Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1)

Jump the Line

by Mary McFarland

©
2015 Mary McFarland

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written consent of the author.

Cover desig
n©
2015 by Regina Wamba

Published  by Mary McFarland

This is a work of fiction. The situations and scenes described, other than those of historical events, are all imaginary. With the exceptions of well-known historical figures and events, none of the events or the characters portrayed is based on real people, but was created from the autho
r’
s imagination or is used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

“
Do
n’
t leave gaps in your job history
.
”

“
Hullo
,”
I told my advisor at the campus career center.
 “
Min
e’
s not a job you put on your resume
.
”

I
t’
s sad to hide from the world, I know, but working at Oma
r’
s exotic dance club pays my tuition and helps me care for my brother, Robin.  Anyway,
I’
ve got worse secrets, things
I’
ve hidden from the worl
d—
and from mysel
f—
forever.  Take my mom, Berta Colby.

“
Git a boyfriend
,”
she used to nag.
 “
A girl needs a man
.
” 

Git
a boyfriend?  Whenever
I’
d bring one home, sh
e’
d scared him off.  Sh
e’
s not just a Goshen Colby: Mo
m’
s nuts, so even if I ever do find Mr. Right I ca
n’
t take him home to meet her.  If she does
n’
t like him, sh
e’
ll put a hit out on him.  She especially hates cops.
 “
Sleep with anyon
e—
I do
n’
t care
,”
she warns
,“
but do
n’
t ever bring home no damn LEO
.
”

My usual response?
 “
Sleep with a law enforcement officer, Mom?  Yeah, sure.  Like
I’
d
ever
.
” 

Pai
n’
s clawing my bad ankle,
so I curl into the metal dance pole and try to steal a few second
s
’ rest.  Mistake.  Heaving basketball-sized guts up from the tables, a couple of truckers start leaving.
 “
Oh, hell yeah
,”
I yell at their retreating gorilla backs.
 “G’
wa
n‘
n git
!
” 

Do I blame them for storming out?  Not really.  The
y’
ve got their reasons for being here, same as I do.  They want me shaking my ladies, sliding up and down the dance pole, th
e“
banana
,”
customers call it.  The
y’
re not paying to watch me hang here like a dazed opossum, nursing my crippled ankle and my grudge against the world. 

“
Alaina
!
”

Oh, hell.  Here comes Omar Jain, my boss.

“
I must apologize, Alaina, but get
off
the pole
!
” 

I like O.J., but he starts every sentence with
,“
I must apologize bu
t
—”

Plus, h
e’
s weird.  His Punjab
i“
client
s”
are polymer chemists, stock brokers.  So ho
w’
d O.J. end up running a topless bar?  I close my eyes against the pain ripping my ankle and forget about my underachieving boss and his
clients
.  Like I said,
I’
ve got my own secrets. 

One of them is making sure my mom never finds out I work here.
 “
What a dump
,”
Berta Colby, would say.  If she and I were speaking,
I’
d agree.
 “
Uh, yeah, Berta, Oma
r’
s is a dump.  The booze is watery and killers dump dancer
s
’ bodies in the alley out back, but I like working here.  Taking care of myself and Robi
n
”
—I’
d rub it in that my brother lives with me instead of he
r
—
“
keeps me from your sleazy friend
s
’ clutches, and from yours
.
”
 
In her cancerous rasp, sh
e’
d argue back
,“
Cool damn beans
,‘
Lainey.  You think because you work in this fine establishment yo
u’
re too damn good to call yourself a Colby
?
”
 
Then sh
e’
d attack with some underhanded remark meant to cut me deeper.
 “
Crip, this is no place for you, not with your two left feet
.
”

Mo
m’
s not mean, just angry.
 “
The world cut me a raw deal
,”
she whined last time I slammed her sleaze ball lifestyle.  Sh
e’
s always reminding me
I’
m handicapped.  I
t’
s one reason
I’
ve not spoken to her in four years, since I left for college.  The other is I do
n’
t want her calling m
e“
Cri
p”
in front of my friends.  I do
n’
t see myself as a victim of my disability the way she does.  Plus working here keeps me dancing, which is like sayin
g—
it keeps me breathing. 

I love to dance, but I was born with a club foot.  Surgery left me scarred, and my left ankle buckles if
I’
m not careful.  So my disabled tag is my other big secret.  If anyone knew, it would crush my dream of making a tryout video for the Rockette
s
’ jump-the-line competition.

“
Off the pole
!”
O.J. yells, waving his bleachy bar rag.  He worries constantly the dancers are screwing off on his dime. 

