100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (49 page)

Sweat instantly beaded under my nose, and I did a quick dip of my head to wipe it on my wrist. Point blank, you weren’t supposed to dress up for your best friend, date your best friend, anything with your best friend other than whine about how much your life sucked. This was totally ridic, and I didn’t know whether to punch him or kiss him.

“D, you look beautiful,” I whispered when I glanced up.

Carrying Marjorie along with him, Dylan neared me in a slow-motioned strut, and I would’ve sworn the Earth had moved. “I think that’s my line,” he murmured, “but thank you. You’re still,” he paused with emotion, “the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He’d been smoking crack.

Or at least marijuana.

Dylan’s face did one of those round-the-world gazes where he checked out every inch of my body, starting at the head, going to the toes, and slowly rising up my front to wink when he caught my eye. I coughed. I couldn’t help it, but he gave me a coughing fit like I suffered from a fatal case of pertussis.

His face went totally wicked…in a good way.

As Dylan hauled me into their hug, I went as still as water and got the strange sensation times like these would be few and far between.

Murphy had given the green light to go, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go all twenty questions at the eleventh hour. “So this is a date-date,” he grumbled.

“A date-date,” I told him as Dylan helped me into my long black coat. “And don’t act like Dylan didn’t ask your permission because I know he did.”

Murphy’s smiled quirked up at one corner, sliding a hairy eyeball over to Dylan. “Number eleven, kid,” he now said to me. “Don’t forget the eleventh commandment.”

I answered, “The eleventh commandment is thou shalt do as Darcy says.” My standard line I gave anyone who balked on doing my underhanded work.

Murphy grunted, “Well, then it’s twelve. Number twelve is thou shalt keep thy clothes on at all times. Am I speaking a language you understand, son?” Once again, that hairy eyeball grabbed Dylan’s gaze and went straight to his groin. I swear, my eyes followed, and then both of us were staring at his happies.

Dylan didn’t even blink. Only nodded his head.

I frowned, “Did you dispense this speech to Ben when he phoned?”

Dylan shifted uncomfortably to my left. Murphy narrowed his milk-chocolate eyes at his reaction, and once again, leveled a lethal stare at him, instead of me. “Maybe I didn’t feel there was a need.”

At this, Dylan grinned.

“You might not want to think about Dylan and me alone Murphy, if your heart’s a little iffy,” I joked, throwing a big bear hug around Dylan. Dylan put a fist over his mouth, choking back a cough.

“Dear God,” Murphy grunted, glancing to the ceiling for help. “Let me think about this. I don’t want you to be in the dark where the natural male and female urges are concerned, kid. So if we address this dating and feelings thing head on, then that means you won’t be so, um…”

“…frustrated,” I added.

“…when you’re alone,” he finished. “And you’ll—”

“…keep your clothes on,” I interrupted jokingly.

“…because a teenager’s feelings aren’t so tempting and forbidden.” Murphy scratched the back of his neck, hemming and hawing at his pancake batter. Dylan continued to cough, shifting uncomfortably, pinching my lower back so I would cry uncle.

“Gosh, I feel better,” I giggled.

“Me too. Glad we had this discussion,” Murphy grunted. And once again, Murphy concluded uncomfortable conversations before they ever had any substance to them.

Murphy hunched over a stack of pancakes when we left, grumbling about the sinking economy, informing Dylan to keep me on a short leash. Murphy was a little more dark and broody than normal, dressed in pajamas earlier than decorum deemed acceptable. And he’d definitely picked up on the fact this date-date was different, telling me twice he’d have his cell phone on at all times.

A little over an hour later, Dylan and I’d finished a Mexican meal at a new place—Mexican Food Whore was my middle name. Stuffed to the gills, we pulled into the school parking lot. This didn’t feel like a date; this felt normal. But then again, Dylan always paid for my meal, always opened my door, and we always held hands wherever we went.

Our norm was different than everyone else’s definition.

Finn phoned around twenty minutes ago wondering where we were, telling us the place was a “sweat-box and packed to the rafters with dirty-dancing fools.”

