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

when he wasn’t trying.
    He was one heartbeat away from going gonzo. When I stepped back, his eyes softened, then hardened, and then turned mushy one last time. “Aww, sweetheart,” he solemnly muttered. “You’re beautiful. Don’t allow his words to make you doubt yourself. I’ll somehow salvage this and work it out.”
    File that under I’m An Idiot .
    Subcategory of Common Knowledge .
    After I did a jaunt along the school’s interior, I ended up crashing on the bleachers in the gym. I’d made two new acquaintances. One guy told me his girlfriend dumped him for the fifth time; another asked if I’d like to ditch school altogether and run away with him. He wasn’t half bad looking—I considered it for three point five seconds until I realized he had massive BO.
    Total mood kill.
    Finding Eminem’s and Rhianna’s “Monster” on my iPhone, I shoved an earbud in one ear while I explained my situation to the school’s basketball coach. Seriously, I didn’t have a leg to stand on, but the thought of more “good student” rhetoric made me want to cry…or puke…depending on the person delivering the lecture.
    I sighed, “I had a shift in schedule.”
    “A shift in schedule,” he repeated frowning.
    “I sorta got kicked out of class.”
    “Himmel?” he gruffed.
    I preferred the anti-Christ, but properly identified him. “ Doctor Himmel. Evidently, he doesn’t appreciate my style.”
    “Aw, Walker,” he groaned. “Perhaps you should try.”
    “I do try. His expectations are merely outside of my comfort zone.”
    “That’s the spirit,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Whatever the specifics, Himmel needs to be fired. Follow me. I’ve got some time.” It was no secret that the staff didn’t like Mr. Himmel. I’m guessing kids like me were a common occurrence.
    Coach Munk Wallace skimmed a little over six feet with a solid, oak tree kind of build and paunch in his gut. Don’t let anyone ever tell you gym teachers are in shape. Sometimes they had too much time on their hands making laps to the vending machine. With balding ginger-colored hair, he didn’t embrace his balding status either. He tossed and teased so much it accounted for a two-inch lift. He also rocked the same look, regardless of the weather. It consisted of athletic shorts, golf shirts or hoodies, and dirty glasses.
    Coach led us to a small office tucked away in the corner, practically in another zip code. It didn’t even have a door. I took stock of my surroundings. Two students, one guy and one girl, gave small waves as we walked inside. They did homework at desks—he looked familiar, she didn’t. A silver metal desk sat against the back wall with state championship trophies on shelves behind it. A coat tree anchored the left corner, weighed down with at least four different coats. Cardboard boxes had been stacked atop one another by the desks, holding empty pizza boxes from LaRosa’s. Add a computer from the Dinosaur Age, and you just might have the next episode of Hoarders . But lo and behold, a Mr. Coffee coffeepot percolated on a credenza behind the desk.
    My day just got better.
    Black folding chairs sat in the middle of the floor. I parked myself in one while Coach pushed his body behind his desk, collapsing into a worn black, leather high-back. You can call me a lot of things but a fool wasn’t one of them. I had a captive audience here, and by God, I was going to make the best of it.
    I pulled the photograph Tito faxed Rookie out of my purse (I’d made a copy), sliding it across the desk. “Do you know this guy?”
    Coach Wallace gave it half a look. “Weird dude, but no,” he muttered. That didn’t mean anything. As far as we knew this photograph could be last year’s look. Tito didn’t divulge if it was up-to-date, and I hate to admit I wasn’t firing on all cylinders at the hour or wise enough to ask.
    “Are you sure?” I pushed.
    Apparently teachers—or Coach, at least—kept files on the criminals