Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (4 page)

Holding the co
p’
s gaze, I inch backward.
 “
Five minutes
?”
I repeat. 

He motions me toward a folding chair by the D
J’
s table, this time with a hard commanding finger jab.
 “
Sit.  Over here
.
”

I shake my head.
 “
No
.
”

When he rockets into a forward sprint, his gawky long-legged partner who looks part giraffe right behind him, I turn and bust butt, pumping my legs, but fearful of slipping on Oma
r’
s greasy floor, I protect my ankle.  Zigzagging through the cockroach-infested kitchen, I snatch my backpack from O.J
.’
s Army surplus desk.  Digging for my hoodie, I yank it over my head and run.

When I hit the alley, I hear the cop
s
’ pounding footsteps behind me.  I fully expect that big Viking body to crash me to the ground any second and demand I roll over on Robin.  I just keep running, speeding far down the alley.  Can I outrun them?  The Viking one has long legs, so I know he can run.  The female cop with the bleach blonde hair looked athletic, too.  Still, I gotta try.  Gotta get home and see what Robi
n’
s done before I talk to them.  My heart slamming my rib cage, I sprint past the one dumpster all the businesses in the alley share. 

Whap! 

An arm snakes out and yanks me to a halt and ensnares me in a bear hug, spinning me around and lifting me off my feet, backpack and all. 

“
Ahhh!  What the
f
—”

“
Alaina, baby,
c’
mon, stop fightin
g
—”

Obeying my captor, I go limp in his arms.  The second he releases me, I turn and jerk my foot up hard, connecting with that soft vulnerable flesh housed between two beefy thighs.

Nothing happens, except for a second his eyes cross.  Then Tater McCloskey bawls
,“
You bitch
!
”

“
Unfreaking believable
,”
I say, shocked when he collapses.  I should be more shocked by the fact h
e’
s out here hiding behind the dumpster, but
I’
m not.  He was practically standing on top of me down stage, so he coul
d’
ve easily made it out of Oma
r’
s ahead of me in plenty of time.  Wha
t’
s stumping me is the fact he hit the ground like a wounded bull.  I did
n’
t kick him
that
hard.  I could
n’
t have. 
I’
m barefoot.

“
Tate
?
”
 
I nudge him with the toe of my foot.
 “
Are you dead
?
”

“
Oh fuck yes
,”
he gasps. 

“
Yo
u’
re
not
,”
I say, jumping like
I’
ve been shot, when a man steps from behind the dumpster. 

“
This place is popular
,”
he says, walking toward me, hidden in the alle
y’
s shadow.

Chapter 3

For a second, I feel my legs go rubbery, and then I recognize my friend, Stoke Farrel.

“
Blaze
,”
he says, strolling from the shadows and into the alle
y’
s dim lemony light
,“
wha
t’
s up
?
” 

“
Stoke, wha
t’
re you doing here
?
”

“
No, what are
you
doing here
?”
he asks, casual sounding.

“
I do
n’
t have time to explain
,”
I say, glancing at Tater, curled into a fetal ball at my feet and then at the taser Stok
e’
s holding.
 “
You tased him
!”
I sputter, realizing with sudden clarity why he hit the ground so hard.

“
Yeah
,”
Stoke cackles, his tone turning dangerous.
 “
He had you in a bear hug, Blaze.  He coul
d’
ve hurt you
.
”

Stoke says I remind him of his mothe
r’
s favorite rose, a climber called Blaze. 
I’
m pretty sure he does
n’
t have a mother, but I accept the compliment instead of dwelling on his lack of family history.  I
t’
s a sign Stok
e’
s toxic, but h
e’
s my friend, so I gotta be loyal.  Spitting alley grime from my mouth, trying to catch my breath, I pull from his arms.
 “
Let go
,”
I say, when he holds me a second too long.  Glancing behind me, I search for my Viking cop and his long-legged blonde buddy.
 “
Stoke, I gotta get out of here.  Ther
e’
re two cop
s’
re after m
e
—”

“
Yeah, I know.  This way
,”
he says, grabbing my hand and dragging me to this hugeass Coca-Cola truck sitting in the alley, its engine idling.

“
Get in
.
”

“
No way
.
” 

“
Yes, way
,”
Stoke says. 

“
Looks like the drive
r’
s unloading syrup and carbonation tanks at Oma
r’
s
,”
I say.
 “
We better leave it alone.  He could come out and catch u
s
—”

“
He could
,”
Stoke agrees.
 “
Maybe yo
u’
d rather talk to those LEOs
?
”

Stoke shoves me into the passenger side, slams the door and runs around the truck.  Climbing up and into the cab, he takes the drive
r’
s seat.
 “
Ride shotgun
,”
he orders.  

“
Stoke
,”
I say, rubbing my aching ankle
,“
this is crazy.  This is
grand theft
.
”

“
Nah, Blaze
,”
he cackles, jamming the gears into drive
,“
w
e’
re just jacki
n
’ a ride
.
”

“
And a truckload of trouble
,”
I say, bending to my knees and pulling my hoodie over my head.  I
t’
s inky dark in the truc
k’
s cab, so the cops ca
n’
t see me.  Beneath my hoodie, I feel like a coward, but hiding from the law is a Colby reflex.  I
t’
s built into our genes. 

