No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (45 page)

I’d needed to say that for some time, and frankly, you could only make peace for so long before you had to draw the battle lines. Dylan and I would
always
be on the same side no matter what Fate or circumstances lined up against us.

Kyd slowly exhaled, “I’m very aware of your relationship, and not all of our conversations have been contentious. Dylan’s extremely easy to talk to with very little, if any, judgment.” He went silent for a beat. “What’s going to happen when you date someone?”

Nothing good, I guess. Dylan had always been take-no-prisoners where I was concerned. Me dating? Kyd’s legs would be stumped at the knees with his ribcage as bookends. Did I hold that against Dylan? Not in the slightest. I’d already planned to gut his girlfriend. Regardless, should I even take Kyd seriously? He gave me the impression he over-thought things, possibly dealt with anal retention, and misplaced altruistic love. Then again, call me a happy verb. I didn’t pause to think about anything more than if dessert came before my meal or afterwards.

I lined my lips again. “Umm, our relationship is what it’s always been.” Confusing. “And dating is a gray area we’re working out as we go.”

Kyd and I disconnected after I swore that I’d call as soon as the sun woke up. A minute later, I thumbed in Troy’s digits and left a message for him to be at Cowboys at midnight. Right when I shimmied into a white sundress, Sydney entered the restroom waving a black lace push-up bra along with a red and black plaid cropped top … and when I say cropped, I mean right below the habaneros. It felt like someone took a baseball bat to my forehead. The length fell roughly six inches but frankly wasn’t as eye widening as the accompanying twelve-inch frayed jean skirt. First impression? Hoochie momma in the making.

After she excused herself, I dressed and shoved my feet inside red cowboy boots that hit me lower calf, giving my hair another squirt of freeze spray for a retro style of big hair. When I clomped into the den, Sydney stopped chomping her gum, instantly overcome with the brilliance of her creation. Tweaking my appearance, she unbuttoned the top two buttons to where the lace peeked through—like come and get my Barely-Bs.

Zander sauntered by, earbuds blasting a tune, crunching down a bag of Cheetos that littered across his bare chest. “Sweet,” he grinned.

“Slut,” Sydney purred.

“Shiii-,” Dylan mumbled.

Colton delivered a well-made slap to the back of his son’s head.

Lincoln barked out a warning for Dylan to get with the program. A muscle ticked in Dylan’s cheek. From top-to-bottom I looked easy; Dylan aimed for hard-to-get. I cradled his face in my hands, almost as if a precursor to some major lip action. He clasped his hands over mine, holding them tightly in place. “I should be the least of your worries, Grandpa. Vamp it up, Buffy,” he winked. “Play the part.”

Frankly, I didn’t know what a Buffy entailed, but my guess was it included that lights-are-on, but-no-one’s-home thing going on in your eyes.

On the couch in front of us sat my houndstooth bucket hat and a black suede Stetson. Dylan chose my lucky hat, dusting off imaginary dust, placing it on my head like I’d break if he shoved too hard. His mother and grandmother stood ramrod straight in the kitchen by the doorway. Alexandra looked guilty of killing something; Susan gave a tight smile like she’d skinned it.

Not one of my smarter moves, I dispensed a pinky wave and hotfooted it to Colton’s Bentley.

Lincoln and Colton were loading an arsenal for a foxhole of soldiers into his car. Lincoln carried his 9mm, Jackal, in the left side of his pants. While he handed a GLOCK 23 to Colton (who had a conceal-to-carry in several states), he hiked up his khakis and strapped a .38 Smith & Wesson to his right ankle as Colton placed a .223 rifle next to a 12-gauge shotgun, slamming the trunk lid shut.

“Locked, loaded, and gunning for bear,” he told his father. Colton appeared different than I’d ever seen him. Over the years, I’d called him “Door Number Three” because a sales job was the last thing he’d wanted to do. Other than keeping tabs on his sister, he basically chose the career because he couldn’t stomach sitting behind a desk all day. “Door Number Two”—a police officer—obviously still ignited a passion in his blood.

“Which one’s mine?” I giggled.

“Ha-ha,” he said humorless.

When I named the gun brands, he raised a smirking brow. “And you know that how?” he murmured.

“I’m a Walker … Kentucky DNA ... Trust me, I know.”

“Oh, God,” Dylan prayed again, running both hands through his hair. His father cast a downturned look in his direction, debated a thought, then let it slide.