Dylan’s naughty response, “Sweat sounds nice.”

I wasn’t exactly sure the origins of his words, but his naughty grin told me it meant corruption.

The sky sparkled with blinking stars, and the cool night air was the kind that made you snuggle closer to those you loved. Dylan hooked his arm around my waist, drawing me into his warmth as we walked up the steps, going inside.

Directly in front of us was a placard broadcasting “Pictures,” pointing toward the cafeteria. A long line had already formed with people dressed similar to me and others dressed like I’d be their hired-help. After Dylan checked us in at the welcome desk, he pushed the gymnasium doors wide.

The room was darker than a cave, lit only by the many disco balls hanging from the ceiling. They’d nailed the winter wonderland theme and added some major mood ambience. Powdered snow had been strewn across the floor and different types of live fir trees were scattered throughout. Hand-made wooden reindeer pulled a red metal sleigh on the second floor catwalk. In the upper right corner sat a small concession area, and if the rumor mill got it right, an eggnog fountain was the main attraction. Altogether, it felt cozy and intimate. All that was missing was a bearskin rug and raging fire.

One set of bleachers had been pushed back against the wall, making room for two floors of dancing. Finn said we’d find him on the second floor, so Dylan took my hand, meticulously cutting a path through the crowd. It struck me again how this behavior seemed date-like but still our everyday norm. We’d been holding hands since we were six, and all these years later we’d never stopped.

Ivy and Jagger stomped past us like they were putting out a fire. And the GF didn’t look too happy. I glanced at her; she glared at me, and we had a rare meeting of the minds. We both acknowledged we hated the other. On my part, I’d had the last laugh. By the end of the day, a dancing GIF had circulated of her, Justice, and me rolling around on the floor, our heads superimposed with Wonder Woman (Justice), Super Girl (me), and Osama Bin Laden as Ivy. Sometimes karma got it right.

Dylan murmured in my ear, “Forget them, sweetheart. Let’s dance.”

Umm, good idea.

The music roared as loud as a jet plane, and the DJ spun Lady Gaga’s “Applause.” Coming up behind me, Dylan wrapped his left arm around my waist, swaying us back and forth to the beat. Reaching back, I clasped my hand at the base of his neck, relaxing my cheek next to his.
This felt right
, I sighed to myself. And although I’d arrived sans confidence, I was determined to remember it when insecurity chipped away at our bond.

All at once, he twirled us over to Grumpy and Clementine who danced by Finn. Clementine moved with the pep of a cheerleader; Grumpy had the rhythm of a white boy too dumb to know he sucked. In the twenty or so seconds we’d been beside them, he’d bumped her head twice and stepped on a foot.

I promised him a makeover before the party that, with my meager budget, consisted of gifting him with a pile of Murphy’s skinny clothes and floating him a loan for McDonald’s (you know, spare no expense). He’d left my home in a white button-down oxford, navy sweater, khaki trousers, and brown tie-ups. I gelled his hair in hopes to find a style consistent with this decade, but it ended up looking like a Chia pet. So I 86’d the idea, and finally trimmed two inches. Then I shaved his neck. I nearly threw up twice because it took two disposable razors to bush hog what belonged on a yak.

A look to my right revealed Rudi, Justice, and Bean (yes, I said Bean). Rudi looked normal, Justice danced the robot, and Bean was…well, Bean was twerking. You heard right; he’d gone Miley Cyrus. His and Justice’s hands occasionally touched, like they’d come to the party together—or at least had plans to leave that way. Rudi was decked-out similar to me; Justice had dressed like a warrior-ninja princess in black parachute pants and a flowy blouse; Bean and Mr. Pongo brandished matching red velvet suits that’d make Elvis Presley proud. When Justice’s back turned in a whirl, Bean caught my eye giving me a thumbs up as if he’d landed the woman of his dreams.

That was one story that would not wait until tomorrow.

A glance to my left showed Finn and Gucci. Gucci sported black leather and too much gold. She wasn’t exactly Hell’s Angel’s material, but she definitely rocked the biker babe look. Grumpy now boogied next to them, playing tonsil hockey with Clementine while they moved. Both his hands tangled in her dark hair, and Clementine lifted his shirt out of his belt, wadding it between her hands. Then…he devoured her mouth like Weight Watchers members did carbs on cheat day.

