Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Read online

  “Lust,”O.J. says, casting me a scathing glance.

  Do I care I’ve offended his Punjabi values? He needs to get a clue: this is America. Women can wear their lust in public. Anyway, I’m in struck-dumb mode, Cinderella meeting Prince What’s-His-Name for the first time. “Whoa,”I whisper again. It’s all I can say. He’s that hot. Looks like a Viking. Tall, blonde buzz cut, serious athletic build and plenty of coptitude beneath that casual blue windbreaker screaming Newport Police in big white letters across the back. And the way his slacks stretch taut across those powerful thighs? Oh, be still my quivering heated thighs. For once, stop dancing.

  He tosses me a deliciously knowing glance, the dare-you-girl look he locks on me irresistible.

  “I’d let him take me to Valhalla,”I say, swallowing, my breath releasing at last. “I’ve seen zero cops in Goshen who look like that.”

  O.J., herding me down the stage’s plywood steps, looks scornful, like he’s thinking I’m a silly American co-ed dazed by a case of instant lust. He’s right. Unable to resist, I steal a second and then a third look at the cop who’s just stirred an unforgivable Bonnie Parker ache south of my belly button. When O.J. presses into me from behind—“Hurry,”he yells—I recall my mom’s rule. Don’t bring home no damn LEOs. What am I doing lusting after that cop? Everyone in my family hates cops. “I can’t go meet those two,”I say, getting a dizzying whiff of Omar’s bleachy bar rag over my shoulder. “I just . . . can’t.”

  “You want to keep your job?”

  Stupid question. “O.J., what do the LEOs want with me?”

  “Get moving. Go find out.”

  “Keep that bar rag to yourself,”I growl.

  I like to speculate about what brings O.J. from Punjab to the U.S. He’s secretive, doesn’t like people prying. Fortunately, he’s got a warped sense of humor, which Ang and I love. He’s always lecturing us,“You girls dress like in a harem, please. Men love.” Being able to dance barefoot—as O.J. imagines harem girls do—is the reason I took this job, that and the money. Dancing barefoot helps protect my foot. One misstep and my ankle will go—pop! Just like that, and there’ll go my dream. Instead of entering the Rockettes’ jump-the-line competition, I’ll be back in surgery.

  “I must apologize, but please wear no tops when you dance,”O.J. drills, when Angie and I show up bleary-eyed for his stupid team meetings to protest dancing topless. “Not even pastries,”he says, misusing the term“pastries,”but remaining firm, the deep gray sockets beneath his eyes like papery elephant skin. I think he hides a secret gangsta life, but Ang isn’t afraid of him, or anyone. Every time she sees him, she teases,“O.J., would you like coffee with your—pasties?”

  With O.J. clamoring on my heels, I jerk to a stop at the steps’ bottom. “I can’t—”

  “Hurry,”he says, giving me another nudge.

  “Alright,”I say, stalling in the icy strobe lights’ blinding glare. This isn’t like resting my whiney foot and hanging on the banana. I can’t stand around guessing why the LEOs are here. I know. My heart flip-flops. Robin. Has he started using again? My brother’s a recovering meth addict and ex-dealer. Any parole violations and he’s back in prison. He called me this morning. “Lainey,”he said,“I’m gonna be gone for a little while. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “But Rob, you got an appointment with your PO—”

  “Don’t worry so fuckin’ much. I’ll talk to her.”

  “You’re in trouble,”I’d whined. “I can help. Please tell me where you are.”

  Punkass. He never responds when I plead. I’d closed my eyes and imagined explaining Robin’s absence to Sam Duggins, his parole officer, the PO I call“Hellgirl.”

  You seen Robin Colby?

  Nope.

  He’s in parole violation. Cough him up, Miss Colby, or I’ll bust you, too.

  Yeah, right, Hellgirl. I’ll roll over on my brother when pigs freakin’ fly.

  “Trust me,‘Lainey,”Robin had begged. “You gotta trust me.”

  Last time I saw him was Monday, before I left for class. Since he won’t tell me where he is, I’ve been worried he’s using, or worse, that he’s dealing again. I don’t want him going back to prison. It would kill me.

  “Ouch!” A splinter from the dance floor jabs the sole of my bare foot, jolting my mind back from Robin’s problem to my own. Recalling the LEO, I touch my face and worry stupidly about my makeup, about what a zombie I must appear. The LEOs give me a joint visual frisk, the female gawking like she’s never seen an exotic dancer, the hot Viking leader signaling me with a commanding nod toward the DJ’s table. Across the room, our gazes lock. Putting on my most sullen face, I glare back. You want I should trot over to you, all nice and sweet like, and rat out my brother? Is that what you want?

