Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Page 7

  Good luck with that. I hear my sarcastic laugh echo through my brain. Such women are mythical.

  Another unsavory thought follows on that one’s heels. What will I do—what will I do—when I meet the woman who’s to be my wife? How will I recognize her?

  I want to know the answer, so I can run like hell.

  How does any man figure out this quandary? Experience, I guess, happy imagining the women I get to run through before I have to start worrying about meeting my wife, but miserable thinking what it will be like to be—married.

  Aware DeeDee’s staring, I reconnect with reality. “I faxed photos of Megalo Don’s most recent vic to Doc Verbote’s early this morning,”I tell her. “We’ll be swinging by to go over those with him, plus we can share these”—I wave the ones DeeDee and I’ve been looking at over breakfast—“and then we’ll question Alaina Colby.”

  “Where are you parked?”she asks.

  “Over by the levee.”

  “We can take my car if you like—”

  Hell no! “Leave yours in the lot. We’re taking mine.”

  The walk to the levee from Arnee’s gives me the chance to scope out any turf outside the restaurant, any areas LaFiglia might use to run drugs, or worse. Driving my NPD car also helps keep me in control of where and how DeeDee and I travel. I pat my belly, rub my beer bump. “I need the walk after that breakfast,”I say.

  “Yeah, me, too,”DeeDee agrees, shooting me a sour look. She could coach Olympic runners, so her fake humility about her non-existent belly fat turns me cold. I’m not afraid she’ll steal the collar once I catch Megalo Don—and I will. That’s not the problem. It’s knowing that, if I ever let DeeDee Laws into my bed, she’ll take control and turn so mean it’ll make Megalo Don look tame. She’s a wolf in wealthy beauty queen’s body.

  Not that I’m impressed by the fact her family owns half of Newport. My family, the bastard Smalleys, owns the other half, and my adopted dad’s family, from the right side of my family sheets—the Hawks’ side—owns a sizable chunk of Cincinnati. I’m not impressed with the Hawks’ money, any more than I am the Laws’ or the Smalleys’ wealth, but one of the bonuses of being born into it is being able to give back. When I’m finished restoring Hawks’ Opera House, it will give a community theatre to girls less fortunate than DeeDee Laws can even imagine being.

  Girls like—

  I force thoughts of Alaina Colby from my lust ridden brain. What do I care if she was raised in a trailer park? It’s not her fault.

  I check my watch. “Ten forty-five. We’re going to be early. Alaina Colby isn’t due at work until eleven. Doc Verbote says she usually shows up late, some time around eleven-fifteen.”

  I feel sorry for her. School. Two jobs. Yet she’s a kickass git‘r done kind of girl. I like that.

  “Who’s Alaina Colby?”DeeDee demands.

  “She works part-time at Verbote Dental,”I say, leaving out the part where she and a friend stole Theodore McCloskey’s Coke truck. “When we get done with Bite Doc, we’re gonna sweat her down.” I smile to myself. Sweat-down just took on a whole new meaning.

  “I got that part, Aid. But . . . who isshe?”

  “She knew the vic,”I say, irritated but feeling like a heel. It’s my duty to brief DeeDee.

  “She’s not a suspect?”

  “No.”

  She’s not satisfied with my answer. Too bad. I school my face to official blankness, a necessary survival measure against DeeDee’s shrewd inquisitive brain. “She’s a friend of the vic’s,”I say, imagining Alaina’s breasts, the image curling my toes.

  I recall Alaina flinging long black curls, their blue-black gloss shimmering in Omar’s flashing strobe lights. I think of her coltish breasts that could better grace a painting by Raphael than the dim interior of Omar’s topless bar.

  “Dang, Aid, getting info from you is like pulling hens’ teeth.”

  “She dances at Omar’s,”I add, feeling guilty about withholding information,“where Megalo Don’s been dumping his bodies in the alley.”

  Picking up on my defensive tone, she cuts me a sharp look, which sustains my growing suspicion that women like DeeDee seduce and then crush you. I’m having none of that—and none of her. I know who I want, or at least who I’m going to call and ask out. It’s damn well not DeeDee Laws. I get another of those weird prickling sensations on the back of my neck. Telling myself I need to stop thinking about Alaina Colby, I relax. It’s safer to fight the lust DeeDee generates in my groin than it is to give rein to thoughts—incredibly—of marriage and a mysterious future wife.

