100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) Read Online Free Page B

his body like a magnet. Taller than average, he had coppery-colored hair, a square-cut jaw, and intensely focused silver eyes. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket zipped to his chest with a white button-down shirt…starched, just like his khaki pants. Immediately, I knew he was one of those boys who left tongues hanging and drool dripping, girls falling in a heap at his feet. My eyes took the slow boat to China as they slid up to the manhole. The guy huddled next to Claudia held an outstretched hand for us to grab.
    I could do without more metaphysical mumbo-jumbo in my life—I had enough of that with Dylan—but I found myself memorizing the lines of Silver-Eyed Boy’s face. Like they’d magically been made indelible in my brain. His hair fell in long layers, his bangs lying slightly past his brows. As he shoved them off to the side, I caught another glimpse of silver. This was one of those times you felt like you had your television—or in this case, your ears—on mute. I couldn’t hear anything above my own heartbeat. He squatted down to see if I was breathing. But my eyes were open… weren’t they?
    His lips moved.
    I opened my mouth, but my voice went bye-bye. I’m not sure where. It just packed up and made me look like a moron. I fought to catch my breath before trying to sit up, but when the world swam in crushing waves, I lay back down.
    “Easy there, angel,” he murmured softly. “I’m so sorry I hit you.”
    Angel. No one had ever called me “angel” in my short, trouble-filled life. My answer came slowly…then I realized it didn’t come at all. After a few more wordless seconds, “Shoot” finally came out of my mouth while a whole lot of expletives rattled around in my brain.
    No shiz, I sounded like an idiot.
    The frigid air blew so brutally that the breath coming from his mouth was a visible, white air. I sucked in a big gulp, trying to catch it as if my life depended on it. Did I have bad breath? I’d had five hotdogs, for God’s sake. I probably smelled like a gas station vending machine.
    Gently pushing my hair off my face, his smile quirked up cockily at one corner. “And who, pray tell, are you?” he asked.
    His voice robbed me of speech. He had a slight British accent that rang smoothly, pouring out like a steady, warm stream of sanctuary. My heart did a cartwheel, and it felt like a herd of wild horses bucked uncontrollably under my sternum. I wanted to kiss him. Sweet Lord Almighty, I wanted to kiss the guy who nearly killed me with his car. Maybe I was depressed about the holiday season. Maybe I was depressed about my best friend and his probable date. Maybe I was depressed I’d never had a boyfriend, and sweet sixteen had come and waved its depressing butt goodbye. Or maybe I had a major case of the stupids going on because this was the second “car accident” I’d had, and I longed to kiss the guy who did it.
    Before an answer came, he took my right hand and placed it in the outstretched palm of the other guy hanging through the manhole. I grabbed ahold, and in a one-handed strength, he pulled me up to where I promptly sprawled out ungracefully on my arse. My yoga pants hung below my hips. I felt cold air on my butt cheeks. The blood drained from my face as I quickly yanked them up, telling myself not a doggone person saw a thing. This brought up a huge philosophical debate. If you’re not humble in life, then life will thrust humility on you. Been there, done that, even had the t-shirt. Falling on your arse after you’d been hit by a car and fell into a manhole was humbling.
    I’d had my fill.
    Next thing I knew, Silver-Eyed Boy squatted next to me and slid my matted hair off of my face again. Before I could say a word, the door to the bookstore blasted wide with Mr. Belinski walking fast. I wouldn’t actually classify it as running—a turtle ran faster than Mr. B—but he motored nonetheless.
    “What the pork!” he screamed, acting like a badass mofo. Then he