Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (5 page)

“
Yeah?  So
.
”

H
e’
s robbed the bar where I work so
I’
ll have tuition money.  I
t’
s crazy.  I
t’
s twisted.  I
t’
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 Colb
y’
s meth addiction and his crazy criminal lifestyle.  My dream of making a video for the Rockette
s
’ jump-the-line competition feels so far away, so far out of reach.  Pulling my hands from my hoodie sleeves, I tell myself
,“
I
t’
s alright
.
”

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

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

“
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 do
n’
t allow tryouts for the Rockettes in jail.
 “
If we make it across the river, w
e’
ll be okay
,”
I say, wondering wha
t’
s taken the cops so long.  Maybe one of them mus
t’
ve gone back for their cruiser.  I hope it was the Viking, not the bleach blonde with the giraff
e’
s legs.  Sh
e’
d get there and back faster than he could.  In either case, w
e’
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.

Stok
e’
s right.  This is no time to go nicey-nice.  My brothe
r’
s freedom is at stake.
 “
Cincinnat
i’
s out of Newpor
t’
s jurisdiction, is
n’
t it
?”
I ask, chewing a ragged thumb nail.  While Cincinnat
i’
s in Ohio, i
t’
s still right across the Ohio River from Kentucky.  Still, i
t’
s a totally different jurisdiction, so
I’
m hoping the Viking wo
n’
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.

“
W
e’
re going to wreck!  Yo
u’
re going to kill us
!
”

“
Hold on, Blaze, w
e’
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 w
e’
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 yo
u’
re going
.
” 

H
e’
s gazing at my exposed thighs in the dim glow from the truc
k’
s dash lights.
 “
Do
n’
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.
 “
Yo
u’
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 truc
k’
s wide hips swinging like a mad strippe
r’
s, we zigzag Newpor
t’
s back alleys until we reach the bridge crossing from Kentucky into Ohio.  Soon w
e’
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
,“
Are
n’
t you happy?  W
e’
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 i
t’
s eating away at me.
 “
I shoul
d’
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 hoodi
e’
s pocket, I resist its seductive pull, the urge to apply pressure until I feel the cut, the release.  Why, God, wh
y’
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 truc
k’
s side mirror for the metallic bald head of a Crown Vic and flashing light bars shooting up behind us. 

“
W
e’
ve lost him
,”
I say, relieved w
e’
ve made it to Ohio without being arrested, but still unable to believe i
t’
s possible for a Coke truck to outrun a Crown Vic. 
I’
ve no answer, but
I’
m glad w
e’
ve lost the LEOs.

“
Wh
o’
ve we lost
?”
Stoke says.

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

The memory of his gaze excites me, my heart doing an excruciating little samba, kicking warm fuzzies from my bell
y—
and lowe
r—
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
really
possible?  I ca
n’
t explain the attraction
I’
m feeling.  I
t’
s jus
t—
there.  And i
t’
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.
 “
W
e’
ve lost the cops
.
”
 
Stok
e’
s uncanny about listening in on what
I’
m thinking and, lately, h
e’
s taken to acting possessive, like w
e’
re more than friends.

“
W
e’
re out of their jurisdiction
,”
Stoke says
,“
but Newport will send LEOs from Cincinnati PD looking for this truck an
d
”
—
he point
s
—
“
for that
.
”

For
that
?  What
that
?  I avoid facing the blue First Capital pouch on the seat between us: Oma
r’
s night deposit.  Wha
t’
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.  I
t’
s my permanent ticket out of Goshen, Ohio. 
I’
ll be able to become a cop, or a hellgirl like Sam Duggins, Robi
n’
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 yo
u’
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 sh
e’
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 w
e’
re gonna do about the deposit
,”
I say, hoping Stoke has
n’
t picked up on my lust-filled thoughts for the LEO.  W
e’
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 the
y’
d come looking for Berta or one of her boyfriends, I felt terrified and hid in the bathroom closet.  Angie says i
t’
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
.
”

“
Wha
t’
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 universit
y’
s campus.  W
e’
re two miles from my off-campus apartment, one block from Stok
e’
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 Oma
r’
s night deposit later.

“
This lo
t’
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.  Tha
t’
ll get me home by four-thirty.  I need sleep, but doubt
I’
ll get much, between finding out what Robi
n’
s gotten int
o—
if h
e’
s hom
e—
and studying for my crim quiz at nine, a few hours from now.   

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

He ca
n’
t be serious.  I turn.
 “
Stok
e
—”

“
Come back.  I jacked your ride.  I
robbed
for 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, i
t’
s three in the morning.  I danced my shift plus An
g’
s. 
I’
m tired.  My feet hurt. 
I’
ve got things to d
o
—” 

I refuse to tell him
I’
m worried about Robin.  Wha
t’
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.  I
t’
s where I met him. 

“C’
mon, Blaze.  Help me
,”
he says. 

The cold spring air and glare from the parking lo
t’
s pole lights bathe him in a ghostly light, making him look like Charlie Manson.  H
e’
s pale, the color of marshmallows, except for the brown circles beneath his brown eyes.  Maybe h
e’
s anemic from his diet of Mountain Dew and candy and chips.  I dunno.

“
Okay
,”
I say.  Taking pity on him, I stuff Oma
r’
s bank pouch inside my backpack before dumping it on the parking lo
t’
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 truc
k’
s dash pretty hard with my hands when Stoke braked, so using my hoodi
e’
s sleeve, I wipe it furiously.  I can just imagine my prints smeared all over.
 “
You do
n’
t have to walk me
,”
I say.  Avoiding looking at him, I scrub the steering wheel to remove Stok
e’
s prints.
 “I’
ll be fine.  Really, I will
.
” 

Protecto
r’
s good.  Frien
d’
s okay.  But boyfriend?  Nuh-uh.  Stoke is not, nor will he ever be my boyfriend.  I do
n’
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 wo
n’
t let go
.
” 

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