Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (3 page)

Worried, I turn back to O.J.

“
A cop
?”
I rasp.  How can this be?  I do
n’
t do lap dances, or anything illegal, so ther
e’
s only one reason a cop would come looking for me.

Robi
n’
s in troubl
e—
again.

I shoot O.J. a mean glare.
 “
Why did
n’
t you
say
?
”

“
I must apologiz
e
—”

“
Stop with that
!
”

Chapter 2

Over by the D
J’
s folding table, I spot them.  Not just one but two LEOs, a male and a female.  Detectives.  Starched shirts, creased pants, comfortable shoes made for chasing prey, like me and my brother, Robin.
 “
Think the
y’
re the meanest sumbitches in the valley
,”
Berta would say of these two, mocking their aggressive body language.  I
t’
s open and begging any of Oma
r’
s more questionable badasses
:“
Give us a try
.
”

One heartbeat later, my heart sambas into my mouth.  I feel like the ceilin
g’
s falling in on m
e—
h
e’
s that awesom
e—
and all I can do is stand here and gape, my breath caught in my throat.
 “
Whoa
,”
I whisper.
 “
Freaki
n
’
whoa
.  I think
I’
m in love
.
”

“
Lust
,”
O.J. says, casting me a scathing glance.

Do I care
I’
ve offended his Punjabi values?  He needs to get a clue: this is America.  Women can wear their lust in public.  Anyway,
I’
m in struck-dumb mode, Cinderella meeting Prince Wha
t’
s-His-Name for the first time.
 “
Whoa
,”
I whisper again.  I
t’
s all I can say.  H
e’
s that hot.  Looks like a Viking
. 
Tall, blonde buzz cut, serious athletic build and plenty of coptitude beneath that casual blue windbreaker screaming Newport Police in big white letters across the back.  And the way his slacks stretch taut across those powerful thighs?  Oh, be still my quivering heated thighs.  For once, stop dancing.

He tosses me a deliciously knowing glance, the dare-you-girl look he locks on me irresistible. 

“I’
d let him take me to Valhalla
,”
I say, swallowing, my breath releasing at last.
 “I’
ve seen zero cops in Goshen who look like that
.
”

O.J., herding me down the stag
e’
s plywood steps, looks scornful, like h
e’
s thinking
I’
m a silly American co-ed dazed by a case of instant lust.  H
e’
s right.  Unable to resist, I steal a second and then a third look at the cop wh
o’
s just stirred an unforgivable Bonnie Parker ache south of my belly button.  When O.J. presses into me from behin
d
—
“
Hurry
,”
he yell
s—
I recall my mo
m’
s rule. 
Do
n’
t bring home no damn LEOs. 
What am I doing lusting after that cop?  Everyone in my family hates cops.
 “
I ca
n’
t go meet those two
,”
I say, getting a dizzying whiff of Oma
r’
s bleachy bar rag over my shoulder.
 “
I just . . . ca
n’
t
.
”

“
You want to keep your job
?
” 

Stupid question.
 “
O.J., what do the LEOs want with me
?
”

“
Get moving.  Go find out
.
”

“
Keep that bar rag to yourself
,”
I growl.

I like to speculate about what brings O.J. from Punjab to the U.S.  H
e’
s secretive, does
n’
t like people prying.  Fortunately, h
e’
s got a warped sense of humor, which Ang and I love.  H
e’
s always lecturing us
,“
You girls dress like in a harem, please.  Men love
.
”
 
Being able to dance barefoo
t—
as O.J. imagines harem girls d
o—
is the reason I took this job, that and the money.  Dancing barefoot helps protect my foot.  One misstep and my ankle will g
o—
pop!  Just like that, and ther
e’
ll go my dream.  Instead of entering the Rockette
s
’ jump-the-line competition,
I’
ll be back in surgery. 

“
I must apologize, but please wear no tops when you dance
,”
O.J. drills, when Angie and I show up bleary-eyed for his stupid team meetings to protest dancing topless.
 “
Not even pastries
,”
he says, misusing the ter
m“
pastries
,”
but remaining firm, the deep gray sockets beneath his eyes like papery elephant skin.  I think he hides a secret gangsta life, but Ang is
n’
t afraid of him, or anyone.  Every time she sees him, she teases
,“
O.J., would you like coffee with you
r—
pasties
?
” 

With O.J. clamoring on my heels, I jerk to a stop at the step
s
’ bottom.
 “
I ca
n’t
—”

“
Hurry
,”
he says, giving me another nudge. 