“Check out Grumpy,” I whispered to Dylan, blushing for the both of them.

Dylan glanced over his shoulder with a little girl giggle. “Bradshaw looks like a happy man.”

I’m not sure what Grumpy looked like, but he made me feel like a creepy voyeur. Predictably, he ruined the love and togetherness moment by grunting, “Clementine, no matter what happens here tonight, I want you to know I’m disease free.”

Yup. That’s what he said.

Heard it myself.

My lusty truck driver laugh sprang to life. “He probably should’ve told her that before he took her to France,” I giggled in Dylan’s ear.

“I swear, Darc, your naughty laugh can be so obscene,” he chuckled.

The music went old-school, seguing to a Marvin Gaye song. Nothin’ said lovin’ like Marvin Gaye. But the song choice of “Let’s Get it On” left me stifling another laugh. My guess is the song was snuck onto the DJ’s playlist unbeknownst to faculty.

Dylan drew me into his chest and took my right hand in his, holding it against his heart. In that moment, we reminded me of my mother and father. It didn’t matter the occasion, if my father wanted to dance, he’d wrap my mother in his arms. Murphy, by nature, was uptight and edgy, but with Gemma Walker he was as relaxed as his DNA would allow. I thought about her tonight at dinner. I would’ve loved for my mother to be here—just a simple word of advice would’ve been treasured. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t will-back the hands of time.

“I choked,” I whispered. Dylan knew immediately I referred to the deal I’d made with Coach Wallace.

He kissed my hair, resting his chin on my head. “Aw, sweetheart. Darcy Walker is capable of great things. Don’t ever doubt that.” Dylan could be a motivational speaker. But great things? I was one breath away from the sanitarium.

“I try and try and never get anywhere. It’s so frustrating.”

“Let’s rehash the details. I’ll call Coach and get you an extension.”

“The trail dried up days ago. I just wanted to buy something nice for my family and friends. I already had your gift picked out, D. Maybe I’m greedy. The universe doesn’t like greedy.”

“No, you’re a businesswoman. Take the pressure off yourself. Don’t even think about me.”

“No,” I replied.

Another kiss to my head. “I don’t want to offend you, but can I at least float you a loan?”

“No loan,” I sighed.

I stood where every girl in this room wanted to be standing. And P.S., what precisely had I done to warrant the privilege? A lasting friendship? Dylan pulled me a little tighter, and when I glanced up to his amber eyes, they’d melted into liquid gold. Falling into their depths, my eyes grew bedroomy, and I gulped down some unexpected desire.

His voice lowered as he ground his fingertips into my lower back. He murmured, “I believe in you. How about we get out of here in a bit. Just the two of us, someplace private.”

Stare. Stare harder. Then triple it up with one more for good measure.

Sweet Jesus, that was romantic. Stop my beating heart. He pirouetted me around, holding our joined hands over my head, allowing the concept to jell into place.
The sadist in me would give her left lung to go someplace private—I didn’t need the time to jell. “Omigosh,” I surprisingly whispered, “there really is a God.”

Dylan chuckled low in his throat, his muscular neck begging to be touched. There was no time for return banter because several feet over, Finn was the victim of another guy’s fists. After one sucker punch, Finn slid across the floor like a bowling ball taking down pins. In light gray trousers and a white silk shirt unbuttoned to his chest, he looked like he belonged in New York, not sweeping up the floor of the gym. After two headshakes, Finn came up swinging at holy heck…Damon Whitehead?

So I’m guessing Damon was Gucci’s formerly new and now ex-boyfriend?

Um, that made as much sense as everything else that’d happened lately.

Dylan finally came to himself and cursed a few choice words, launching into I’ve-got-your-back mode. He took off running, like Moses parting the Red Sea, but before he made it to them, Slapstick Wilson entered the fray. “I told you, Damon!” he roared, big fists flexed at his sides. “This is not the place!”