  My mother would notbe happy I’m fighting the feeling, but fuck it. I’m not husband material.

  Chapter 9

  Is class over? How long have I been sleeping? Gazing around the classroom, I drag open one eyelid and lift my jaw from the desk’s surface. This sucks. Professor Levin wouldn’t let me take my quiz when I showed up fifteen minutes late. “Wait until after class,”he’d ordered. “I have a message to give you.”

  He couldn’t give it to me before class. No. He had to punish me for showing up late, had to make me wait. So I’m sitting here checking out the dull gray concrete block walls, the laminate-topped desks, glaring whiteboard, fluorescent lights. College at its best.

  When class is over, I watch everyone stampede out the door. Finally. I yawn, my brain still buzzing from memories of what happened last night and from a lack of sleep.

  “Ms. Colby, so glad you’ve enjoyed your nap,”Professor Levin says.

  I tense. That’s sarcasm on steroids I hear in his voice. He warned me about being late. I’m scared he’s gonna boot me from class for good. This is an honor’s class, perfect attendance required.

  “I have your message,”he says,“but first—”

  What? I’m on edge waiting for the ax to fall. I watch him toss books into his briefcase, no doubt so he can leave. I don’t blame him. This room really sucks. Even on the few days when I’ve had sleep, its leaden feel sinks me to a new bipolar low.

  “Mmm, a message? Really? What?” Hoping he’s forgotten his promise last week to toss me out of class next time I’m late, I sigh and wipe drool from my desktop. “I’m really sorry I missed my quiz, Doctor Levin. I didn’t get a chance to study last night because—”

  I stop. Brain freeze. Wouldn’t the truth make a better story than anything I can make up? Why did I let Stoke drag me away in that Coke truck? It only added to my long list of crimes. I hate it. Same MO, I think, analyzing myself as I would any criminal. I’m self destructive. Bent on harming myself, destroying my life before I’ve even had the chance to salvage it from my horrid past.

  Professor Levin stops jamming papers into his briefcase and shakes his head in that slow, reproachful way I’ve come not to like because it feels personal. It’s a look that says I’m his first—and only—lost cause, a look that says loser.

  I want to tell him,“I’m tired. Being Omar’s best exotic dancer affects me academically. I want to study and show up for class on time, like my classmates, the middle class whiney heads from Hyde Park. But I have to work so I can pay my tuition and take care of myself and Robin. I’m trapped.”

  I doubt he gives a crap, so instead of unloading my personal drama, I keep quiet and listen.

  “I’m upset you missed my quiz,”he says.

  He looks like a Baptist minister from Goshen. Silver gray hair. Baleful blue eyes. Strict frown. I want to react to his lecture, but I can’t. I don’t want to upset him. Professor Levin wrote letters to help me get my scholarship. He looks judgmental, but he’s not. He’s been kind, helpful, more of a friend than I deserve.

  “Uh-huh. I understand,”I say, processing the drop in my GPA. If I lose my scholarship, I could end up owing the college money, maybe even having to move home.

  “I’m sorry,”I offer. Lame. Purely lame. I hold my breath, still waiting. When’s the ax going to fall?

  “You’re my brightest student, Ms. Colby,”he continues. His shoulde
rs sagging like he’s the one about to walk the plank instead of me, he stares like I’m the biggest disappointment ever. “And I’m not saying this because you carry a four-oh like your . . . friend.” He rolls his eyes, like he’s expecting Stoke Farrel to swing down from the overhead projector attached to the ceiling, behaving like some unruly monkey. “If you work hard,”he drones on,“I have friends right here in Cincinnati I could introduce you to after graduation—”

  Happy he’s not going to boot me from class, I feel the tension loosening in my shoulders, but hide my smile. Does he have visions of me becoming the next Sonia Sotomayor or some such crazy idea? That’s not my dream. My Bachelor’s in criminology will get me a job and pay my bills in New York. It’ll help me take care of Robin.

  So I’m not fated to become a Supreme Court justice. Why doesn’t Professor Levin get that? Why doesn’t anyone, including God—Dude, I resent your crappy deal!—get it?