“I need to make another call to your father,” Colton said to me. Colton and Lincoln both made several calls to Murphy, reminding him he had veto-power at any time. Murphy contemplated it a few hours ago but spent most of the conversation apologizing that I was … well, Darcy.

Dylan bent over cracking his back, then stood aright, and rolled his neck. He’d dressed in typical Florida fashion with a white golf shirt and khaki shorts, sporting light gray Under Armour sneakers I’d never seen before. He should be happy-go-lucky at his age; instead, he looked like he’d rather share a meal with maggots.

Lincoln let his eyes roam up and down his grandson’s body with a grin. “I’ll take care of her, son.”

Dylan gave a somber nod as Lincoln dispatched details he’d hammered out with Detective Battle. Since this was Battle’s home turf, he’d be calling the shots from a van in the parking lot after he planted a receiver underneath my blouse, inserting an earpiece in my right ear. Several plainclothes officers would be rocking away with us on the floor. Dylan would accompany me in—his father and grandfather? Didn’t have a clue what they were doing.

I didn’t ask … they sure as heck didn’t tell.

Lincoln retrieved Jackal out from under his loose fitting white oxford, checking the magazine before slipping it back inside his gun with a click. “Get close to him, dear,” he murmured. “Find a weak spot and push. Do you understand?” The gist of the assignment pretty much meant body-to-body; I got it, the goal was to not gack all over him.

29. WHAT’S IN A NAME?

T
HURSDAY NIGHT BROUGHT OUT THE
serious dancers at Cowboys. It was Ladies Night, and patrons were bumping and grinding and doing things so obscenely animalistic it looked like something straight off the Discovery Channel. As we pushed through the crowd, whatever apprehension Dylan felt earlier dissipated with each blare of the dance mix. His shoulders bobbed which in turn helped me to soak up the party mood. As he reached for my hand, I squeezed his last three fingers, and for some insane reason leaned forward to feel what all the fuss was about.

The moment I molded myself to his body … all bets were off.

I forgot my name, my address, even what I’d had for breakfast. I couldn’t form a complete coherent thought. Dylan was jaw-dropping man candy … a cruel punctuation mark to a girl who felt nothing but average (or close).

I could do one of two things: back off to a respectable distance or hold on for dear life. Without another thought, I inched myself so close that one step more would’ve practically had me in front.

Dylan immediately sensed my mood had changed. He murmured, “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

All I thought was,
Mother may I
. “She’d say no,” I mumbled. “No matter how much I’d beg, I can assure you she’d say ‘no, you’re a bad girl, and lay off the shamma lamma, ding-dong.’ ”

“…What?”

“I now understand,” I croaked with despair. Burying the side of my face into his shoulders, I swallowed down the realization.

Our relationship was doomed.

He angled his right ear toward me. “I didn’t hear you, sweetheart.”

“
N-n-nothing
.”

“Just a little further, Darc,” he encouraged, squeezing my hand reassuringly. “Almost there.”

A quick scan of the crowd netted a few hundred people in attendance, ranging from high school age to early 20s, with a good number of middle-aged has-beens intermixed throughout the several thousand square foot space. The ceiling stood high, and the dark ambiance painted a seriously sexy atmosphere that burned even brighter on the shiny hardwood floor. Pub tables were scattered all over the joint with short skirts and high heel and cowboy boot legs, ripe for the taking.

Then there was me:
the hoochie momma
.

I certainly got some looks, but I imagined myself as Buffy and tried to look even dumber than normal. I did your basic “bar” stuff. I checked out the DJ, the servers, the patrons—trying to act nonchalant—yet the universe had the unspoken rule that your eyes fell on the best looking guy around … no matter what the distractions. An invisible spotlight bounced off a group of attractive females, canoodling around one lucky guy during the Harlem Shake. When the crowd parted, it showed—big gasp!—a smiling Kyd Knoblecker.

Well, well, well
, I said to myself.
No Mary … probably why he was smiling
.

I nervously tugged on Dylan’s hand. “Do you see—”

Dylan inhaled, exhaling deeper. “Yes, go on with the evening as planned. I’ll intercept if need be.”

In khaki shorts, designer loafers, and a white shirt unbuttoned to his chest, Kyd schmoozed and gesticulated wildly. He had that captain of the sports team persona in every pronounced movement. Unless my best friend stepped onto the scene, then Dylan Taylor outranked him.

