Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (2 page)

“
Oh, baby, the things I could d
o
—” 

I step back a few inches.
 “I’
m telli
n
’ ya, h
e’
s a serial killer
,”
Ang warns me all the time.  The fear he might stalk me outside Oma
r’
s used to creep me out, but
I’
m used to Tate.  Anyway, h
e’
s not allowed to get this close, not withi
n“
touching, tasting, or licking distance
,”
as Ang ineloquently puts it. 

“
Hey, Tatey, looki
n
’
good
,”
I say, shaking my ladies to pull his gaze up from my crotch to my face.  If he comes any closer, Rott
y’
s gonna kick his ass, and I do
n’
t want the boys fighting, not tonight.  All I want is to do my job and then go home and make my video for the Rockette
s
’ jump-the-line competition.  Will I become a Rockette?  Not with my crippled ankle, but I want to make my tryout video just to be able to say
,“
I tried
.
”
 I’
ll never become a Rockette, but being invited to try out is one of my childhood dreams.

The moment, full of the potential to incite Rotty to violence, passes.  Tater, back to his abnormal self, wipes drool with the sleeve of his lumberjack shirt and yells
,“
Show me what yo
u’
ve got, girlie
!
”

I relax.  Working for that elusive twenty, yet anticipating my ten Tat
e’
ll stuff deep in my G-string before I slap his hand away, I shoot him another cheesy smile.  Then ignoring his leer, I find my dance
r’
s sweet spot, the mental space where the beat of the imaginary music playing inside my skull, marries my bod
y’
s own passionate rhythm. 

“
Atta girl
,‘
Laina
!”
Tater bawls.
 “
Shake it!  Woo-hoo!  Light my fire
!
”

Shaking my hips, I do a mental disappearing act, leaving behind Tate and the hooting truckers.  A magic genie, rescuer of co-ed exotic dancers, sweeps me into the rhythm of
Mas Que Nada
and sambas me to Radio City Music Hall. 

I’
m one of them, a Rockette.  W
e’
re dancing.  The crow
d’
s clapping for u
s—
for me.  Me,
I’
m sayi
n
’
—
me
, th
e“
Goshen gim
p”
they called me in grade school.  I laughed and shot back spit wads and Crayola bullets.  But truth?  I cried inside, hid my pain. 
I’
m good at it, masterful, in fact.

I’
m kicking toward those beautiful lights, those beacons of hope to my impossible dream. 
I’
m kicki
n
’ so high, I feel God, peeking Wizard of Oz-like from his control box and kissing my toes.  Indulging my joy, I spin, kick, and shake my ladies, hiding desperate thoughts from myself. 
Acceptance, Alaina, tha
t’
s what you need.  This is just a job.  Everything will be alright.

But will it?  Will everything be alright?  I gaze at Tater, my stalker, uncertain if h
e’
s a plain o
l
’ redneck, or a guy wh
o’
s obsessed with me and wants to kill me.  At any rate, h
e’
s got awful taste in music, reason enough to keep an eye on him.

Oma
r’
s is the only bar on earth where harem girls dance topless to country music. 
I’
d like to tell Tater that Tammy Wynett
e’
s really Virginia Pugh from Tremont, Mississippi, but the name Pugh would turn him on.  And Omar?  He would
n’
t get it at all.  I
t’
s that Punjabi thing.  He says country music is the devi
l’
s voice, a point on which we agree.  He plays it anyway.  The truckers will leave if he does
n’
t.  They ca
n’
t get enough.

“
Wooooooooo-haaaa
!”
Tate yells, going plumb crazy.  I improvise, mixing a little ballet with my samba, tormenting Tater, urging him on.  Why not?  I need the practice.  I want my freaki
n
’ twenty.  Spinning on my supporting left foot, I perform the epic
fouet
té
en tournant. 
Closing my eyes, I spin.  And spin.  And spin, and the
n
—

—
pain shoots up my ankle, startling me back from my fantasy world. 

O.J
.’
s nearing the stage, so I keep dancing.  Gritting my teeth and sucking up the pain, I bury it in my anger, and challenge God. 
Dude, wh
y’
d you make me Berta Colb
y’
s crip?

I
t’
s the same question
I’
ve always asked. 
Why, God?
 
Why?
 

No crips allowed in Radio City Music Hall, Alaina Colby. Get over yourself, girl.

I
t’
s His standard answer, and it pisses me off.  Does God think h
e’
s like the wizard in the
Wizard of Oz
, manipulating everything from behind the scenes but never showing himself to me?  If he ever steps from behind that curtain,
I’
ll be more civil toward him.  Until then . . .
I’
m one-hundred percent Goshen Colby heathen,
Crip
with attitude.

