Taking Mine (5 page)

A HEAVY WEIGHT SITS
at the bottom of my stomach as we walk up to Blackjack’s downtown. Kaley’s heels echo, bouncing off the vacant buildings. The bar sits right on the edge of town, bordering the west and east banks. Blackjack’s gets business from both sides, college students and working class, sometimes people of a darker nature. The warehouses surrounding the bar have been vacant for years. Wearing heels is equivalent to painting a flashing beacon on your back saying,
I’m over here, one set of footsteps, so I'm alone. Come and get me. Oh, and I can't run.

The bar’s front door is solid black. The only indication it’s an open establishment is a small neon sign shaped like playing cards. Rock music thumps through my chest as we enter. Two men in security t-shirts check our IDs and usher us through. Considering it’s a weeknight, the bar is decently packed, the dance floor occupied with people jumping around to the music.

We squeeze our way through the crowd, trying to get to the bar. Kaley takes the initiative, parting the crowd before her. Kaley dresses to the nines wherever she goes. It’s not that she’s wearing anything outlandish, but her clothes scream designer, expensive. We’re an odd match, me in the skinnies I’ve had since high school and worn-out Chucks.

The bar is overrun with patrons, and the two female bartenders tend to gravitate only to the male customers. The petite bartender stops in front of us, looking over our heads to the person behind us. “I’ll take two beers and whatever these two ladies want.” An arm stretches out beside me, gripping the bar next to my hip. Trapped in, I swivel my head, following the arm back to its owner. Justin’s eyes lock onto mine and my chest constricts.

In this lighting his eyes are cast in shadow, highlighting his cheekbones and jaw. There’s something carnal about being so attracted to someone, something that makes me want to leap out of my skin because I can’t handle what my body is telling me. And it’s weirding me out how he keeps popping up everywhere.

“Lilly,” Kaley shouts in my ear, snapping my gaze away from Justin. “What do you want to drink?”

“Soda is fine.”

I pull a twenty from my back pocket, bumping into Justin behind me. I clench my teeth. I can acknowledge the fact that the back of my hand just grazed the front of his jeans or I can ignore it. I feel Justin’s chuckle more than hear it. Shooting him a glare, I push a finger into his chest, trying to put distance between us.

“Where would you like for me to go?” He laughs.

The crowd has us blocked in and it gives no room for adjustment. People push past us, trying to escape with their drinks in hand, so Justin grips my hip, guiding me away from the traffic and putting himself even closer. I smell him and I’m sure he can smell me. His breaths fan my shoulder where my shirt stops. I don’t know what prompts me to do it, but I look up to find him watching me. Or not me, but my neck. Self-consciously, I place a hand against my pulse point, blocking his view of my racing heart.

Kaley passes the drinks back to us, breaking us apart. Justin grips my drink along with his two beers in one hand, pulling me along with the other.

“I have a friend holding a pool table,” he says over the music. I can’t play pool. Granted, it’s better than dancing, but asking would have been nice. Kaley shrugs her shoulders, skipping behind us.

The pool tables are nestled above the dance floor, on the opposite side of the band, and Justin takes the time to help Kaley up the few stairs in her heels.

“This is us,” Justin says, pointing to the farthest table. I immediately recognize the tall blond-haired boy leaning against the railing.

“You sneaky bastard.” Kaley points at him. “Did you know I was going to be here?”

Lance smirks. “Contrary to your beliefs, I have a life.”

Justin looks between the two of them and then to me. “They know each other?”

“Apparently,” I say.

“Do you know how to play?” Lance asks, a slight northern accent rolling off his tongue.

“Don't be condescending,” she snarls.

He smirks.

Kaley pulls the cue stick from his hand. “I’ll break first.”

Lance holds up his hands in surrender. “Ladies first?”

“Teams? Boys versus girls?” Justin asks.

“No,” I say. “Kaley and Lance and me and you.”

Now it’s my turn to be under the wrath of Kaley’s glare. She wants to meddle in my business, I'll meddle in hers. And it's also what she gets for lying in my bed with no clothes on. Lance wastes zero time racking, also avoiding her.

I lean close to Justin. “I don’t know how to play.”