  “Are you listening?” Professor Levin stops lecturing and stares at me, his diamond in the rough. Or maybe I’m no diamond. Maybe I’m just rough.

  “Yeah, I’m listening.”

  “Alaina, you’ve got a bright future, but if you can’t get to class, if you don’t want to work like your classmates—”

  Like the other zombies! I zone out, letting my professor rant. I’m so tired I no longer care if he tosses me out.

  “—then it’s your life.”

  He snaps his briefcase shut. Gazing over his glasses’ rims with that alarming judgmental glare, he pins me to my desk. “There’s nothing I can do to help you. It’s your future, not mine.”

  You got that right, I want to scream. It’s my future—mine. Wishing he’d stop lecturing and give me my freakin’ message, I sneak my hand into my pocket. Fingering my razor blade, I stare straight at Professor Levin, feeling my flesh give as I push against the thin blade, I stew about the bad turn my life seems hell bent on taking.

  This is Robin’s fault.

  I press harder, feel skin give away to the blade’s pressure.

  If he’d told me where he is, I’d have gotten sleep. I’d have studied for my crim quiz—

  Harder. The razor slices the thin layer of meaningless ephemera—me—exposing what’s lurking underneath . . . the part no one sees.

  I hate Robin! I hate Berta! I hate all Colbys!

  When I got back to my apartment sometime around four-thirty this morning, he’d not shown up. I’d called Robin’s friends, checked hospitals, the morgue, everywhere except police stations, a last stop on every Colby’s BOLO list. I almost called my mom, but didn’t, subconsciously fearing I’d find him. He only goes there when he’s using, or when he’s about to be busted. It’s a last resort for him. He and Berta don’t get along. I understand. I don’t care much for Mom, either. When people ask, I tell them,“I don’t have a mother.”

  “Trust me,”Robin had begged on the phone when we’d last talked on Monday. He doesn’t understand why I don’t?

  My headache exploding, I ease my hand from my hoodie’s pocket, roll my fingers together, feel my blood’s stickiness, feel it drying up and disappearing, like I want to.

  Feeling the release from cutting, I rest my head against my elbow. Bleh, bleh, bleh. On Professor Levin goes, ranting. It’s your life you’re wasting. Why don’t you talk to me?

  How easy it would be to quit school. I could go back to my apartment and sleep. I could stop worrying about my shot four-oh GPA and losing my scholarship. I could just—forget everything. I’ve had one hour of sleep. I got it right here, waiting like Professor Levin ordered for class to be over. I had no time last night to study for my quiz.

  “Here, Ms. Colby. Your message.” Professor Levin nudges me awake. Lucky my face, propped up by my elbow, doesn’t hit the desk.

  “Thanks,”I say, so embarrassed I don’t ask who the note’s from.

  “Sure thing,”he says.

  Baptist minister’s blue eyes—judging. Message must not be so good. On his way out of the classroom, probably to go save the soul of some student worth his time, my prof plunks the note on my desk.

  I read it. Call me before eleven today. It’s urgent. Detective Hawks.

  He’s found me. No surprise.

  I crush the note between white knuckled-fingers, the thin red cuts from my razor visible to anyone with the guts to look. Whatever Robin’s done, it must be bad.

  “Arrogant bastard,”I spit into the classroom’s emptiness, hating Detective Hawks. Just think, I was turned on by that badass LEO’s hot marauding gaze—

  I’d cry, but that’s not my style: I’d rather cut.

  “Arrogant bastard,”I murmur again.

  “Who’s an arrogant bastard?”

  I jump in my seat and turn.

  Chapter 10

  “Heya, Blaze.” Stoke’s leaning against the classroom’s back wall, hands stuffed in his pockets. He waves. “So who’s earned my lady’s wrath this morning?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Where’d you come from?”

  I left him sleeping on my couch this morning. After walking me home last night, he wouldn’t leave like he’d promised. Instead, he’d crashed on my couch, leaving me to search for Robin.“Too tired to go home,”he’d said. Like I wasn’t too tired? Like I didn’t need sleep?

  “My lady,”Stoke says,“Do we not share the same crim class?”

  “You mean—?”

