100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) by A. J. Lape Page A

matter of survival.
    I’d done something baaaaddd.
    I left class a few minutes early and jogged to Coach Wallace’s office to return the file. Except when I arrived, the two students in here before were back again and all over each other. I. Mean. All. Over. Each. Other. Now I didn’t know a lot about making out—only what I’d read in romance novels I hid under my mattress—but when I saw the young girl’s tortured face, it was only by the Grace of God, I didn’t hurl the pork rinds I’d found in my locker. The guy was giving her stand-up CPR. Ahem, hands where the Good Lord didn’t intend for them to be for those that need a definition. I concluded pretty darn quickly he was the type who didn’t understand that no meant no .
    I went coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs—wrenching my way between them, punching, pinching, and name-dropping that Dylan would kick his evil rat fastard butt. I even closed my eyes and lunged for the family jewels, but thankfully came up with air. He went tribal on both of us, grunting and pulling our hair, until he abruptly stopped and sprinted out of the room. By the time I caught my breath, my clothes were as askew as the girl’s. Shifting my undergarments back into place, the small brunette had the top of one boob showing. No lie. She stood there mouth agape, no move to cover her lady bits. I closed my eyes and did my best to shove her back in her bra, but when I squinted one eye open, she merely stared as though she tried to tell me something. Something, by the look on her face, was melodramatic and possibly an episode for 60 Minutes .
    When I said, “Just say it,” she grabbed her things and bolted for the door.
    I thought that went pretty well…all things considered.
    Now I was stuck with a real dilemma. As much as I tried, I couldn’t pry the file out of my own stinking hands. I decided to keep it. Anyway, a hot glue gun lay on Coach’s desk along with his wallet and stopwatch. The glue gun was still plugged in, still a fire hazard, and right there for me to abuse.
    After a quick glance behind, I pumped out a stringy glob and glued his stopwatch to the desk. Surely it would come off, but then again, my impulses didn’t always afford me the luxury of thinking. Once I’d performed the deed, I boogied to the parking lot where Dylan was supposedly patiently waiting.
    Except he wasn’t just waiting, now was he.
    He was seated in his car, motor running, being entertained by Brynn Hathaway who’d pulled her black BMW convertible beside him. Heck, they practically had matching his-and-hers cars. Her car door slid open, and she bounced over to the driver’s side window like she was fueled by too much pep and sugar. Two things happened at once. My gag reflex kicked up a notch, but then I saw the distraction as opportunity. The opportunity? I could tell Brynn to her face I had a coffin with her name on it.
    Let me take a little hop down memory freaking lane here. Called Brynn-baby by the guys who crushed on her, she’d had a thing for Dylan before his first whisker even made an appearance. She tried extra hard to make sure he noticed her too. Sporting dark jeans so tight it’s a wonder they didn’t rupture her butt, she’d paired them with thigh-high black leather boots and a black leather blazer. Not cold weather threads by definition, but Brynn dressed more for effect than practicality. Her build was fit and petite with wavy, chestnut-brown hair and bright blue eyes. And here’s her resume: cheer captain, Homecoming Queen, and nationally ranked gymnast.
    That last one, I think, made guys fantasize about her flexibility.
    Mere feet from his car, the unspeakable happened. She moved her upper body through Dylan’s window, her well-manicured nails touching his face…her lips dangerously close to his mouth. The tightness in my chest kicked up a notch.
    (I do not like this. Not at all.)
    I let out a belligerent, “D!” hotfooting it their way. But when I witnessed him give her The