Like piranhas on thrashing legs, the quartet of girls shifted their attention to Dylan as soon as we hit the dance floor. Once they shoved their eyes back in their heads, they narrowed their stare, perusing me—homing in on my hair, my boots, and my clothing to detect a weakness. They only stopped when Dylan strutted around, placing both hands on my hips with a territorial grin. The Harlem Shake didn’t call for him to be in my personal space, but Dylan decided to improvise … his “Harlem” right up against mine.

Devastated
… all four were devastated with his actions. You couldn’t blame them; tonight I sported sluttitude. Even I knew sluttitude would always win.

“Show me what you’ve got,” he flirted, pulling me closer.

I can dance. Okay, really dance. We line-danced for a while, then I bumped hips with someone in a yellow chicken suit, while passing a naked blow-up doll over my head that was crowd surfing. Once the song ended, the music transitioned into Blake Shelton’s
Footloose
. Throwing both arms around Dylan’s neck, I foxed one knee between his and pitched a taunting smile in Kyd’s direction.

Kyd ran a hand through his thick hair, took one look at my lack of clothing, blinked hard twice, then mouthed, “We need to talk.”

“Later,” I mouthed back. He twisted the white shell choker around his neck, seconds from snapping it in two. I didn’t plan on giving Kyd anything, but I couldn’t deny the head rush for someone to find me attractive. Or, in this case—easy.

After three more tunes, the groove wound down and Dylan drew me into his arms during Hunter Hayes’
Wanted
. Still no sign of Elmer, and the clock ticked at twelve-thirty.

“He’s going to stand me up,” I whispered in Dylan’s ear, my tongue licking off the rest of my lipstick.

“Shhh, it’s a good sign. Something must be going down.”

Dylan splayed his large hand across my bare lower back—and all rational thought went into Code Blue. It practically waylaid me into forgetting why we came here. I loved Dylan, and being close to him like this—in this setting—didn’t do anything good for my overactive hormonal imagination. This happened to be a prime example of all of those confusing feelings between us. Dylan was the best friend. I was supposed to think he had cooties. But for some reason, the first thought that materialized in my mind was our kiss.

Real or not real, that kiss packed some major G-force … and I wanted a repeat.

I boldly looked up, staring into his lips. “I can’t think when you do that,” I whispered. “It actually feels good.”

“Sweetheart, do you want to kiss me?” he flirted in a giggle.

“No!”
Maybe
, I thought. My eyes went wide, issuing a firm (I think) denial.

“Well, you’re standing extremely close to someone that’s only your best friend.”

Dylan’s chuckle reverberated so low my insides turned into mush. Against my better wishes, I sidled even closer, moving my hands slowly down the planes of his shoulders, resting on the hard curves of his deltoid muscles … gripping them. It hit me then that my body said one thing while my mouth said another. I growled through bared teeth, “I’m on the job. Aren’t you supposed to stand close when you’re slow dancing on the job? I can’t help it that I have a standard of excellence.”

“Mmm,” he murmured in my ear. “I’m all about excellence.”

We were clustered together like sardines, swaying and gyrating in synchronicity. Whoever said you could have too much of a good thing, obviously hadn’t danced with Dylan. As I played the part, it became crystal clear I wasn’t actually playing. Being intimate with him came as easy as breathing. I didn’t ever want to share him but had a sick feeling the day would come too soon.

Dylan dropped a soft kiss on my forehead then moved around behind me, one arm circled around my waist. After some really dirty dancing, I thread my arms back to lock around his head … except it wasn’t Dylan ... I felt a permed mullet. A quick and panicked pivot to my right showed me now boogieing down with Elmer Herschel.

God. Help. Me. Not. To. Laugh.

Elmer had dressed in a tuxedo shirt, black bow tie, wearing too short tuxedo pants and patent leather shoes with white tube socks. Totally fitting, since watching him dance was like seeing a crippled penguin do the jitterbug. He bounced and flapped all over the place. I didn’t know whether to laugh or take a drug for motion sickness.

“What’s shakin’, Buffy?” he smiled. A whole lot of penguin.

“You can really bust a move, Elmer,” I bragged. I didn’t want to bumble through this; still, I almost tossed my cookies and evacuated my bowels. Elmer’s aftershave mixed with his body odor suggested he was way past the sell-by-date.