Taking Mine (12 page)

“First of all,” I say, holding up a finger. “You said you were bad luck first. Second, Chuck's is already back in business, so no harm done. And third, saving me from the cops is enough retribution in my book.”

“But you still think I'm bad luck?” His smile is teasing as he stands. It's now that I notice he's wearing flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt, his scruff a tad bit longer than he normally allows it to get.

“Were you sleeping?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable in my jeans and v-neck.

He looks down at his clothes as he scrubs his cheek, trying to hide the color in them. “Uh, no. I'm ashamed to admit I haven't put on real clothes all day. I kind of played hooky.”

“I wish.”

“Anytime you need a breather, you're more than welcome to come hang out.” He digs around in the fridge. “Want something to drink? I've got water or beer.”

“Water is fine.”

“I was about to order dinner. Does pizza sound good to you?”

“As long as I get to pick the toppings.” He gives me a hesitant look. “Extra cheese and pineapple.”

“No,” he says, horrified. “Absolutely not. We'll do half and half.”

He tosses me the remote while he orders the pizza. I take a sip of my water and look around his apartment. It’s a small one-bedroom layout, just enough space for one person. The kitchen takes up the entire back wall with a low breakfast bar separating it from the living area. His furniture consists of a navy blue couch and matching recliner, a small coffee table, and a mounted flat screen. There’s nothing else of significance.

“What,” he says after he hangs up the phone.

“How long have you lived here?”

He thinks for a moment. “About a year and a half. Why?”

I make a point to look around the room. “There are no decorations.”

He glances at the empty space around him and shrugs. “I’m a guy.”

It's not just that though. It's the lack of knick-knacks. There's no loose change or receipts or loose items of clothing littering the floor or hanging up. There's nothing to distinguish that someone actively lives here.

He runs his thumb over his lip again, and it dawns on me that it’s a nervous tick. He catches me staring and drops his hand.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” I say, facing the issue head-on.

We stare at each other in silence.

“This is not going to be weird because we’re not going to let it,” he says, an air of authority in his voice. “I’m going to go outside and smoke, and when I come back things are going to be normal.”

I nod in agreement.

I wait until the door shuts behind him before sagging back into the couch. This is proving to be more awkward than I thought it would be. Why am I doing this to myself? An annoying voice in the back of my mind whispers,
It's because he makes you
feel, and it sounds like the creepy creature from The Lord of the Rings.

Shaking off a chill, I straighten myself, determined to not over think anything. Literally, my goal for the night is to think about as little as possible and still be considered a living entity.

Justin comes barging back inside, this time a pizza box in hand. “One pizza pie, half amazing goodness and half nasty Hawaiian shit.” He drops the box on the coffee table and points at me with new energy radiating through him. “I'm going to change. Be ready to leave when I come out.”

“Wait, what?” I say to his back as he's already walking away.

“Five minutes,” he says in warning.

“What about the pizza?” I yell loud enough for him to hear me through his bedroom door.

“Bringing it with us. The food at the bowling alley is stupid expensive,” he calls back.

“Why are we going bowling?”

This time I don't get a response.

“
BOWLING IS THE BEST
American sport there is. Other than baseball, of course.”

“No it’s not,” I say, lacing up my shoes. “Bowling predates America. They found artifacts dating back to before Christ.”

He stops tying his shoes, turning to look at me. “You've just had that stored in your head?”

I shrug. “I took Sports History my freshman year. It was one of the things that stuck for some reason. Ask me what I had for breakfast—couldn't tell you.”

“A blueberry muffin and coffee with cream.”

My heart stops.

He rolls his eyes. “You have the same thing every morning at the cafe. I think you're the only one who doesn't realize it.”

Justin makes the smoothest transition from unmanageable awkwardness to easygoing effortlessly, and it occurs to me that he can make my mood reflect his. It's hard not to smile when he smiles, hard not to laugh when he laughs. He's contagious.

I've caught the type-A strand of the Justin-flu.

“I hate to tell you this,” I say as I watch him put our names up on the board. “But I'm about to school you with my bowling skills.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, smiling. “Sports History must be really hands-on.”

“Come to think of it, the teacher was kind of touchy-feely.”

He takes a seat on one of the plastic chairs, waving me first. “Show me what you got.” I sift through the bowling balls, trying to determine the one that feels best. “Today,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice, urging me to hurry up.

I sneer at him, choosing a random ball near me. “You can't rush perfection.”

He snorts.

Holding the ball close to my chest, I let out a breath as I move forward, releasing it at just the right angle. It’s a strike. My smile is cocky as I turn to face Justin. “Did I mention I’m going to kick your ass?”

“I thought you were joking.”

Justin looks slightly less intimidated as he stands for his turn. He takes longer than I do to pick a bowling ball, his face serious as he decides.

“Today,” I tease, laughing when he shoots me a look.

His first bowl only knocks down half the pins, and I bite my lip, fighting back a smile.

“Just getting warmed up,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

This time, he knocks down the rest of the pins, garnering a spare. He beams a triumphant smile as he turns around, dancing to the pop music playing overhead. I laugh, impressed by his smooth moves. His dancing is reminiscent of an eighties version of Michael Jackson, just a little less coordinated.

