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

of tomorrow. The ones probably truant and delinquent on homework who courted trouble in and outside these four walls. Bracing his left hand on the desk, he pulled open a right-side drawer and removed a thin manila file, flipping it open. Stopping to blow the gunk from its surface, a cloud of dust mites invaded the space, and I immediately sneezed.
    As I grabbed a tissue from the corner of his desk, he took a harder look at the photograph, comparing it to a quick thumb-through of his folder’s contents. He lifted one out and shoved it beside my photo for comparison, shook his head, and then riffled through a few more. Once again, he said he’d never met my guy, not even asking why I cared. With a weary sigh, he closed the file and slid it to the side. God willing, I’d get my hands on the file before I blew this joint.
    Something was wrong with Coach, despite the fact he harbored me (and two others) who couldn’t get with the program. I pulled a two-year stint in counseling (you know, childhood trauma), and if I’d learned anything, it wasn’t wise to leave people in a desperate state.
    The coffee pot burbled, and I took it upon myself to pour us both a drink. Stained dirt-brown, the pitcher probably hadn’t seen a wash in months, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I was deficient on caffeine.
    I filled two Styrofoam cups with a liquid resembling swamp water. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to get my psychobabble on.
    Immediately, he thought I’d referred to the file. He blew into his cup as I slid back into my seat. “Bad childhoods for the most part. Some make it out with a good support system. Others wind up liking the constant rollercoaster. All I know is I have them over and over in the school’s detention program. Maybe that’s all they know.”
    If I had the time, I’d think about that rollercoaster and myself, but Coach turned and looked at an itty-bitty photograph on the side of his desk, stealing my attention. It was displayed inside one of those clear plastic frames with no border. So you not only saw the front, but the back. A quick look showed a hand-written caption on the rear: Jacinda Olivia Jemima Opal and me . One heck of a long name.
    My nose started itching. “Who is she?”
    He glanced up with a deep inhale, exhale. “Ex-wife.” First of all, if someone were my “ex,” the last thing I’d want would be a daily reminder in my face. But consider Rookie and Red; their relationship was so dysfunctional I couldn’t even term it.
    Emotions slashed across his face. And even though he appeared troubled, he handed me the photograph as if it was a priceless heirloom. I drew the photograph up to my eyes. He was his usual “coachy” looking self, but she had that ditzy bimbo look about her. Big, bleached-blonde hair with too much makeup.
    I gave him my spill-it face.
    “Divorce was final in June,” was all I got.
    June was six months ago, so why the extra pain? Anniversary, the upcoming holidays, a torch he couldn’t extinguish? I pulled my shrink back on, but the mood was broken by someone loudly clearing his throat.
    I heard the funeral march in my head.
    A grin painted on Coach’s face, but soon enough, he acted like someone had him by the happies (er, testicles) and squeezed. “Taylor?” he sort of coughed.
    The guy and girl doing homework coughed too.
    Dylan’s voice murmured, “I’m here to chat with my colossally idiotic best friend.” My hands gripped the desk, my right leg motoring like Jagger Cane’s libido. I should’ve known he’d find me, but I was never prepared for the way his presence made me feel. I was practically fibrillating. “What can I do to fix this, sweetheart?” he asked.
    You could kiss it and make it all better , I laughed hysterically to myself.
    “And would that be so bad?” the girl muttered.
    Where’s a stun gun when you need it…
    Evidently, I’d said that out loud.
    A current sliced through the air from Dylan’s direction, charging