Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (29 page)

Pulling my legs back to my chest, drawing every ounce of energy I can into my muscled thighs, I brace myself against the wall and let fly a kick, shoving both feet straight into Stok
e’
s groin. 

“
Oof
!
”
 
Turning rice white and bending double, he gags.   

Watching the clear liquid string from his gasping mouth, I feel the Colby endorphins jacking my veins. 
Way to go, girl!
 

“
Do
n’
t you dare shove me, Stoke Farrel!  Do
n’
t you freaki
n
’
dare
!
”

Finally Stoke straightens and with a weak cackle, he says
,“
Is your ankle okay
?
”

Tha
t’
s a strange thing to ask, considering, but at least h
e’
s being polite.
 “I’
m mostly okay
,”
I say, feeling silly now this is ove
r—
and
I’
ve won.
 “I’
m sorry Stoke.  I thought you were going to lasso me with your scarf
.
” 

He tries to laugh, but ca
n’
t. 

I stare at him.  H
e’
s bent double, gasping.
 “
Stoke, are you okay? 
I’
m sorry, I did
n’
t mean t
o
—”

“
Yo
u’
re a little spitfire, Blaze
,”
he says.  A wicked gleam taking over and lighting his dark eyes, he tries to straighten.
 “
Huff-huff
.
”
 
He coughs, tries again, but ca
n’
t stand up straight.
 “
Yo
u’
ll need that fighting spirit one day, trust me
.
”

“
I need it now
,”
I say, fighting self pity.
 “
Wh
y’
s my life so chaotic, Stoke? 
I’
m missing classes, work.  My frien
d’
s been murdered, my brothe
r’
s missing, and I hate wha
t’
s happening
.
”

“
And now
I’
ve turne
d‘
punkas
s
’ on you
,”
he says. 

“
I
t’
s as much my fault as yours
,”
I say.
 “
All I want is someone to talk to about Ang, to help me look for her killer.  Can you believe sh
e’
s dead
?
”
 
I bite my trembling lip, but my eyes flood with tears.  Using my hoodi
e’
s sleeve, I try to hide my face, not that Stok
e’
s paying attention. 
Why wo
n’
t he help me? Why wo
n’
t he talk about Ang? 

Holding the rickety banister hanging from the stairwell wall by a crooked screw, I pull myself to my feet.
 “
I did
n’
t mean to bother you.  I thought yo
u’
d want to help me find her killer.  I mean, I know you two did
n’
t get along, but you and I are both crim majors, so I though
t
—” 

His voice turns scornful.
 “
You thought yo
u’
d run over here.  Uh-huh.  And then you and I would solve the case?  Is that it?  What will you do if you find her killer?  You ca
n’
t even get to class in time to take quizzes
.
”

Tha
t’
s a low blow. 

“
I better leave
,”
I say, alarmed at the ange
r—
or lust
?—
or both
?—
flaring in Stok
e’
s eyes. 

As I load my backpack onto my shoulder, I feel his gaze running up and down my body.  Before I can say
oh-crap
, he snakes his arms around my waist and says in a husky voice
,“
God, Alaina,
I’
m sorry, too.  You need a friend, a protector, and here
I’
m being such an ass, but I ca
n’
t help myself.  You . . . do things to me
.
”

“
Let me go, Stoke
,”
I hiss.
 “
Wha
t‘
n hell are you doing
?
”

“
Come on, Blaze
,”
he says, his voice low and flat, the falsetto from when I kicked him gone, along wit
h—
I hop
e—
his ability to father children. 

“
Wha
t’
s freaki
n
’ wrong with you?  Why are you acting like this
?
” 

His arms still around me, he lifts me up a step, his strength shocking me, since h
e’
s still in obvious pain.  His gaze locking with mine, he thrusts both our bodies against the stairwell wall and then presses his groin into mine.