  I’m used to men gawking, but when his challenging gaze of fluid ice and fire sweeps my bare breasts, I feel . . . embarrassed. Gawd. My nipples harden, and not from the room’s air conditioning. I can’t help myself. My body’s reacting like an unruly teenager’s. I feel . . . stupid, and I tell myself so: Alaina, how can you be feeling like this? You just met him. He’s a stranger, a LEO for God’s sake.

  I can’t explain it, but it’s there, the chemistry. No one—no one—could’ve told me how this feels. It this what love at first sight feels like? I wonder.

  “I don’t believe in love at first sight,”I say. I don’t believe in love. Period. It’s a four-letter word if you ask me.

  Taking a few steps backward and holding his gaze, I mouth the word,“Five?” It’s an old con-artist’s trick Berta taught me. When you’re getting busted, beg for time and moon walk backward. The second you’ve put enough distance between you and the cop, run like hell.

  “No,”he mouths back. One hand moves to a holster snugged tight in the depths of his windbreaker, and I feel a little tingle in secret bodily spaces. Danger—and guns—thrill me more than I care to admit.

  His square jaw locks in a hard grimace I recognize from childhood: mean-assed cop stare. Down stage, Tater clamors from his chair, and then Rotty catches my gaze. Another short wiry guy with black hair detaches from a stool at the bar and beelines toward the stage. He’s been loitering all evening, hanging out and drinking soda water, watching me dance, salivating. Cop, I’m guessing, same as the two who’re after me.

  This is getting ugly.

  Thinking fast, I toss my black curly hair off my shoulder. Exposing my breast, I keep moon walking backward. Is it wrong to use my body to distract the Viking cop? I don’t think so. “Gypsy blood,”Berta Colby said, explaining where I got my dark looks. By eighth grade, I’d figured her out: not Gypsy—liar. Her daddy, my grandpa, was a down-at-the heels musician who’d been hitchhiking through Goshen to a gig in Cincinnati. He’d stopped at the Fried Pickle long enough to down a greasy cheeseburger, meet my grandmother who waitressed there, and get her pregnant with my mom, Berta Colby. I’ve never met him, but my cousins tell me I’ve got his genes, the black curly hair and dark eyes, his passion for dance and music. Berta either didn’t want to share that family secret with me, or she didn’t know her family’s ethnicity. Didn’t know a lot of things, turns out. Truth? My grandpa wasn’t a Gypsy, but a handsome black man with a taste for my grandma’s rhubarb pie and fine Gypsy women.

  Holding the cop’s gaze, I inch backward. “Five minutes?”I repeat.

  He motions me toward a folding chair by the DJ’s table, this time with a hard commanding finger jab. “Sit. Over here.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  When he rockets into a forward sprint, his gawky long-legged partner who looks part giraffe right behind him, I turn and bust butt, pumping my legs, but fearful of slipping on Omar’s greasy floor, I protect my ankle. Zigzagging through the cockroach-infested kitchen, I snatch my backpack from O.J.’s Army surplus desk. Digging for my hoodie, I yank it over my head and run.

  When I hit the alley, I hear the cops’ pounding footsteps behind me. I fully expect that big Viking body to crash
me to the ground any second and demand I roll over on Robin. I just keep running, speeding far down the alley. Can I outrun them? The Viking one has long legs, so I know he can run. The female cop with the bleach blonde hair looked athletic, too. Still, I gotta try. Gotta get home and see what Robin’s done before I talk to them. My heart slamming my rib cage, I sprint past the one dumpster all the businesses in the alley share.

  Whap!

  An arm snakes out and yanks me to a halt and ensnares me in a bear hug, spinning me around and lifting me off my feet, backpack and all.

  “Ahhh! What the f—”

  “Alaina, baby, c’mon, stop fighting—”

  Obeying my captor, I go limp in his arms. The second he releases me, I turn and jerk my foot up hard, connecting with that soft vulnerable flesh housed between two beefy thighs.

  Nothing happens, except for a second his eyes cross. Then Tater McCloskey bawls,“You bitch!”