“
But if you love him, yo
u’
ll forgive him
,”
Tamm
y’
s yowling from the speakers
. 
Like hell
I’
d forgive him.  I hate cheati
n
’ men. 
I’
d kick his butt,
I’d
—   

The ceiling speakers go dead.  Their screech cuts Tammy off mid-yowl.  Oma
r’
s goes eerily silent.  I watch O.J. zigzagging toward me.  Squeezing between tables, he leaps on stage looking frantic and waving his bar rag and gasping for breath.

“
O.J., wha
t’
s wrong
?
”
 
I fake surprise, like
I’
ve not been day dreaming as usual about my routine for my jump-the-line video.

“
Have
n’
t you heard me calling
?
” 

“
No
,”
I lie.  Jumping back and hoping he wo
n’
t threaten to fire m
e—
and mean it this tim
e—
I clutch the banana and step into a shimmy so achingly spectacular it would make a Vegas stripper sob with jealousy. 

“
Stop
,”
he yells.
 “
Stop
!
”   

“
Um, O.J., you want me to . . . stop dancing?  Tha
t’
s a new request
.
” 

“
Someon
e’
s here to see you
.
”

“
Really?  Who
?
” 

Holding my shimmy, I gaze around.  Other than my trucker fans like Tate, the only person who knows I work here is Robin and my friend, Stoke Farrel.  Ther
e’
s also my bestie, Angie, but she did
n’
t show up tonight, so
I’
m working her midnight to closing shift.  I frown.  Wher
e’
s Ang?  She was supposed to come over to my place after she got off tonight and help me make my jump-the-line video.  Sh
e’
s not answered my texts.  All my calls go to her voice mail. 

Torn between stopping my shimmy, as O.J. has ordered, or making sure I get my ten dollar tip from Tate, I keep dancing.
 “
Hey-y-y-y, baby, light my fire
.
”
 
Tat
e’
s bawl floods the silence.  Seeing Tater staggering toward me, Rotty unfolds ripped arms and starts heading our way.  Two guys next to Tate
r’
s table scrape chairs back and shoot up.
 “
Fight
!”
someone yells.

Tat
e’
s BTK killer smile turns petulant when he sees Rotty approaching.  H
e’
s got a dark side, I hear, but I ca
n’
t worry about that, not right now.  What if my visitor is Berta Colby?  What if sh
e’
s finally found out I work here?

“
Wh
o’
s here to see me
?”
I demand, glaring at O.J. 

“
Dang, baby girl
,”
Tater interrupts.
 “
Wh
y’
d you think I brought
this
?  Now,
c’
mon, shake them there purty thangs a little harder for old Tater
.
”

Seeing the ten h
e’
s waving makes me see red.  Why ca
n’
t he for once fork over more than a damn tenner?
 “
Shut up, Tate
!”
I yell, but worrying h
e’
ll withdraw the ten, I tone it down.
 “
Just . . . shut up, okay
?
” 

O.J. thwacks me with his bar rag.
 “
Do
n’
t insult clients.  Go see who is here
.
” 

Furious, I stop my shimmy and stand glaring at him.
 “
O.J., you just freaki
n
’
hit
me
.
” 

“
I must apologize, bu
t
—”

“
Stop saying that.  I hate it
.
” 

I want to walk, but if I quit wh
o’
ll he get to replace me?  Dumb question.  Who else would stick around when Ang fails to show?  I squint through the flashing blue strobe lights and cigarette smok
e—
smokin
g’
s outlawed in Newport bars, but who at Oma
r’
s obeys the law
?—
and shoot a gaze out across the carpet of sleazy riff-raff. 

“
Hurry up
,‘
Laina
!”
O.J. says, raising his bar rag. 

“
Do
n’
t you
dare
hit me again
,”
I hiss.

“
I
t’
s a cop
,”
he hisses back, and then glances nervously toward the group at a table in the far corner.  These men are O.J
.’
s clients, and the
y’
re all turbaned up and shadowy looking but wearing expensive dark suits and starched shirts whiter than their gleaming teeth.  O.J. introduced their leader to me and Ang as Rakesh Gupta.
 “
A lawyer
,”
h
e’
d emphasized.
 “
Important
.
”
 
To which Ang had whispered
towel-heads, probably ISIS or Al Qaeda,
and then snickered
,“
Yeah, sure, O.J., and
I’
m Taylor Swift
.
” 

“
Imagine!  A co
p—
her
e—
in Omar Jai
n’
s establishment
!
”
 
Omar whines, as if he thinks
I’
ve personally set out to ruin his reputation with the Afghanistan deputation.  I watch Rakesh slap a C-note on the table, he and his mysterious entourage rising and gliding like phantoms out the front door.  I yell
,“
What, you guys ca
n’
t take a little bar brawl?  Do
n’
t want the heat comi
n
’ down on your clean-shaved necks
!
”