Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Page 3

  Stoke’s right. This is no time to go nicey-nice. My brother’s freedom is at stake. “Cincinnati’s out of Newport’s jurisdiction, isn’t it?”I ask, chewing a ragged thumb nail. While Cincinnati’s in Ohio, it’s still right across the Ohio River from Kentucky. Still, it’s a totally different jurisdiction, so I’m hoping the Viking won’t come chasing us once we make it to Ohio.

  “Doubtful,”Stoke says. Kicking the gas pedal and hugging the steering wheel, he makes a hard right out of the alley, the truck rounding the corner on two wheels.

  “We’re going to wreck! You’re going to kill us!”

  “Hold on, Blaze, we’re fine.”

  We careen down alleys and bump across parking lots, the speed bumps jamming my teeth into my skull, but for a heartbeat, I dare believe we’ve lost the cops. How can that be? No one outruns a Crown Vic in a Coke truck, do they? Kicking back and trying to relax, I order Stoke,“Turn on the heater. I’m freezing. And,”I add,“watch where you’re going.”

  He’s gazing at my exposed thighs in the dim glow from the truck’s dash lights. “Don’t want to,”he says. “You look scrumptious half naked.”

  Creepy. I jerk my jeans from my backpack and wiggle into them fast. “Pay attention,”I warn again. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

  “Believe me, I’m paying attention.”

  “Whatever,”I say, ignoring his leer. I’ve got to find Robin before the LEOs do.

  The truck’s wide hips swinging like a mad stripper’s, we zigzag Newport’s back alleys until we reach the bridge crossing from Kentucky into Ohio. Soon we’re tooling across the Big Mac Bridge and into Cincinnati. The big Coke truck lunges from the bridge. Feeling the tires digging in and grabbing concrete, like the claws of some mythical creature, I exhale. This is home turf. Yet my teeth are still chattering. I gaze straight ahead, the urge to cut, to feel skin giving way to my razor blade, is so strong I could scream.

  Stoke asks,“Aren’t you happy? We’ve just rumbled into home base.”

  “No.”

  My gut keeps sinking, while the urge to cut grows. I’ve made a really stupid decision, like always, and it’s eating away at me. “I should’ve stayed back there and talked with those LEOs instead of running.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I’ve no clue,”I lie. But when I get my hands on my punkass brother, I’m going to kill him. Running the tip of my thumb across the razor blade tucked inside my hoodie’s pocket, I resist its seductive pull, the urge to apply pressure until I feel the cut, the release. Why, God, why’d you make me a crip and a Colby?

  Chapter 4

  “Pull over here!”I yell.

  “As you wish, my lady,”Stoke says, lapsing into his ridiculous Robin Hood and Maid Marian speak. He says he was in theatre before he changed his major to criminology. I heard he got kicked from the program for not showing up for play practice. No surprise.

  When Stoke hits the brake, I smack the dash with outstretched hands to keep from going through the windshield, and then I sit glaring at him. “I’ve no time for your stupid theatrics,”I chide. Rubbing my wrists, I check the truck’s side mirror for the metallic bald head of a Crown Vic and flashing light bars shooting up behind us.

  “We’ve lost him,”I say, relieved we’ve made it to Ohio without being arrested, but still unable to believe it’s possible for a Coke truck to outrun a Crown Vic. I’ve no answer, but I’m glad we’ve lost the LEOs.

  “Who’ve we lost?”Stoke says.

  His look of unconcern about the fact we’ve just outran the cops in a major chase floors me. Why isn’t he worried? “The cop,”I say, remembering his gaze, like a hard ocean wind sweeping my breasts. The LEO. “We’ve lost the cop.”

  The memory of his gaze excites me, my heart doing an excruciating little samba, kicking warm fuzzies from my belly—and lower—up to my smitten brain. Is this a simple case of lust? Undeniably, yes. I’ve felt it before, but this feels different. Is love at first sight reallypossible? I can’t explain the attraction I’m feeling. It’s just—there. And it’s exquisite. I felt the most peculiar feeling the second he touched me with his gaze, like a heated tickling mixed with wonder. How can this be happening?

  “Cops,”I say, correcting myself. “We’ve lost the cops.” Stoke’s uncanny about listening in on what I’m thinking and, lately, he’s taken to acting possessive, like we’re more than friends.

  “We’re out of their jurisdiction,”Stoke says,“but Newport will send LEOs from Cincinnati PD looking for this truck and”—he points—“for that.”