“It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

Kaley breaks, scattering the table and dropping a stripe into a side pocket. She shoots Lance a look, eyebrow raised, challenging.

“Don’t get too cocky. Beginner’s luck. Statistically, breaking gives you the best odds to sink a ball.”

I can see Kaley’s teeth clench from fifteen feet away. Something about Lance irks her in just the right way. I kind of love it. She makes another bank shot before missing and it’s our turn. Justin scopes out the best position, aiming for a solid in a corner pocket. He makes the first shot, but misses the second. Would nice be too weird to describe his forearms? Because they are.

Justin and I laugh as Kaley prances around Lance, directing him on how to shoot. He bends over, lining up his shot, and she leans over him, using her hands to demonstrate the right angle. Lance looks up from his position, listening to Kaley drone on, and shakes his head. I now have a better understanding of why he thinks of her as a stick in the mud.

The bad thing about going last is that all of the easy shots are taken, leaving me with only complicated combination shots. Justin lets me scope out the table myself, figuring out which position I feel comfortable with. I see nothing I can successfully pull off. I give him a look, asking for guidance, and he shakes his head, motioning for me to shoot.

Feeling frustrated, I line up my cue stick and shoot. Not only do I fail, but I completely miss the cue ball. The cue stick slips from my grasp and scratches the felt on the table.

I look at Justin. “Don’t laugh. You said you’d help.”

He tries to tamp down his laughter, failing. “You’re right,” he says. “I just wanted to see what you could do first. Good news is you have a general idea where the ball needs to go and what you need to do to get it there. Bad news, you don’t know how to hold a cue stick, let alone shoot straight.”

“Well, it would be great if my partner would help me.”

“Okay,” Justin says, taking a sip of his beer and setting it on a stool. “Come here.” He waves me toward him.

Timidly, I walk toward him, trying to deflect my nervousness. He takes the stick from my hands and turns me around so my back is facing him. “You’re not holding the stick right. Here.” He picks up my hand and leans it on the side of the table. “Create a bridge with your pointer finger and thumb.” He positions my fingers for me. “Now hold it at hip level. You want it to be angled as close to horizontal as possible, so when you shoot, you don't miss its mark. Try.”

I line the cue ball back in its original position and lean over. I have my cue stick ready to aim when Justin's hand clasps over mine. “Loosen your grip. You’re not trying to stab the ball. Relax. Imagine you’re trying to push the ball forward, not murder it.”

Taking a deep breath, I line up my shot. On my exhale, I push the stick forward. The cue ball hits a solid with a clack, and the ball rolls to the side pocket and drops in…followed shortly by the cue ball.

“Scratch.”

“But it was much better this time. You’ll figure out the amount of force the more you play.”

Lance and Kaley still beat us, but we hold our own for the greater part of the game. A couple of people wait on the outskirts of the table, vying to play the winner. Sweat runs down the nape of my neck and I hold my hair up, fanning myself. Justin shifts his head toward the exit and I nod. We escape into the back parking lot, the air balmy against my damp skin.

“Do you think they’ll keep our spot?”

“Hard to say. Depends on Lance’s sobriety.” He pulls a cigarette pack from his pocket, slipping one between his lips.

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

He lights it, inhaling and exhaling, before answering me. “Bad habit, I know.”

“Everyone has a vice, right?”

He eyes me over the ember and smoke. “What’s yours?”

For a split second, I think of just saying,
I steal cars for a living
. Sometimes I get so tired of feeling like I have a deeply hidden secret the world would look down upon if they knew. There is only a handful of people in my life who know what I do, but they do the same thing, so I’ve never had an objective point of view. Is it a vice if it’s not born of habit?

“Procrastination.”

He smiles around his cigarette. “That’s all you’ve got? You get lazy every once in a while?”

“When my scholarship is on the line, yes. It’s kind of what I’m doing right now.”

The sound of tires squealing pulls our attention to the far side of the lot. A dark 1969 Mustang is coming in sideways, kicking up bits of gravel and pelting the side of the building. The course rumble of the engine sets my hair on end. It’s the year Ford introduced the Mach 1. It’s a two-door Fastback, a classic pony muscle car through and through. Sleek in all the right places and just big enough to house a V8 with the perfect amount of torque to keep it on the ground. And it sounds original. Two men step out and it's very evident that they're from the east bank. It's the polos. Stupid designer polos.