“
Al
right
,”
I say, stalling in the icy strobe light
s
’ blinding glare.  This is
n’
t like resting my whiney foot and hanging on the banana.  I ca
n’
t stand around guessing why the LEOs are here.  I
know
.  My heart flip-flops. 
Robin
. 
Has
he started using again
?  My brothe
r’
s a recovering meth addict and ex-dealer.  Any parole violations and h
e’
s back in prison.  He called me this morning.
 “
Lainey
,”
he said
,“I’
m gonna be gone for a little while.  Do
n’
t tell anyone
.
”

“
But Rob, you got an appointment with your P
O
—”

“
Do
n’
t worry so fucki
n
’ much. 
I’
ll talk to her
.
”

“
Yo
u’
re in trouble
,”I’
d whined.
 “
I can help.  Please tell me where you are
.
”

Punkass.  He never responds when I plead. 
I’
d closed my eyes and imagined explaining Robi
n’
s absence to Sam Duggins, his parole officer, the PO I cal
l“
Hellgirl
.
” 

You seen Robin Colby? 

Nope. 

H
e’
s in parole violation.  Cough him up, Miss Colby, or
I’
ll bust you, too.

Yeah, right, Hellgirl. 
I’
ll roll over on my brother when pigs freaki
n
’ fly.

“
Trust me
,‘
Lainey
,”
Robin had begged.
 “
You gotta trust me
.
”

Last time I saw him was Monday, before I left for class.  Since he wo
n’
t tell me where he is,
I’
ve been worried h
e’
s using, or worse, that h
e’
s dealing again.  I do
n’
t want him going back to prison.  It would kill me.

“
Ouch
!
”
 
A splinter from the dance floor jabs the sole of my bare foot, jolting my mind back from Robi
n’
s problem to my own.  Recalling the LEO, I touch my face and worry stupidly about my makeup, about what a zombie I must appear.  The LEOs give me a joint visual frisk, the female gawking like sh
e’
s never seen an exotic dancer, the hot Viking leader signaling me with a commanding nod toward the D
J’
s table.  Across the room, our gazes lock.  Putting on my most sullen face, I glare back. 
You want
I should trot over to you, all nice and sweet like, and rat out my brother?  Is that what you want?

I’
m used to men gawking, but when his challenging gaze of fluid ice and fire sweeps my bare breasts, I feel . . . embarrassed. 
Gawd
.  My nipples harden, and not from the roo
m’
s air conditioning.  I ca
n’
t help myself.  My bod
y’
s reacting like an unruly teenage
r’
s.  I feel . . . stupid, and I tell myself so: Alaina, how can you be feeling like this?  You just met him.  H
e’
s a stranger, a LEO for Go
d’
s sake. 

I ca
n’
t explain it, but i
t’
s there, the chemistry.  No on
e—
no on
e—
coul
d’
ve told me how
this
feels.  It this what love at first sight feels like? I wonder. 

“
I do
n’
t believe in love at first sight
,”
I say.  I do
n’
t believe in love.  Period.  I
t’
s a four-letter word if you ask me.

Taking a few steps backward and holding his gaze, I mouth the word
,“
Five
?
”
 
I
t’
s an old con-artis
t’
s trick Berta taught me.  When yo
u’
re getting busted, beg for time and moon walk backward.  The second yo
u’
ve put enough distance between you and the cop, run like hell. 

“
No
,”
he mouths back.  One hand moves to a holster snugged tight in the depths of his windbreaker, and I feel a little tingle in secret bodily spaces.  Dange
r—
and gun
s—
thrill me more than I care to admit. 

His square jaw locks in a hard grimace I recognize from childhood: mean-assed cop stare.  Down stage, Tater clamors from his chair, and then Rotty catches my gaze.  Another short wiry guy with black hair detaches from a stool at the bar and beelines toward the stage.  H
e’
s been loitering all evening, hanging out and drinking soda water, watching me dance, salivating.  Cop,
I’
m guessing, same as the two wh
o’
re after me. 

This is getting ugly. 

Thinking fast, I toss my black curly hair off my shoulder.  Exposing my breast, I keep moon walking backward.  Is it wrong to use my body to distract the Viking cop?  I do
n’
t think so.
 “
Gypsy blood
,”
Berta Colby said, explaining where I got my dark looks.  By eighth grade,
I’
d figured her out: not Gyps
y—
liar.  Her daddy, my grandpa, was a down-at-the heels musician wh
o’
d been hitchhiking through Goshen to a gig in Cincinnati.  H
e’
d stopped at the Fried Pickle long enough to down a greasy cheeseburger, meet my grandmother who waitressed there, and get her pregnant with my mom, Berta Colby. 
I’
ve never met him, but my cousins tell me
I’
ve got his genes, the black curly hair and dark eyes, his passion for dance and music.  Berta either did
n’
t want to share that family secret with me, or she did
n’
t know her famil
y’
s ethnicity.  Did
n’
t know a lot of things, turns out.  Truth?  My grandpa was
n’
t a Gypsy, but a handsome black man with a taste for my grandm
a’
s rhubarb pie and fine Gypsy women.