  For that? What that? I avoid facing the blue First Capital pouch on the seat between us: Omar’s night deposit. What’ll happen if I’m arrested for grand theft auto, or worse, for robbery?

  I’ve got a minor in dance, but I chose criminology as my major because it means future access to a job, to money. It’s my permanent ticket out of Goshen, Ohio. I’ll be able to become a cop, or a hellgirl like Sam Duggins, Robin’s parole officer. My advisor says with my grades I can even apply to the FBI.

  And I’m risking it all to protect Robin? How lame is that? Loving your brother so much you’d sacrifice your career? Ang says at some point I better realize I’m not making extreme sacrifices for Robin, but for deeper reasons, like compensating for how I was raised. Maybe she’s right. Thinking of my past and my dysfunctional family, I reach inside my hoodie pocket for my razor. The urge to cut gripping me, I squeeze my hands between my legs to stop myself. Not here. Not now. I need to hold myself together. I need to find Robin.

  “I know what we’re gonna do about the deposit,”I say, hoping Stoke hasn’t picked up on my lust-filled thoughts for the LEO. We’re friends, nothing more, so Stoke has no reason to be jealous of a cop, especially one I’ve never met but just led on a high speed chase. I’m down with the idea of becoming a LEO or even an FBI agent. I gotta make a living. But sleeping with one? Nuh-uh. Never ever. When I was growing up, cops spent more time at our house than my mother. When they’d come looking for Berta or one of her boyfriends, I felt terrified and hid in the bathroom closet. Angie says it’s ironic I’d end up majoring in criminology, instead of dance. I remind her I’m responsible for supporting myself and Robin. I have to make a living, something few dance majors do.

  “What are your plans for the deposit?”Stoke asks.

  “Ditch the truck,”I say. “Then I’ll tell you. Right now, I need to get home.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  I ignore him. “You can let me off here. Park this truck.”

  He noses the big truck into an empty parking lot the size of a football field near the university’s campus. We’re two miles from my off-campus apartment, one block from Stoke’s, so I figure we can leave the truck for the cops to find, and then Stoke and I can hoof our way home from here. I’ll deal with Omar’s night deposit later.

  “This lot’s too well lit,”I say, images of me wearing prison orange making me change my mind. “Someone might see us.”

  “Yeah? So,”Stoke says, braking hard.

  “See you tomorrow in class,”I say, grabbing my backpack and the First Capital deposit pouch. “Just leave the truck parked here.” Tumbling from the truck, I start jogging. I’ll cut across campus, and then I’ll swing through Clifton, a couple of miles downhill from campus. That’ll get me home by four-thirty. I need sleep, but doubt I’ll get much, between finding out what Robin’s gotten into—if he’s home—and studying for my crim quiz at nine, a few hours from now.

  “Whoa, Blaze,”Stoke yells. “Before you haul ass, we’re wiping this truck.”

  He can’t be serious. I turn. “Stoke—”

  “Come back. I jacked your ride. I robbedfor you, Blaze. I even tased that big-bellied fat boy back there in the alley to save you. The least you can do is help me wipe this bastard down before the LEOs get their hands on it.”

  I frown. Did I ask him to tase Tater? Did I ask him to jack a Coke truck or rob for me? “Stoke, it’s three in the m
orning. I danced my shift plus Ang’s. I’m tired. My feet hurt. I’ve got things to do—”

  I refuse to tell him I’m worried about Robin. What’s it his business? “Do I have to remind you I need to study for my crim quiz at nine o’clock?” I glare at him. Stoke and I both take that class. It’s where I met him.

  “C’mon, Blaze. Help me,”he says.

  The cold spring air and glare from the parking lot’s pole lights bathe him in a ghostly light, making him look like Charlie Manson. He’s pale, the color of marshmallows, except for the brown circles beneath his brown eyes. Maybe he’s anemic from his diet of Mountain Dew and candy and chips. I dunno.

  “Okay,”I say. Taking pity on him, I stuff Omar’s bank pouch inside my backpack before dumping it on the parking lot’s tarmac. “But then I gotta get home and study before our nine o’clock.”

  “Help me,”he says,“and then I’ll walk you.”

  “Uh, no,”I say, trying to get rid of him without hurting his feelings. “I’ll be okay.”