“It’s on,” he says, dropping onto the seat next to me.

“I’m still ahead of you.”

“Not for long.”

We spend the rest of the first game volleying back and forth. Anytime either one of us pulls ahead, the loser definitely knows it. The teenage girls next to us certainly enjoy when Justin is ahead and they’re graced with his awesome dance moves. I enjoy them too, but not enough to go easy on him.

We’re on the last frame and we’re almost tied. Whoever scores the most on this bowl wins. I’m gearing up to throw a second strike when I trip over something invisible, causing me to drop the ball. It spins in the wrong direction and rolls into the gutter. I look down, trying to find what made me stumble, and see my shoelaces are untied.

Justin starts laughing.

“This isn’t fair,” I say, not stopping the whine coming through. “Why didn’t you tell me my shoe was untied?”

“Then I would have missed the wonderful sight of you failing,” he says, a very pleased smile gracing his lips. “Now, step back so I can show you how it’s done.”

I’m angry. Losing over something so incredibly dumb leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Refusing to be outdone, I sneak behind him as he positions to throw and I grab the ball. It causes him to lose his grip, and the ball slips from his hand, rolling straight into the gutter, leaving the score in my favor by four points.

“Hey,” he barks, incredulous. “Now that’s not fair. I get a redo.”

“Nope,” I say, covering the reset button on the console when he reaches for it. “I won fair and square.”

“You cheated!”

Playing coy, I shrug. “Prove it.”

He can’t believe my audacity, his tongue shoved into the side of his cheek. “I’ll prove it,” he says, right before he throws me over his shoulder.

“Justin, put me down,” I shout, trying to sound authoritative upside down.

“Admit you cheated.”

“Never.”

“Have it your way, then.” He repositions me on his shoulder and begins walking as he yells, “I’ve got a cheater over here!”

“Justin!”

“She's really awful and mean and downright—”

“Okay, okay,” I yell, trying to cut off the rest of his words with mine. “Okay, I cheated. Put me down.”

As he bends over and sets me upright, all of the blood rushes from my head to my feet and I’m dizzy for a moment. But it doesn’t take me long to notice the people staring. Not to mention the group of girls next to us giggling like hyenas.

I glare at him. “Asshole.”

His mouth drops open, huffing out a laugh. “I’m not the asshole, cheater,” he says, poking me in the shoulder.

I slap his hand away. “You’re just a sore loser.”

He gives me a look, and I already know I’m going back over his shoulder. I don’t fight it this time, enjoying the shape of his butt through his jeans. His hand smacks my backside and I yelp from the sting.

“And now you’ve got a sore ass.”

SOMEHOW I MANAGED TO CONVINCE
Justin that the soft serve ice cream at the food counter is worth the five-dollar price tag, and we’re camped out on the roof of his Jeep, musing over the last three games we played.

“I don’t think we’re going to be allowed back in.” The shift manager spent the entire time giving us the stink eye after the cheating debacle.

Justin smiles. “He’s just pissed he’s going to still be here in twenty years, trying to figure out how come he never did anything worthwhile with his life.”

My smile slips. That's my biggest fear.

“That’s not going to be you,” Justin says, dipping his eyes to meet mine. “You've just got to believe in yourself. Stop worrying about what your future is supposed to be, and start listening to what you want today to be.” Judging my mood, he switches tactics. “Let’s play a game. If you could steal one car in this parking lot, which would it be?”

“For myself or to sell?”

“Either.”

That’s easy; I don’t even have to think about it. “The new Cobra parked under the awning would be nice to have. It’s fast and has a really good safety rating, so if I ever crashed I wouldn’t die. To sell,” I say, pointing with my spoon. “The beat-up Firebird parked two rows over would probably be a good payout, especially if it has anything original. And by the looks of it, the owner couldn’t have changed much.”

Justin squints, trying to pinpoint where the Firebird is located, partially hidden behind a Dodge Ram. “You didn’t even have to look. When did you spot it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “I just saw it.”

He leans forward, draping his arms over his knees. “Let’s do it.”

“Do what? Steal it?” He nods and I shake my head, pointing above us. “There are two security cameras on the building, one on each light post, and one taking video of our faces when we entered the building.”

He takes a moment to pinpoint the cameras. “It’s second nature to you. To assess the surroundings and determine how viable it is to get away with stealing something.”

I digest his words. “I guess it is.”

“You never noticed?”

I shake my head. “I suppose it has a lot to do with all of Taylor’s constant reminders to know my surroundings.”

“He’s the one who showed you what to do?”

I nod. “I knew Kip would never agree to it, so I asked Taylor.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

His voice is low when he asks, “Why? What made you decide you wanted to do this?”

“At the time, I was bored. Kip was even more protective then, always on my case about what I was doing, especially once I started hanging out with Kaley. I think I wanted to do something just to go against him, to piss him off.”

“Typical teenager,” he says with a smile.

“Yeah, but then I think I got addicted to the thrill of it. Every day I looked forward to getting out of school and going to work, knowing I was going to go do it again that night.”

“So it wasn’t about the money?”

“Not then, no.”