“Nice car,” I say as they pass.

The driver stops, giving me a once-over. “Gets me places.”

“How much horsepower?”

“Enough to go fast,” he says, smiling ear to ear. “Need a ride?”

Justin takes the last drag of his cigarette and flicks the butt on the ground, keeping his eyes trained on them behind me.

“Hey, bud. This your girl?”

I'm not his girl.

“She's not my girl,” Justin says.

“In that case,” the driver says, grabbing his junk. “I've got plenty of horsepower to give you a ride right here.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Justin kicks off the wall and stands to his full height. It's a classic intimidation tactic, but I still take a second to admire it mid rage.

“You have ten seconds to go inside or get back in your car and leave.”

“Oh, a badass,” the driver says, stepping forward. “Playing hero tonight?”

I place my hand on Justin's arm, shaking my head. “He’s looking for a fight. Don’t give it to him.” He doesn’t say anything as he holds his ground, but I know he’ll make a move if they do.

The driver smirks. “Are you sure she’s not your girl? That leash around your neck seems a little tight.” He feigns a choking noise while pulling at an imaginary collar around his throat.

I give credit where credit is due, and Justin's impulse control is extraordinary considering the tension rolling off of him. The driver, not satisfied with Justin’s lack of response, takes a step closer, putting himself within reaching distance. Justin noticeably bristles at my side. I tighten my grip on his arm, my fingernails digging into it. He tears his eyes from them to me, and I try to relay my calm to him. It takes him a couple of deep breaths before I see the tension fade.

He nods.

I release him, and he lets me navigate him back toward the bar when the driver barks out a laugh behind us.

“There's no way the pussy is that good.”

Justin stops mid step. Now this guy is really, really asking for it. Justin shrugs out of my grip and spins back around.

“Justin,” I almost beg him.

It goes through one ear and out the other as he stalks forward. His face is carefully blank as he stops inches from the driver. “It takes a big man to spew the shit coming from your mouth. Want to say it to my face?”

I've never claimed to be particularly smart. I think it's pretty evident I'm not, especially as I wedge my way in between them, placing both my hands on Justin's chest, attempting to put distance between them.

“He's baiting you. I get you're trying to fight for my honor and all, really, but I honestly don't give a shit about anything that comes out of his mouth.”

“Listen to your girl. I'm not interested in white trash, anyway.”

I close my eyes, losing my own sense of calm. It's not the first time I've been called that. In fact, it was a common occurrence in high school. Private school can be a bitch. And then the dumbass pulls the last string holding me together—literally, the string hanging from my shirtsleeve—and I lose all sense of self-control. I see red. A loud hum fills my ears and I’ve already thrown the punch before I even realize what I’m doing. The sound of my fist hitting the driver in the face makes me sick. The driver bends over, hand over his nose while blood drips through his fingers, and I struggle to shake the pain from my hand. Justin stands over him, still assuming a defensive position.

“Is that what you wanted?” Justin seethes through his teeth.

The driver laughs, wiping his blood-covered hands on his jeans. “Got to admit, you've got a good throw for a bitch.”

“That's enough,” I say, outright pulling Justin with all my might. “You made your point. Let's go.”

He doesn't budge, and I smack him on his shoulder with as much force as I can. This breaks his façade and a small smirk forms at the corner of his lips. He thinks this is funny.

“Don't fucking smile at me.”

“I'm not,” he says, outright smiling.

I fight the urge to smile back, infuriated that I'm persuaded by his. “You're an asshole.”

“Uh, oh.” The driver smiles. “Lover's quarrel.”

“Shut the fuck up before I show you what a hit to the face really feels like.” Justin snaps at him.

This, out of everything that just happened, seems to stop the driver from continuing to provoke Justin, laughing as he and his friend enter the building.

I'm confused, I'm flustered, and I'm generally pissed off.

Growling, I spin away from Justin and march inside. I know he's following and I can practically feel his grin the entire way.