  I smacked the truck’s dash pretty hard with my hands when Stoke braked, so using my hoodie’s sleeve, I wipe it furiously. I can just imagine my prints smeared all over. “You don’t have to walk me,”I say. Avoiding looking at him, I scrub the steering wheel to remove Stoke’s prints. “I’ll be fine. Really, I will.”

  Protector’s good. Friend’s okay. But boyfriend? Nuh-uh. Stoke is not, nor will he ever be my boyfriend. I don’t want him walking me home and getting ideas. “I’m a Colby,”I say, joking to lighten the uncomfortable moment. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ll walk you,”he says, ignoring my previous no.

  A dark cloud of anger hangs dead center in the spot above my eyeballs. I want to say,“I hate the way you latch on to me when I’m around Angie and won’t let go.”

  It’s like Stoke doesn’t want me with Ang. There’s no love lost between those two. Ang says Stoke’s a maniac like Ted Bundy. He is—a maniac, I mean. But he’s my friend, too, same as Ang, and he’s tolerable part of the time. I’m not sure why I don’t say anything when he gets pissy, like now. Maybe I need a crazy friend who thinks he’s Robin Hood, who at least tries to be my protector. Other than Robin, I have no one who cares for me.

  “You have to walk through Clifton and then across the viaduct and down into Over-the-Rhine,”he says. “No one should be caught alone there at night.”

  Stoke’s right. The skinheads have taken over the neighborhood. It’s not safe. “Whatever,”I say, giving in and agreeing to let him walk me to my apartment. “But once we’re there, you gotta leave. You can’t come in.”

  “Why not?”

  Stoke sounds calm, but I see his fleeting angry look.

  “Robin’s not gonna like you showing up at this hour, that’s why,”I explain. I don’t tell him Robin’s gone but I don’t know where. I can’t have Stoke staying all night at my place. Besides, I figure, what’s it Stoke’s business where my brother is?

  “I’m finished,”I say. Giving the truck a final swipe, I scoop my backpack from the concrete, and then toss it over my shoulder.

  “Since when’s Robin making decisions for you, Blaze?”

  Ignoring his question, I watch Stoke inspect the truck door on my side, squinting in the fluorescent glow from the light pole to see if I’ve left fingerprints on the paint. “What? Do you think you’re a freakin’ ICE agent? Stoke, hurry up.”

  “You missed a print, Blaze,”he says, and then elbows the door, wiping away imaginary prints with his sleeve.

  “Look, the cops’re not gonna bust their butts searching for us,”I say. Not for a pimply-faced student and an exotic dancer who’ve jacked a Coca-Cola truck. “It’s not like they’re looking for a serial killer, Stoke.”

  “Yeah, and you know that how?”

  “Not funny,”I laugh, recalling his remark earlier about murdering a girl in the alley behind Omar’s. “Stop making jokes like that.”

  Robin and Ang both swear Stoke wants me, that he’s in love with me. He’s never made one move. The comment earlier tonight about me looking scrumptious half naked doesn’t count. Good thing, too. It’s creepy even imagining doing anything with Stoke. One of these days, I’ll lose my Colby temper and tell him he’s got a serious ick factor he needs to address.

  “Let’s go,”I say, bouncing on my toes like I’m en pointe. Stoke’s a pain, but he’d do anything for me. “I’d kill for you,”he’s always reminding me. I’m an idiot for mistrusting him. Besides, his wanting me—if what Ang and Robin say is true—and his being the next Ted Bundy, are a long way apart, two totally different things. “Stoke, c’mon. I’m bare foot. It’s cold out here.”

  Ignoring me, he takes another swipe at the truck, deliberately pissing me off. But if I say anything, he’ll just go even slower. “Okay—whatever.” I dig my beat-up Nikes from my backpack and stuff my bare feet inside, don’t even bother tying them. “C’mon, Stoke,”I say, finally losing patience. “Didn’t I just tell you? The cops’re not gonna run prints on a jacked Coca-Cola truck.”

  He shoots me a scowl. “Blaze, don’t you see? That cop was chasing youwhen we jacked this baby.” He gives the truck door an obscene rub with his hip. “I’m not protecting my ass. I’m trying to protect you.”