“
Okay
,”
Stoke admits.
 “
Be righ
t—
if you want
.
”

Was that a challenge?  I jerk upright.
 “
I
am
right
.
”

“
Yeah, okay, Blaze.  Whatever
.
”
 
Grabbing a pack of Twizzlers left on the drive
r’
s seat, along with a box of Moon Pies, he rips the plastic open with his teeth and spits out the wrapper.
 “
W
e’
ll sit her
e‘
til your LEOs show up.  Maybe by then yo
u’
ll decide if you want to jack a ride or not
.
”

“
B-but w
e’
re stealing
,”
I say, shooting an anxious gaze behind me, expecting to see the cops come barreling down the alley.

Stoke sits calm as a midget Buddha, munching Twizzlers. 

“
I do
n’
t want to go to j-jail, Stoke.  I have
n’
t made my jump-the-line video
.
”

Irritation creeps into his voice.
 “
Blaze, i
t’
s all good, right?  Think of us as Robin Hood and his merry men.  W
e’
re taking from the rich and giving to the poo
r
”
—
he points at himself and then at m
e
—
“
us
.
”

“
I
t’
s grand theft
,”
I repeat, refusing to laugh at his stupid joke.
 “
And what were you doing in that alley
?
”

“
I murdered a girl
,”
he says. 

“
You better be kidding
,”
I say.
 “
Get this truck moving
,”
I want to scream, wondering if Tate
r’
s okay.  Wha
t’
s got me feeling really edgy, even more creeped out than Stok
e’
s remark about murdering a girl, is the idea Stoke tased Tate.
 “
I did
n’
t know you carried a taser
.
”

“
Do
n’
t you?  Does
n’
t everyone
?
”

Grabbing the Twizzle
r’
s cardboard wrap, I stuff it inside my backpack between my feet on the floor.
 “
Please stop littering
.
”    

“
Yeah, I will
,”
he agrees, stuffing another Twizzler into his maw.  Yo
u’
ve seen
Jaws
, the movie?  That shark has no teeth compared to Stoke.
 “
Do
n’
t forget
,”
Stoke adds, showing off a double row of chompers that shoulda had braces a long time ago
,“
i
t’
s also fleeing and eluding
.
”

“
Stop it
,”
I warn, but my words echo crazily inside my head.  I tally the crimes
I’
ve committed so far. 
Grand theft auto.
 
Fleeing and eluding.  

“
You scared to be arrested, Blaze
?”
he taunts, digging at my frayed nerves, enjoying squeezing every ounce of fear possible from me, knowing the cops will be on us any second if he does
n’
t get the truck moving.

“
Nope
,”
I lie, listening to him chew candy open mouthed, making little sloshing noises of enjoyment.
 “
But
I’
m
always
on the lookout for crazies like you, Stoke Farrel
.
” 

Wha
t’
s really worrying me is how Stoke rationalizes his criminal actions, like tasing Tater and stealing this Coke truck.
 “
Thi
s—
is crazy
,”
I say, and then stupidly take the bait Stok
e’
s tossed at me.
 “
So what other crimes am I committing
?
”

“
Robbery
.
”

Grand theft auto?  Robbery?
 
Plus fleeing and eluding. 
Crap.  There goes my criminal justice career.  I sit up, glance behind us.
 “
Stoke, here they come
!
”

“
Yeah?  So
.
”

With the truck in park, but keeping his foot on the brake, Stoke guns the accelerator.  The engine revs, but we just sit here, the truck in neutral and not moving.
 “
Ho
w’
s it robbery
?”
I ask.  I
t’
s a stupid question, especially with those cops hot on our butts, but
I’
m not letting Stoke unnerve me.  Folding my arms across my chest, I wait for him to answer, although
I’
m about to pee my pants.

“
You tell me, Blaze
,”
he says, cackling again, making me wish h
e’
d learn how to laugh. 

Ha!  I won!
  I exhale when he puts the truck in drive and then floors it. 

The truck lurches forward, the sudden motion giving me whiplash. 
Thunk.
  Something flies from the dash and hits me on the head.  Peeking from beneath my hoodie, where
I’
ve again hidden myself, I gaze into the ca
b’
s murk.
 “
Oh, Stoke, no
,”
I say, swallowing.
 “
Wha
t’
ve you done
?
” 

On the seat between us lays a rubber pouch wit
h“
First Capita
l”
emblazoned in white letters across its blue front and right underneath it: Oma
r’
s Bar and Exotic Topless Dancing.

“
Tha
t’
s Oma
r’
s
.
”
 
I instantly realize why Stoke was in the alley.
 “
Yo
u’
ve stolen O.J
.’
s night deposit
,”
I say, my voice a bare squeak.

“
Yeah?  So
.
”
 
Stoke chews, mouth open.  Even in the truck ca
b’
s dim interior, light bounces like laser beams from the bone-white surface of his teeth.
 “
Nom-nom
,”
he says, noshing Twizzlers and hogging the steering wheel like some crazed NASCAR driver. 

I swallow again.
 “
Tell me you did
n’
t rob Oma
r’
s
?
”

“
Do
n’
t go nicey-nice on me, Blaze.  The money will help pay your tuition this semester
.
”

“
What about bail?  Will it pay my freaki
n
’ bail?  And how will you pay it from jail, where the
y’
ll slam your butt, too, when they catch us
?
”

I sigh, jam my hands into my hoodie sleeves, and start rubbing my arms.  Feeling the scars and scabs from a recent cutting soothes me.
 “
Yo
u’
re an idiot
,”
I say.