Free No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) by A.J. Lape

rear.
    Lincoln and I met eyes while he checked out the bestseller section at Hudson Bookstore. He returned a hardback book to its shelf then waved me toward him, but as I bent down to retrieve my bag, I inadvertently knocked it onto the rolling sidewalk. I quickly jumped onboard to retrieve it, but three businessmen suddenly clustered together like sardines in a can. Squeezing around them, I hurdled over a toddler, veered left, and ran into what felt like the entire offensive line of a professional football team. The air left my body in a hiss, my heart pounding so loud I think they heard it in Africa.
    “Watch out!” the ‘offensive line’ screamed. This man stood two heads taller than me, attractive enough in a pinstriped black suit, but was Pit Bull mean. And here I was, trying to be a hero. I fought the urge to slap the jerk because he went on and on about how stupid I was. Maybe so, but no one liked a face-rubber. When his voice reached a more threatening octave, my fear grew like a fungus. My word, he planned to hit me … his intentions written all over his blood-red face. When he backed me up against my luggage, I choked out an apology, but he snorted and launched spittle in my eyes followed by another, “You’re an idiot.”

    Right when I told him to kiss my you-know-what (seriously, I just let that crap fly), Lincoln exploded onto the scene with the snarling face of a butcher. With one angry hand, he leapt over the railing, corralling my runaway bag, and inserted himself between us.
    “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” he sneered. The man took one gaze at Lincoln’s flexed fists and looked like he’d just wet his pants. On paper, this shouldn’t be a fair fight—he stood massively larger than Lincoln—but anger was a funny thing. If you had enough of it, with the attitude to back it up, you could suddenly appear 100 pounds heavier and shrink the size of your opponent to a bedbug. “Apologize to her,” Lincoln demanded. He paused for effect and then bellowed, “ Now .”
    Holy crap … my neck broke out in hives.
    The man babbled incoherently—like some Appalachian native handling snakes—while Lincoln continued to carve him up with his eyes. After a few seconds of Holy-God-help-us, I thought it was over … but then the ‘offensive line’ dumbly crowded Lincoln’s personal space. Lincoln threw his head back and laughed like the talking doll Chucky, plotting a plan for world domination. He curled his fingers into a fist, and I dove between them.

 
    6. WIPEOUT
    S ERENDIPITY C OUNTRY C LUB IS THE filet mignon crowd. Trouble was, I grew up in the beans and franks crowd. Where my street’s littered with plastic toys and dead trees, beautiful landscaping crisscrossed through the grounds that’d make God Himself envious. Here, your home’s maintained for you, there’s 24-hour security with a manned gatehouse, and you don’t get in unless your name’s on the invite-list.
    Holy cow, can you just say exclusive…
    Stationed along the eleven lakes that make up the Lake Butler chain, residents could boat, swim, or water-ski on the body of water of their choice. A private dock in the middle of the neighborhood allowed you to skip from one lake to another via a group of navigable canals. All you had to do was chart where you were going and ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom an inlet would take you there.
    Colton, Dylan, Zander, and I were in their sleek, red, and black 21-foot ski boat, cruising on Lake Butler. Dylan had just finished skiing and attached a double-seater tube for Zander and me. Once he clicked it in place, we cannonballed into the H2O as Dylan hoisted himself back inside the boat.
    “Have a good trip,” Dylan winked as we settled inside.
    I threw him the peace sign as Colton revved up to our mutually agreed upon speed of 20 miles per hour. Twenty miles per hour seemed like child’s play to me, but to Colton, it was flirting with danger and a trip to the morgue.
    Water splashed