“I’
m taking a freaki
n
’ brea
k
—
”
I start to yell, but then stop.
 “
Forget it
.
”
 
Unhooking from the banana, I sling my body into a tight rumba, not easy considering Tammy Wynett
e’
s belting
Stand by Your Man
from gravelly speakers lodged up near the ceiling.  The song makes me want to wallow in self pity.  This is
n’
t my life, I think, staring at the spray-painted flat black ceiling shot with Christmas sparkle.  This is
n’
t
me
:
the truckers, the sappy country music.  Anyway, who believes you can stand by your man, when h
e’
s walking all over you?

Oh, yeah,
I’
ve been burned at love.  Twice.  Not sayi
n
’ it wo
n’
t happen again, but at least
I’
m on to the alien
s—
me
n
—
so I say to anyone who wants to hurt me: bring it on.

Pushing Tamm
y’
s whine from my head, I follow the music playing in my brain. 
Stand by Your Man
morphs into something imaginary, more familiar, jazzier.  Continuing to ignore O.J., I let go and feel the sensual beat of Lizz Holli
s
’
Bon Chiki Bon. 
Shutting my eyes, I keep the rhythm of my rumba, despite Tamm
y’
s yowling and my screaming foot.

“
Hey, Alaina
,”
a familiar voice bawls.  Oh
God
.  I
t’
s Tater McCloskey, my stalker.
He comes in every night, knows my shift by heart, and always leaves a crappy ten dollar tip.

The other guys pick up Tate
r’
s cry, hooting and stomping the floor with their work boots.  Telling myself
,“
Oh, well, Alaina, ten dollars is ten dollars
,”
I rumba across the rickety platform sporting its sad orange shag carpet.  Soon Oma
r’
s walls shake with trucker
s
’ roars and boot stomping.  I groan.  Tamm
y’
s right.  Sometimes i
t’
s hard to be a woman.  Then, dancing to the stag
e’
s edg
e—
because ten bucks is ten buck
s—
I get busy earning my paycheck.  Shaking my prim ladies, I rattle my hips like a hula dancer o
n‘
roids and step into a smoking hot samba. 

Tater goes wild.
 “
Woo-ha
!
”

I ditch Liz Hollis and imagine the beat of Luis Migue
l’
s
Mas Que Nada. 
It teases my brain, the imaginary musi
c’
s triple-time rhythm picking me up.  Me,
I’
m sayi
n
’
—
me.  It picks
me
up, my soul, not just my body.  I shoot Tater another smile, more malice than promise:
Tate, yo
u’
re paying to watch, so my body belongs to your piggy gaze.  But make no mistake: I own Alaina Colb
y’
s soul.
 

“
Woo-ha
!
”
 
H
e’
s out of his chair again.
 “I’
ve got a thang for you
,”
my bloated, horny-toad stalker tells me every chance he gets. 

When Tater starts lumbering toward the stage, I catch bouncer Tony Rotterma
n’
s gaze and mouth the word
,“
Help
.
”

Rott
y’
s dark eyes narrow to Ninja slits when his gaze lands on Tater, and he sends me a reassuring smile.  One more step and Rott
y’
ll bust Tat
e’
s noggin.  If he did
n’
t do his job, ther
e’
d be no keeping guys like Tater from pawing us to death.  O.J. sells drinks for fifty bucks.  I
t’
s illegal, yet some regulars want extra for their fifty, like lap dances. 
I’
ve made it plain to Tater McCloske
y—
no extras.  I dance.  Tha
t’
s all.  Rotty backs me up.

I shoot him a nod. 
No.  Do
n’
t kill Tater.
 

Because
I’
ve let Tater live, this time, I expect a tip, my ten, or maybe even a twenty if
I’
m really good. 

“
Hey, Tater
.
”
 
I wave, smile.  If he had a brain h
e’
d know my ladies are snubbing him.  If he had half a brain he would
n’
t come here, but the
n
— 

He mashes a paw to his lips, blows me a kiss.  With heart-shaped lips embedded in a beefy face, h
e’
s a poster boy for repressed violence and God knows what other deviance.  My bestie, Angie Miller, thinks h
e’
s a serial killer.  I think Tat
e’
s just a redneck with a stiffie.

“
I luvvvv you, Alaina
.
”

Hmmm.  Could Ang be right? 
Tate does kinda resemble Dennis Rader, the BTK killer, but I could care. 
I’
ve got a
than
g
—
as Tate would sa
y—
for wha
t’
s in his wallet.  Greed turns my eyeballs into lasers probing his pocket for the wad of tens he hides from his wif
e—
if h
e’
s got one.  My mission in life is getting him to bump that ten up to a twenty.

I hit the banana, slide suggestively up and down, and then step back into my samba, which sends Tater over the edge.  Spotting Rotty unwinding like an anaconda from his stool by the front door, Tate grabs a table below stage but then slyly squeezes his butt back down onto a chair.  Tossing Rotty wicked-hateful glances, he gives up pouting long enough to chat with the triangle of off-limits turf south of my navel, tucke
d—
just barel
y—
into my black silk G-string.