I thumbed him off and finished the conversation via text.

I typed like a mad woman, sparing no detail. Telling him I feared Vinnie killed Brantley McCoy when we broke into Bishop Fowler’s Calypso Cove address. The moment I typed my last word, Ben screamed in all caps:

BACK OUT OF THE EQUATION, CALL THE AUTHORITIES, AND TELL THEM WHAT YOU KNOW!

My word, he should know better than to use math lingo with me. After a few beats of the cat stealing my tongue, he then texted back.

I know you well enough to say you’re going to do what you want to do. Be careful. I’ll keep digging.

The resources at Ben’s disposal began to gnaw away at me. Sure he said they came via his father, but our relationship was new. Too new for me to make a final assessment of him. I was either paranoid, or maybe I needed to take a step back and figure out who and what exactly this guy was. Besides, the information he gleaned for me no doubt was a total misuse of government property, and ergo illegal.

Not that I was complaining…but why?

As fate would have it, Big Moby’s Cheeseburger Shack was at the next light. Big Moby’s was supposed to be the last venue Tito’s source saw The Ghost. Thing was, I had no idea what I’d look for once inside. Sure, I had a face, but what would I do if I actually bumped
into
that face?

The verb in me, or idiot rather, considered this a minor issue.

“Grumpy, pull over,” I asked, touching his arm. “I need to Moby up my life.”

He would’ve dragged me behind the car if he could escape a murder indictment. He barked, “No, Walker. Taylor asked me to bring you, and this is his Beemer. I’m doing exactly as I was directed.”

“Dylan would pull over,” I laughed.

“Dylan would
no
t pull over.”

“Dylan loves me, and he’d pull over.”

“Dylan’s probably wondering where we are.”

“I could eat a burger,” Vinnie piped up from the backseat.

I grinned, “I’ll make a deal with you, Grumpy. Pull over, and I promise to give you a makeover so fab that Clementine can’t keep her hands off of you.”

You know, there was someone for everybody, but the thought of kissing Grumpy was like sucking on a sourball…it’d have to be an acquired taste. After we stared at one another, he realized I wouldn’t shut up and that he needed a fashion overhaul. His answer came in a grunt and a quick swerve into Big Moby’s parking lot.

Slowing the engine, immediately he headed for the drive-thru. A logical choice, but the drive-thru line was as long as my current list of sins. Besides, what would I see from a car anyway? It took some arm-twisting, but Grumpy agreed to pop inside for the burger I was quote-unquote “dying to have.”

Finding an empty space between two dark-colored vans, he carefully maneuvered inside, saying out loud, “It better not get dinged.”

Dropping my phone in my purse, I asked, “Did you speak to Damon Whitehead?”

“Damon hasn’t returned my calls,” he grunted, shutting off the engine. He slid his eyes over, full of questions. “I’m thinking he’s scared to death.”

Or guilty.

Once inside, we filed like cattle behind the only cashier line open. It was a four-person crew dressed in red shirts, black pants, with a smiling Moby over the heart. Not much older than me, the cashier was medium build, brown hair and eyed, and barely made eye contact—just a hand out for the money and a yell to the cook who appeared new to the job. He was fidgety and jumpy, and when I offered a smile, he hunkered over a beef patty and started flipping.

The same guy as last week manned the drive-thru, still appearing grossly underqualified for the task. He had fries, chicken nuggets, and burgers all lined up in a row, furrowing his brow, trying to figure out which brown bag to drop them in.

Big Moby’s Cheeseburger Shack was one of those joints that if your order wasn’t straight off the assembly line, they’d ask you to pull your car up to the curb where they’d deliver your special order. Big Moby was the burger express, so to say.

As I ordered a Moby Meal, I stole a glance outside watching Moby deliver a meal to a female in a maroon Chevy Impala. Moby put his white-gloved hand into her rolled down window, and when they exchanged bills, he pulled a plastic Ziploc baggy out of his pants pocket full of what looked like dirt. On impulse, I pushed my way out of line, walked to the window, and made binoculars out of my hands, scrunching my eyes and nose up to the glass.

The female was hunched over her steering wheel in a black coat and baseball cap. Pulling the bag up to her eyes for inspection, she gave Moby a hurried nod.

It wasn’t dirt
, I told myself.
It was a bag of marijuana
.