100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (46 page)

Dylan lowered his eyes, his voice nothing short of a bullhorn, yelling, “Darcy!”

What the heck
, I thought. He pulled on the leash; I usually trotted to his yard. Shuffling quietly past the broadcast desk, I met him half court. “Hello, sweetheart,” was the first thing out of his mouth.

I greeted with a smiling, “I hate you.”

“Naughty,” he grinned with a wink. “That has potential.”

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and suddenly my mouth was parched like the Mojave Desert. By goodness if we were alone, I might throw him down and lick it. “Darc, you and Bradshaw need to sit down,” he murmured, lovingly squeezing my shoulder. “The game is about to start, and we’ll begin the whole thing with a technical if you don’t get off the floor.” He glanced around, a deep frown marking his forehead. “We’ve been about to blow all night.”

No kidding. I could feel the animosity. “
You
told
me
to come out here, D.”

The question is,
Why did I do it?

He winked, “That I did, but I wanted to see you. What took you so long?”

“Drug bust,” I shrugged.

Dylan assumed I was joking, giving me a good-one look.

“Come on, Grumpy,” I giggled. “Let’s leave Dylan to live in his nice, little bubble world where everyone makes blankets for the homeless and obeys the law.”

By that time, Vinnie had his large butt beside me, munching on a bag of popcorn I didn’t remember him purchasing on the way in.

“Hey, Taylor,” he grinned. “It’s been an exciting night.”

Dylan opened his mouth, but Grumpy drowned him out. “I’m not going anywhere!” Grumpy barked. “Do you realize she caused Vinnie to pull someone out of a high-jacked car and tackle them to the ground? And when that happened, I dove into the passenger side and pulled the emergency brake so Vinnie wouldn’t get dragged to death.”

“Yeah,” Vinnie agreed, tossing another popcorn in his mouth, “I forgot to thank you for that.”

Dylan cleared his throat, rubbing his forehead so hard he had to have lost two layers of dermal flesh. “What happened?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” I shrugged.

“Nothing,” he repeated.

Cue the mockingbird
, I groaned. “We went inside to get a Moby burger, and I witnessed Moby drop a baggie full of marijuana into someone’s meal. It got a little hairy, but I’ll live.”

Dylan didn’t want any details, just ran his finger along the side of my jaw. “Are you sure you’re good?”

“Peachy keen,” I grinned.

Grumpy groaned and actually punched Dylan in the shoulder. “Dear God, Taylor. Can’t you ever see anything she does in a bad light? Ask her how she stopped the car.” Grumpy gave me an I’m-telling-on-you look. The same one your kid brother gives to get you in trouble.

Dylan resumed a dribble that resembled a jackhammer, looking white as a ghost. “How?” he demanded.

I sort of coughed out, “I dove onto the hood and held on.”

“While it was
moving
?” Dylan shrieked. “Sonova…” Yup, the b-word.

“Of course while it was moving,” Grumpy huffed. “She’s certifiable!”

Dylan immediately turned all of his attention to Vinnie. Vinnie was one of the few—and I mean
few
—that never flinched when Dylan was angry. In fact, it usually humored him, and he’d laugh in his face. “What exactly were you doing, Valentine, when she got into this situation?”

Vinnie’s grin grew as he tossed more popcorn in his mouth. “I was signing autographs, man. The first fifteen minutes of my movie leaked online, and I’ve already got fans. I did my part. I hit him.”

“Porno,” I whispered joking.

Dylan blinked, trying to process the “porno” part of the conversation. Grumpy screamed, “You almost killed him, Vinnie!!”

Vinnie shrugged. So did I.

“So Moby’s in jail?” Dylan asked, wanting immediate clarification.

All three of us wore our not-quite face. “No,” I mumbled. “He got away when Vinnie smiled for the cameras.”

“Cameras?” Dylan’s mockingbird sang again.

“Fans,” Vinnie grinned.