  I stop my heel-to-toe rocking. He’s right. The cops showed up at Omar’s tonight looking for me. They’ve no idea who Stoke Farrel is. They chased us from Newport because they saw him pushing my butt inside the Coke truck. Hmmm. I stare at the red and white behemoth—things do notgo better with Coke—self loathing bubbling like acid in my belly. I shouldn’t have let Stoke whisk me away from the cops back at Omar’s like some Prince Charming come to my rescue. But how can I blame him? This entire predicament is my fault. I shouldn’t have taken off running. I give myself a mental butt kick. Is it Stoke’s fault I keep making crappy decisions?

  No, it’s Berta Colby’s fault. Everything is her fault.

  “I just want to go home,”I say. Feeling a lifetime of screams racing for my lips, I begin mentally counting the scars on my forearm. There’s one for the day Berta Colby first called me“Crip,”even when I begged her not to. There’s one for the day I found out I’ll need more surgeries if my ankle pops back out. And there’s one for—oh, who cares? Stop thinking about cutting, I tell myself, fighting against my self pity, my need to reach into my hoodie and touch the razor’s thin blade.

  “Did you hear what I just told you?”Stoke says. “They’re after you, not me.”

  “Stoke, don’t you get it? I. Don’t. Care. I just want to go home!”

  “You should care.”

  “Why? Are you the behavior police, telling me what to do?” I shoot him a hard glare, letting him know I’m sick of his attitude.

  He carefully hides another fleeting look of anger.

  “Dammit, Stoke, I gotta find my brother. I need to talk to him, so c’mon—please.”

  “Yeah, okay. Sure.” Twizzler shards poking from between his teeth, he tosses me a wide-mouthed grin. “Anything for my Blaze.”

  “I’m not your—”

  What the hell? Let him call me whatever silly name he chooses. We’re back to normal, whatever that is. I shrug, take off walking. How’d I get lucky enough to hook up with the only fucktard on campus who quotes Robin Hood while robbing banks and tasing truckers?

  Chapter 5

  “It’s so quiet here at this time of night. I mean, this time of the morning,”NPD’s newest rookie, Detective DeeDee Laws says.

  “Yup,”I agree, a cup of java in one hand and an inch thick printout on Theodore McCloskey, aka“Tater,”in the other, as DeeDee trails me, looking like she could spit nails. I ignore her. At this hour, even the drunk tank residents have quieted down. No yelling about civil rights violations—and my ignorance of their constitutional rights. Damn! There’s nothing I like better than a late night or, more accurately, an early morning sweat down. Then again, there’s nothing I hate worse than figuring out who put a young girl’s body
in the alley behind Omar’s.

  I shake my head, recalling the visual and trying to imagine the vic’s life. She had it all ahead of her, but not now. All she’s got now is a slab in the morgue—and me.

  “I got nothing good to say about a man who gets his jollies in titty bars,”I tell Rookie Laws,“but I have to be honest: I don’t think he’s my perp.”

  “Then, why can’t I at least listen in while you—?”

  “No, I got this one,”I say, shutting the door to interview room 2.

  “Long night, officer?”Theodore asks.

  Before I even sit down, he’s cozying up. It’s a common tactic, pre-empting the sweat-down with a swipe at civility. I don’t bother pointing to my badge. “A.G. Hawks,”I want to tell him—DetectiveAidan Gerard Hawks to you. But I crush the pompous impulse. Pomposity’s not good sweat-down etiquette. “Yeah, bro,”I say, playing along. What Theodore doesn’t know is that once I close the door to the interview room, there are no rules, except mine. “I’ve had a helluva long night.”

  I swung by Omar’s earlier tonight to warn Omar Jain’s“girls”—his name for them, not mine—about safety. This is a fact I don’t share with my perp. One of‘em’s got to know something, I’d figured. Two other dancers have turned up dead in the alley behind the bar, and tonight we found another. That’s three in the last two months, a problem for Newport PD.

  My other problem is the hot little dancer who’s alive, the one who runs like a fucking gazelle. Alaina Colby took off like a bat out of hell when I showed up. She and a friend jacked my suspect’s Coke truck after she shot out of Omar’s.

  “What about you,”I ask, affable-like, one bud to another. “Looks like your evening got out of control?”

  I slap his rap sheet down on the table and watch his eyes slide sideways. He’s still fuzzy headed from the tasing someone gave him. He’ll swear NPD did it, but we didn’t. Wes roughed him up a little, but I’m sure Theodore knows what the computer printout’s about. It’s thick enough to stop a bullet. “Maybe you and that little pole dancer had a disagreement? You got angry?”