Taking Mine
Copyright © 2015 by Rachel Schneider
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN-13:978-1522950967
ISBN-10:1522950966
This book may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.
Cover Design: Murphy Rae with
Indie Solutions
Editor: Murphy Rae with
Indie Solutions
Interior Formatting: Elaine York,
Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting
To Alicia, for forcing me to continue when I had doubt, and doing so through the toughest year of your existence. There's truly no one more selfless than you.
EVERYONE COMES TO A POINT
in their life when, if desperate enough, scared enough, they'll do anything to protect the people they love. I'm not sure whether I've reached that point or if I've lived it my entire life. I’ve never known any different. It's easy to see the different. It's not so easy to be the different.
Thunder rumbles from a distance and a car honks a few blocks away. This side of the city doesn’t get much traffic at this time of the morning. It’s an unwritten understanding that if you’re not from the west bank, you don’t venture in unless the sun is out. During summer months the crime rate is surprisingly low. It’s during winter when people start to get desperate. I suppose it’s because the effort it takes to commit any sort of crime in this heat isn’t damn worth it. The weight of my hair coats the back of my neck in sweat, and I pull it to the side, tucking it away in the process.
It’s my lack of funds that has propelled me to such desperate measures. I received a letter from the university a few weeks ago stating my withdrawal from the P.B. Scholarship. My GPA slipped and I couldn’t get it back up. I was warned the semester before that I would lose my entire funding. And I did.
I busted my ass for weeks, studying, pleading with professors, almost resorting to groveling to get extra credit. Some helped, but not all. I didn’t have a really good excuse. Saying it’s just too hard doesn’t cut it. The thought of my brother, Kip, finding out makes my chest hurt. If I think about it too long, about how disappointed he’d be, all the air in my chest seems to work against me. Kip has worked his entire life to guarantee I could do or be whatever I want, putting himself on the back burner to do so.
I keep my eyes out for any car that may look like a real commodity. Most on this street wear more rust than actual paint, bordering along the lines of scrap metal, but when you’re in as big of a bind as I am, you’ll take what you can get. I haven’t lifted a car in two years. I’m not proud of it. I’m lucky I've never gotten caught. Some close calls, but nothing ever came of them. But here, now, about to do what I vowed to my brother I’d never do again, my heart feels like it’s imploding.
It takes me by surprise, the spark in my chest. I remember all the times I’ve chased this spark, pushed for it, looking for a trigger. Nothing I have ever tried has given me a thrill like taking something that isn’t mine does. The feeling of getting away with it is enough to set me on a high for days. I haven’t felt it in months, years, it feels like. Haven’t felt much of anything lately. Hence my propensity to steal. Could be worse, I suppose. I could do drugs. Or men. I could do men.
Obviously I feel my heart beating, my chest expanding, the occasional rumble of my belly reminding me to eat. Stress is a common occurrence; school and money tend to do that to me. But the only thing that has instigated a reaction in me in a very long time is the thought of getting away with what I’m about to do. I’m disappointed, but it’s easier to be mad at myself than ashamed, so that’s what I do.
A distinctive rumble of an exhaust breaks me from my mood. A black Chevy Chevelle is pulling to a stop a few cars down. A robust man, twice the size of a small Fiat, unfolds from the driver’s side. He's wearing name brand clothing and enough gold chains to feed a small third world country. The bag in his hand gives him away. He's a dealer. It makes what I'm about to do all the easier. I stay away from family vehicles or anything that puts a damper on my conscience. Drug dealers, on the other hand, have it coming for them. Karma and all.
I wait until the man disappears into one of the dilapidated townhomes. Dealers are tricky. They don't stay long. They're in and out as quickly as possible. I can't hesitate if this is the one.
I move across the street quickly, my steps assured and posture relaxed, like I’ve got somewhere to go but nowhere to be. I don’t look left or right, checking for witnesses. It only draws suspicion. It wouldn’t matter much in this neighborhood regardless. Call time for police here is slow in the very unlikely event someone reports something. This neighborhood isn’t a tattle-tale kind of place.
I slide the slim jim out of my waistband. The older model cars are easiest to pick, with a simple latch mechanism that pops up easily. The second I have the car door open and I slouch in, the smell hits me. I cough through a gag. What the actual fuck creates an odor so pungent? Did he eat straight methane gas this morning? Pushing past the urge to keel over and die from asphyxiation, I pop off the bottom of the steering column to find the wires to the ignition system.
I’ve been lifting cars since I was seventeen, and each and every time since the first, I recall Taylor teaching me how to distinguish wire colors. Kip has always refused to acknowledge that I picked up where he left off. Taylor, my brother’s best friend and my personal grand-theft tutor, taught me everything I know. It’s not that Kip doesn’t know; it’s just unspoken. It’s hard for him to tell me I can't do something when it’s the very same thing he did. Hypocrisy at its finest.
After a few failed starts, the car rumbles to life. I quickly tap the gas to keep the engine purring. The door the man disappeared into opens as I get the seat adjusted and window down. I take one good whiff of fresh air as I accelerate and give a two-finger salute to the bellowing man. A trail of obscenities follows me down the road before I hang a right onto the interstate.
Don’t judge me.