For a moment, I thought Dylan would kill all three of us. Turning to leave with a giggle, I bumped into a frazzled Coach Wallace. I’d meant to tell him about his baby daddy status today, but every time I opened my mouth, I chickened out. Glancing over his shoulder, I saw a referee not far behind, thundering toward us with a whistle already in his mouth.

Uh-oh.

“Walker, sit your tail down. Make her sit down, Dylan,” he fumed, turning toward him. “You need to sit down too because God knows this place is about to erupt.”

I balled my fists. “I
tried
to sit down, but Grumpy wouldn’t let me. He’s mad about the drug bust when frankly I wonder about his sense of the common good.”

“Drug bust?” Coach screamed. “Here?” The referee looked concerned.

“Big Moby’s Cheeseburger Shack,” Vinnie added.

“I ate there tonight,” the referee added.

“Drive-thru?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Passing out marijuana,” Grumpy grumbled.

“Scrawny-looking kid with dead eyes?” the referee said.

“No, he’s just dumb. It was Big Moby,” I answered.

The referee winced, “Ah, that’s just wrong.”

“Walker, you’re the pied piper,” Grumpy groaned. “You’ve delayed this game by five minutes. And the people that should be angry are standing here listening to you blow the stupid pipe we’re all dumbly dancing to.”

I embraced that as a compliment.

Still, I did my best imitation of a pied piper dance but stopped when it garnered a whistle from the visiting team. Dylan angrily turned, threatening the wolf-whistle thrower with a terrifying, heated glare. “Shut the freak up!” he seethed.

Only a moron wouldn’t notice one particular guy had his eye targeted on Dylan. He’d probably been paired against him, and by the look at the twenty points we were ahead, his pride probably suffered from small gonads syndrome.

The referee patted me on the back with a smile. “Good story. My kids eat there all the time. Gosh, the world’s going to pot, isn’t it?”

“Literally,” I mumbled, “but don’t pat me on the back yet. He got away and so did the buyer. Who, by the way, was Madison Flannery.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Coach Wallace muttered. “Everyone is giving the slip these days. Just like the guy who painted my car.”

Dressed in a white shirt, black slacks, and tie, he ran his fingers through his overly teased hair. All that did was make it bunch up on one side like a balloon losing air. “I’m screwed here. It’s Christmas, and I’m having my car repainted.”

“I’ve got a few more days!” I eeked. “Don’t give up on me yet!”

“Darc, why are your leggings ripped?” Dylan asked. Before I knew it, each dropped their gaze to my tribal leggings. Looking down, I saw a bloody blotch and sticky red substance oozing its way toward my ankle. Sure enough, a hole lay overtop one knee.

Dylan squatted down on the balls of his feet, lightly touching the area. “You’re bleeding,” he groaned.

“Wow, I didn’t even feel it. Must’ve been when I fell off the car.”

“Adrenaline,” the referee explained.

“You mean when you bounced off the windshield and rolled off like an idiot,” Grumpy clarified.

I stuck my tongue out at him. “I’m thinking bad words about you.”

Dylan stood up, massaging his heart like it was a toothache.

Coach motioned frantically to the trainer. “Get over here, and see if this wound needs stitched,” he said when he tromped over, “or we’re going to lose Taylor from the game. Walker,” he turned to me, “I don’t even want to theorize on why you say and do the things you do. You’re killing me, doll. You really are.”

“Stitches would be cool,” I grinned.

The trainer pulled up my leggings and swabbed it down with a cotton ball full of a burning antiseptic. Just a nasty scrape. “Sit down, Walker,” Coach requested.

“I’m sorry,” I grinned. “My father’s fundamentalist value system says I’m not allowed to leave until I’ve been excused.”

Coach tried; no dice.

The referee tried; still no dice.

Vinnie made a weak attempt and Grumpy didn’t try at all…instead threw a mental dagger at Dylan. Dylan threw his head back and let out a deep, rumbling laugh. His laugh came accompanied with that look…the buttery-eyed look that melted my heart into a sticky mass of love poems and embarrassing greeting cards. I sighed, and then I sighed even deeper, hugging his waist.

The hug was short-lived because Dylan got jumped by the opposing side.