  “Unfreaking believable,”I say, shocked when he collapses. I should be more shocked by the fact he’s out here hiding behind the dumpster, but I’m not. He was practically standing on top of me down stage, so he could’ve easily made it out of Omar’s ahead of me in plenty of time. What’s stumping me is the fact he hit the ground like a wounded bull. I didn’t kick him that hard. I couldn’t have. I’m barefoot.

  “Tate?” I nudge him with the toe of my foot. “Are you dead?”

  “Oh fuck yes,”he gasps.

  “You’re not,”I say, jumping like I’ve been shot, when a man steps from behind the dumpster.

  “This place is popular,”he says, walking toward me, hidden in the alley’s shadow.

  Chapter 3

  For a second, I feel my legs go rubbery, and then I recognize my friend, Stoke Farrel.

  “Blaze,”he says, strolling from the shadows and into the alley’s dim lemony light,“what’s up?”

  “Stoke, what’re you doing here?”

  “No, what are youdoing here?”he asks, casual sounding.

  “I don’t have time to explain,”I say, glancing at Tater, curled into a fetal ball at my feet and then at the taser Stoke’s holding. “You tased him!”I sputter, realizing with sudden clarity why he hit the ground so hard.

  “Yeah,”Stoke cackles, his tone turning dangerous. “He had you in a bear hug, Blaze. He could’ve hurt you.”

  Stoke says I remind him of his mother’s favorite rose, a climber called Blaze. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a mother, but I accept the compliment instead of dwelling on his lack of family history. It’s a sign Stoke’s toxic, but he’s my friend, so I gotta be loyal. Spitting alley grime from my mouth, trying to catch my breath, I pull from his arms. “Let go,”I say, when he holds me a second too long. Glancing behind me, I search for my Viking cop and his long-legged blonde buddy. “Stoke, I gotta get out of here. There’re two cops’re after me—”

  “Yeah, I know. This way,”he says, grabbing my hand and dragging me to this hugeass Coca-Cola truck sitting in the alley, its engine idling.

  “Get in.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way,”Stoke says.

  “Looks like the driver’s unloading syrup and carbonation tanks at Omar’s,”I say. “We better leave it alone. He could come out and catch us—”

  “He could,”Stoke agrees. “Maybe you’d rather talk to those LEOs?”

  Stoke shoves me into the passenger side, slams the door and runs around the truck. Climbing up and into the cab, he takes the driver’s seat. “Ride shotgun,”he orders.

  “Stoke,”I say, rubbing my aching ankle,“this is crazy. This is grand theft.”

  “Nah, Blaze,”he cackles, jamming the gears into drive,“we’re just jackin’ a ride.”

  “And a truckload of trouble,”I say, bending to my knees and pulling my hoodie over my head. It’s inky dark in the truck’s cab, so the cops can’t see me. Beneath my hoodie, I feel like a coward, but hiding from the law is a Colby reflex. It’s built into our genes.

  “Okay,”Stoke admits. “Be right—if you want.”

  Was that a challenge? I jerk upright. “I amright.”

  “Yeah, okay, Blaze. Whatever.” Grabbing a pack of Twizzlers left on the driver’s seat, along with a box of Moon Pies, he rips the plastic open with his teeth and spits out the wrapper. “We’ll sit here‘til your LEOs show up. Maybe by then you’ll decide if you want to jack a ride or not.”

  “B-but we’re stealing,”I say, shooting an anxious gaze behind me, expecting to see the cops come barreling down the alley.

  Stoke sits calm as a midget Buddha, munching Twizzlers.

  “I don’t want to go to j-jail, Stoke. I haven’t made my jump-the-line video.”

  Irritation creeps into his voice. “Blaze, it’s all good, right? Think of us as Robin Hood and his merry men. We’re taking from the rich and giving to the poor”—he points at himself and then at me—“us.”

  “It’s grand theft,”I repeat, refusing to laugh at his stupid joke. “And what were you doing in that alley?”

  “I murdered a girl,”he says.

  “You better be kidding,”I say. “Get this truck moving,”I want to scream, wondering if Tater’s okay. What’s got me feeling really edgy, even more creeped out than Stoke’s remark about murdering a girl, is the idea Stoke tased Tate. “I didn’t know you carried a taser.”

  “Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone?”

  Grabbing the Twizzler’s cardboard wrap, I stuff it inside my backpack between my feet on the floor. “Please stop littering.”

