Page 103 of Darcy
“Going well,” he grunts as we pass Dodger, Slate, and Mikey.
They do seem to finally be having more luck now that there’s three of them to tackle the monstrous wooden patio set. They’ve even managed to haul the huge wedge-shaped table out of the garage.
Dad heads straight for the grill, unfolding all the pipes and dutifully donning the bright blue apron Destiny got him last year, which proclaims him king of the grills.
With my job done, I grab Dodger by the collar—I know for a fact if I talk to Slate right now, I’ll lose my shit—and drag him to my childhood bedroom, praying to God with every step that Darcy is keeping my mother and sister occupied.
“Gonna let me go any time soon?” Dodger asks, as I carefully shut the door and shove him into the back of it.
“Why is she here?” I hiss, finally releasing his shirt. “I thought we agreed it was for the best that she stayed far away from us.”
Dodger glares at me. “Things have changed.”
“Why? Because she’s somehow an assassin now?” I scoff, pacing away and running a hand over my short hair. “How many assassins do you think the cartel deals with on a monthly basis? Miguel is still alive!” I release a deep, angry huff of air. “Darcy’s mission is going to get her killed.”
Dodger frowns. “If you think that, you don’t know her at all. How many people have you ever met with her brains? She saved Sully, and Miguel never even knew she was there.”
I turn, intending to give him a piece of my mind, only stop short, and force myself back to the window.
He doesn’t understand. Even after what happened to Sully, he doesn’t seem to see the risks clearly. Or perhaps he sees them, and he simply has more hope than I do that Darcy can pull us through unscathed.
“I know she’s smart,” I snarl. “But all the brains in the world aren’t enough. The cartel is ruthless—”
“You know, I’m pretty ruthless myself,” Darcy interrupts, and I turn to find the door open and her framed within it. “Your mom sent me to find you. She says she wants you there for the baby photos.”
Kill. Me.
As if on cue, I hear Destiny cackle.
“Mama, please don’t!” I fly past both of them, trying to get to that damned photo album before Slate—
Too late.
He’s perched on my mom’s hideous, old, floral couch, looking in horrified amusement as my mom brandishes a photo of me as a toddler, wearing nothing more than a saucepan helmet.
“Mama,” I groan.
“Sit down, baby. Darcy, you have to see this one. Destiny and Page used to dress him up for their tea parties when their daddy was doing an overseas tour and they needed another princess. Here Ethan is as Snow White.”
Code red.
“Mama, I’ve got to show Darcy something,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “In my room.”
At least I can limit her exposure. I’m pretty sure my mom has shown the band that photo before, but what little remains of my dignity won’t survive Darcy seeing it.
“Real men wear dresses,” she objects as I use my bulk to keep her from looking around me and into the living room.
“Not saying they don’t,” I grunt, walking forward and forcing her to back up. “But you will never see that photo.”
Or the next one in the pile, which, if memory serves, is of me playing an upside down recorder while covered in my mom’s makeup and wearing her wig.
I manage to usher Darcy back into my room and close the door behind me with a lot less fuss than I anticipated. As soon as we’re safe, I drop her hand.
Now we’re in the very position I’ve tried my best to avoid. Alone. Together. With a bed.
I point at the mattress in silence, but I can’t say I’m really surprised when she disobeys and heads for my old desk.
Crap, this place is a mess. Mama never touches anything in here, insisting it’s my space, even though I’m well past the age where I’d consider moving back in. The desk alone is covered in an old Yamaha keyboard with a missing C sharp key and hundreds of books, flyers, and magazines.