  “Yeah, I came to class and took the quiz, then went to Starbucks.”

  “Uh . . . great,”I say, burning with anger I can’t justify. It’s not his fault I didn’t get any sleep. It’s just that the whole situation irritates me. Even if I hadn’t spent the only time I had left last night—or early this morning before class—searching for Robin, I couldn’t have slept with Stoke camping out in my living room.

  Trotting to the whiteboard, he pulls a Twizzler from his pocket. It’s left over from last night and pretty beat up. Pretending it’s chalk, he scrawls madly on the whiteboard. Clipping his speech like Doctor Levin does, he shakes the Twizzler at me in mock rebuke. “If you don’t want to do the work, Ms. Colby, it’s your life, not mine,”he says, leaving no doubt he’s heard everything my prof and I discussed.

  I keep trying not to blame Stoke, but the burning bubbles up from my belly and erupts like lava into my throat, so hot I can’t swallow. Stoke made me stay and wipe that Coke truck last night, and then he slept on my couch. Now he’s not only rested, but he’s suckin’ down a Starbucks andhe’s managed to beat me to class and take the crim quiz.

  And now he’s got the gall to laugh in my face, to mock our prof?

  At times, my self appointed protector acts like a thoughtless punkass. Right now, I want to strangle him.

  “Stop,”I say. “Make fun of me if you want, but not Professor Levin. I like him.”

  “Sorry,”he says, fighting to sober his expression, stifling a cackle. “I’ll help you study for our next quiz if you’d like.” The next instant, completely ignoring the fact he’s just apologized, he’s slamming two books together, once again mocking Professor Levin shutting his briefcase. “Don’t want Polyanna losing her scholarship, do we?”

  Stoke’s an honor student—hard to believe, but he is. I am, too, or at least I was. “You’re an idiot,”I say. Pulling down my hoodie sleeves and clasping my hands inside, I argue with myself. Why am I acting so hostile toward my friend? He’s just trying to cheer me up.

  “Sorry,”I say. “I’m in a mood, okay?” I get up from my desk. “I gotta get outta here, Stoke.” To escape you and your ugly face, your silly play acting. I don’t say it. I hate feeling like this. It’s unlike me to rag on my friends.

  “Damn!”I stop in the classroom doorway on my way out.

  “What?” Stoke jams into me from behind, his hands all over my hips before he lets go with an,“Oopsie. Sorry.”

  I turn, give him a sharp look. Is he invading my personal space on purpose lately? Or is it just me? “You look . . . like . . . Versace in Goodwill grunge,”I say.
It’s all I can think of at the moment. I’m so shaken from the feel of his hands on my body. It’s one of those moments, when you realize your friend has a serious ick factor.

  Why do I feel so hateful toward him?

  I rake my gaze across Stoke. He’s clean-shaven, had a shower. He even got sleep. That pisses me off all over again.

  “Thanks for the compliment, Blaze. I’ve always loved Versace.”

  He tucks thumbs beneath the collar of his chocolate brown Goodwill fake leather bomber jacket. He wears it, even though it’s spring. I take wry note of his butterscotch colored cords three inches too short and a red and orange striped scarf. I especially hate the scarf. It matches his socks. What an amazing feat, those mated socks. I imagine him pawing through Goodwill bins, searching for the only matching pair of ugly socks in Cincinnati.

  Stoke’s the most persistent person I’ve ever known, and pretty sneaky, too. If he can avoid being kicked out of the university’s criminology program, he’ll make a great CIA agent.

  “You like?”he says, slinging the scarf with a cavalier swish around his neck.

  “It’s ugly,”I say, withholding my usual compliments, my do-gooder efforts to make my friend feel better about his grungy appearance. “It’s unflattering to your skinny weasel neck.”

  I’m searching for my backpack. I forgot it in my rush to escape the classroom—and Stoke. I run back to my desk. “It’s not here. Where is it?”

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” He walks over and kicks my backpack from beneath Professor Levin’s desk.

  “You . . . you hid it on purpose to piss me off.”

  I lunge toward him, ready to choke Stoke’s scrawny neck. “Don’t ever do that to me again. O.J.’s bank deposit’s in there,”I hiss. “I told you I have to get that money to the bank before he finds out it’s gone.”