  “Yeah, I will,”he agrees, stuffing another Twizzler into his maw. You’ve seen Jaws, the movie? That shark has no teeth compared to Stoke. “Don’t forget,”Stoke adds, showing off a double row of chompers that shoulda had braces a long time ago,“it’s also fleeing and eluding.”

  “Stop it,”I warn, but my words echo crazily inside my head. I tally the crimes I’ve committed so far. Grand theft auto. Fleeing and eluding.

  “You scared to be arrested, Blaze?”he taunts, digging at my frayed nerves, enjoying squeezing every ounce of fear possible from me, knowing the cops will be on us any second if he doesn’t get the truck moving.

  “Nope,”I lie, listening to him chew candy open mouthed, making little sloshing noises of enjoyment. “But I’m alwayson the lookout for crazies like you, Stoke Farrel.”

  What’s really worrying me is how Stoke rationalizes his criminal actions, like tasing Tater and stealing this Coke truck. “This—is crazy,”I say, and then stupidly take the bait Stoke’s tossed at me. “So what other crimes am I committing?”

  “Robbery.”

  Grand theft auto? Robbery? Plus fleeing and eluding. Crap. There goes my criminal justice career. I sit up, glance behind us. “Stoke, here they come!”

  “Yeah? So.”

  With the truck in park, but keeping his foot on the brake, Stoke guns the accelerator. The engine revs, but we just sit here, the truck in neutral and not moving. “How’s it robbery?”I ask. It’s a stupid question, especially with those cops hot on our butts, but I’m not letting Stoke unnerve me. Folding my arms across my chest, I wait for him to answer, although I’m about to pee my pants.

  “You tell me, Blaze,”he says, cackling again, making me wish he’d learn how to laugh.

  Ha! I won! I exhale when he puts the truck in drive and then floors it.

  The truck lurches forward, the sudden motion giving me whiplash. Thunk. Something flies from the dash and hits me on the head. Peeking from beneath my hoodie, where I’ve again hidden myself, I gaze into the cab’s murk. “Oh, Stoke, no,”I say, swallowing. “What’ve you done?”

  On the seat between us lays a rubber pouch with“First Capital”emblazoned in white letters across its blue front and right underneath it: Omar’s Bar and Exotic Topless Dancing.

  “That’s Omar’s.” I instantly realize why Stoke was in the alley. “You’ve stolen O.J.’s night deposit,”I say, my voice a bare squeak.

  “Yeah? So.” Stoke chews, mouth open. E
ven in the truck cab’s dim interior, light bounces like laser beams from the bone-white surface of his teeth. “Nom-nom,”he says, noshing Twizzlers and hogging the steering wheel like some crazed NASCAR driver.

  I swallow again. “Tell me you didn’t rob Omar’s?”

  “Don’t go nicey-nice on me, Blaze. The money will help pay your tuition this semester.”

  “What about bail? Will it pay my freakin’ bail? And how will you pay it from jail, where they’ll slam your butt, too, when they catch us?”

  I sigh, jam my hands into my hoodie sleeves, and start rubbing my arms. Feeling the scars and scabs from a recent cutting soothes me. “You’re an idiot,”I say.

  “Yeah? So.”

  He’s robbed the bar where I work so I’ll have tuition money. It’s crazy. It’s twisted. It’s wrong. But for a second I feel grateful. I’m tired of dancing topless to a crowd of lecherous truckers, sick of juggling classes and dealing with Robin Colby’s meth addiction and his crazy criminal lifestyle. My dream of making a video for the Rockettes’ jump-the-line competition feels so far away, so far out of reach. Pulling my hands from my hoodie sleeves, I tell myself,“It’s alright.”

  I pray I’m right. I won’t need to cut later, if I can just steady my nerves. Most people don’t understand the reason I cut, but I don’t explain: I cut. It’s that simple.

  “I appreciate this, Stoke,”I say, stretching my hoodie down over my bare legs,“but—

  “Shit.” Behind us, I hear the strident whoop-whoop of an approaching cruiser. The blue and white of flashing light bars re-energizes me. I’m certain they don’t allow tryouts for the Rockettes in jail. “If we make it across the river, we’ll be okay,”I say, wondering what’s taken the cops so long. Maybe one of them must’ve gone back for their cruiser. I hope it was the Viking, not the bleach blonde with the giraffe’s legs. She’d get there and back faster than he could. In either case, we’ve got to get out of here.

  “Bust butt, Stoke!”

  He slams the accelerator to the floor, and the big semi lunges forward, hogging alley.