“
Lemme go
,”
I say, my voice a dry rasp when I feel his hardness growing against me.  Locking my hands into a fist, I shove against his chest, trying to break his bear hug.
 “
Stoke
,”
I squeak, afraid h
e’
s going to kiss me
,“
let me go
.
”

For a second, I gaze into his eyes and se
e—
nothing.  Stok
e’
s teeth, I realize this close to his face, are as raggedy as I recall, except that the
y’
re a shiny bone white.  Unlike Robi
n’
s, and despite their crookedness, the
y’
ve been well cared for, maybe too well cared for.  They do
n’
t look real.
 “
Aida
n’
s coming back to pick me up and drive me to work
,”
I lie, hoping h
e’
s forgotten
I’
ve told him
I’
m not working at Oma
r’
s tonight.
 “
You better let me go
.
”

Stoke releases me from the bear hug, but keeps me locked within his embrace, arms around me and hands pressed firmly against the stairwell wall.
 “I’
m so sorry, Alaina.  Please forgive me.  I
t’
s just that yo
u’
re so beautifu
l
—”

Ugh!  I stare at him, afraid for the first time and doing my best to hide my loathing, which means saying nothing until
I’
m safely free of his grasp and out of this place.

“I’
ll drive you home
,”
he says, dragging me up another step, our bodies pressed against the wall like lover
s
’ and Stok
e’
s feeling wiry and terrifingly strong against mine. 

“
Put me down!  Right
now
.
”

“
Okay
.
”
 
Like h
e’
s coming out of a trance, Stoke drops and then shoves me away.

“
Do
n’
t ever put your hands on me again
.
”

“
Sorry.  I was just helping you upstairs
.
” 

“
You are such a crappy liar
,”
I say. 

Like what just happened did
n’
t, he tries to chuck me under the chin, but I slap away his hand.
 “
Do not freaki
n
’ touch me.  Ever
.
” 

“
We can work on finding Angi
e’
s killer at your place
,”
he says
,“
Okay
?
”

“
No, I do
n’
t want your help now. 
I’
ll call Professor Levin.  Maybe h
e’
ll help me
.
” 

I wipe snot and dry my eyes with my hoodi
e’
s sleeves.
 “
Did you leave my key under the mat at my apartment
?”
I say, desperate to flee this plac
e—
and Stoke.

“
I did.  But why do
n’
t you let me drive you home?  Let me make up for my bad behavior
.
”

I shoot him a hard look.  I came here wanting to talk to my friend, but I do
n’
t recognize the person standing on the steps.  Stok
e’
s expecting everything to return to normal.  His mood swings exhaust me on good days, but this evening h
e’
s testing our friendship. 
I’
m ready to smash his face.
 “
How did you plan on doing that?  You do
n’
t have a car
.
”

“
I jacked another ride in our Coca-Cola truck
,”
he says. 

Our Coca-Cola truck?

I dump an imaginary gallon of acid over Stok
e’
s head.
 “
What are you talking about
?
” 

And then I get it. 

“
Oh, you punkass
,”
I say
,“
tell me you
did
n’
t
.
”

Taking the steps up from the basement, I race through the trashed foyer and land on the front porch. 

There I stop and stare.

Parked by the curb is that hugeass red and white Coca-Cola truck.  The side doors are open, exposing row-upon-row of canned Coke.  The three thugs I saw earlier are circling the truck, checking for scrap metal they can sell for money to buy dope. 

“
Stoke Farrel
,”
I yell over my shoulder
,“
get up here.  Right now!  W
e’
re taking this truck to the police and turning ourselves in
.
”

Chugging stolen Coke, the thugs shoot me menacing glares.  One of them smiles and waves like he knows me.

Chapter 27

By the time Stoke joins me on the front porch, dusk is infusing the city with its gray gloom.  April in Ohio often gives the same performance as November.  Evenings turn cold.

“
What took you so long
?”
I hiss, keeping tabs on the thugs by the Coke truck.