Cue the Crack!

Drama.

Oh, Good God, there was nothing sweeter to watch than a fight in high school sports.

Ironically, the pep band transitioned into “Light ’em Up”
by Fall Out Boy
,
and the two teams obliged. Both benches cleared, and while Dylan yelled for Vinnie to get me to safety, he wrestled someone off of him and took a shot to the jaw. This went on two more times, and I knew precisely what Dylan’s pause was for. He’d been waiting until it was obvious to whoever reviewed the game tape he’d reacted merely in self-defense. No surprise, the ponkey who jumped him was the guy that’d given him the death stare moments ago. By the gleam in Dylan’s eye, he’d been itching for a chance at him too. Thing was, Dylan’s southpaw was money. I’d never seen him hit anyone who didn’t wind up having a glass jaw. After one punch, the guy landed facedown with a moan.

Fights had a rhythm to them. It was pound-pound-pound in the beginning, bystanders trying to break things up, some getting involved, and they’d either “take one for the team” or things would amplify to an even higher level.

While Dylan and frazzled parents separated players and d-bags from the bottom of the piles, Vinnie tucked me under his arm but caught the hook of some moron who unfortunately woke up Vinnie’s beast.

He shoved me toward Grumpy.

Grumpy shoved me toward a stranger.

This stranger shoved me toward the stairs, and I glanced up to Brynn’s horrified face and realized the time was right for me to get in on the action. She’d run up the stairs with the rest of the squad, but even in the brawl, her hands stayed clasped at her hips, perfect cheerleading posture for the captain, no less.

With bodies falling around me, I lifted my chin and strode over like I was the Queen of the Paris Catwalk. We met eyes. The world stood still. Confidently walking up eight steps, I took a hand from her hip and literally pried open her fingers and dropped the hairclip inside. Her eyes dropped down, gazing at the ebony barrette until she finally pieced it together like a complex puzzle. She pursed her pink lips into an angry line, and by the inflamed hue in her blue eyes, I’d been right. Oh! Snap!! She’d pulled on her beeyotch. Her eyes shot off laser beams, and she looked like she’d launched straight to atrial fib. When I opened my mouth—hoping God would fill it—I seethed in her face, “Don’t pee in my spot ever again.”

She gave me a la-di-fricking-daaa face.

Well, peace the heck out to you too, Brynn.

Evidently, I’d thrown the gauntlet.

Believe it or not, the game was finished under police guard. Totally off the hook and freaking awesome. After officials reviewed the game tape (a fifteen minute process), three players were ejected. Two from the opposing team and Jagger from ours…no shocker. Vinnie was given a warning—uh, Vinnie hadn’t even jerseyed up. Dylan had been spared, although that in itself nearly spurred another brawl when he resumed his position as point guard on the floor.

Talk about a nail-biting experience. Vinnie, Grumpy, and I caught the last half of play standing on the second floor balcony with Dylan’s father, Colton. Vinnie was on his fourth hotdog, I was on my second, and Grumpy bit his nails like a dog attacks fleas—a habit I didn’t know he’d possessed.

In the last few minutes, a brooding Collin Lockhart joined us—and gosh, what a Debbie Downer he was when he espoused his list of regrets with Brynn. “Would you like to go to the Winter Formal with me?” he flirted.

“Um, no,” I responded.

“It’d be a great way to get back at everybody,” he coaxed.

“Not interested in getting back at anyone,” I answered. Not totally true, but Collin and I hooking up merely to stick it to two other people sounded like wasted brainpower. Plus I didn’t necessarily want to see Dylan with someone else. Remember, he asked me to keep Saturday night open. There’d been no mention of Thursday or Friday.

The game was tied up until Dylan shot a three-pointer at the buzzer to win. The crowd went wild, and the band went ballistic with the ultimate face-rubbing song, Steam’s “Kiss Him Goodbye.” People rushed on the floor like a pack of dogs fighting over fresh meat. For a moment, Dylan disappeared into the rush, only to reappear seconds later with Brynn and man-hands Trudi Hatchett hanging all over him.