When he stops beside me, Stoke brings another whiff of that raw smell up from the basement with him.
 “
Get some Lysol
,”
I lecture, but then notice how the thugs skulk off when they see him.  I
t’
s like the
y’
re afraid of him.
 “
Impressive
,”
I say, watching them sidle down the sidewalk, heaved up by ice and snow.
 “
Wha
t’
d you do, anyway?  Kill their sisters
?
”

“
One o
f‘
em
,”
Stoke says.
 “
But do
n’
t tell Detective Hawks
,”
he adds, putting a finger to his lips.
 “
Shhh
.
” 

“
Yo
u’
re joking, right
?
”
 
I scan his face.
 “
You better be
.
”

“
Like yo
u’
re the only one who can joke about dead bodies
,”
he says.

I do
n’
t smile.
 “
I admit I was pushy
,”
I say
,“
but you had no business putting your hands on me.  I hurt my ankle.  Might not be able to dance An
g’
s shift if I decide to go in
.
”

“
I know. 
I’
m sorry
,”
he says, his ever-present ugly scarf fluttering in the evenin
g’
s breeze.
 “
You sure yo
u’
re okay?  Not hurt
?
” 

The soft April wind sends eerie shivers up my spine, chilling my already dark mood.  I did
n’
t grow up right: I know.  But at least I learned that, if my friends need m
e—
no matter wha
t—I’
m there for them. 
I’
ve come here expecting Stok
e’
s help finding An
g’
s killer.  All h
e’
s done is stonewall.  Maybe h
e’
s got good reasons, but his refusal makes me want to walk away from him, and our friendship. 
I’
m seriously considering never seeing him again.

Next to the crumbling concrete steps, a sullen clump of daffodils struggles to bloom, frilly yellow heads the only light left of the evening.  I
t’
s time to set Stoke straight.  O
r—
mayb
e—
i
t’
s time to set myself straight.  Running from the cops, jacking the Coke truck, taking part in Oma
r’
s robbery, these are all acts I know are wrong.  I need to change. 

I feel myself pulling away emotionally from Stoke.  I
t’
s okay, too.  Sometimes friendships last a short while, like this one with Stoke, and others last forever.  I think of Ang.  I just know we woul
d’
ve been friends our whole lives.  Before I start crying, I ask Stoke
,“
Wha
t’
ve you done
?
”
 
I nod toward the Coca-Cola truck.
 “
Why
?
”

“
I had to have a ride to your apartment to drop off your key, did
n’
t I
?
” 

His cackle is soft, not hard like before.  Somethin
g’
s changing in his attitude toward me.  I ca
n’
t pinpoint what it is, but something about him feels different.
 “
It was parked where we left it up near campus, so I jacked it again.  No harm
,”
he says.
 “
Right?  I just moved it her
e—
to a different parking spot, tha
t’
s all
.
” 

“
Yo
u’
re rationalizing your criminal behavior, same as always
.
” 

I stand on the porch feeling sorry for the sad yellow daffies working hard to survive
. 
Such lively color splashed against bare black earth, nature bursting with life among cigarette stubs and drug paraphernalia.

Drugs.  Ha!  I ca
n’
t count the number of times
I’
ve needed something for my ankle, but never once used anything but a prescription for pain killers. 

Why?  Why does my brother, and all my friends, keep doing this to each other, and to themselves?  Why do they keep destroying their lives, over drugs?

Bending to pull the needle that stuck to the toe of my shoe when I ran upstairs, I wonder where Robin is.  Is he jacking a shot of meth into his veins in a grungy place just like this?  Is he so caught up with drugs h
e’
s helped Squeal kill my bestie? 

If Aidan thinks Robi
n’
s involved in An
g’
s murder, I know h
e’
ll arrest Robin.  If h
e’
d dropped me off here a few minutes later than he did, he woul
d’
ve caught Stoke driving up in the stolen Coca-Cola truck.  He woul
d’
ve arrested Stok
e—
and me. 

My left foot sets up its crybaby whine, aching from where Stoke pushed me down the steps.  Making matters worse, I still need a freaki
n
’ ride home.  But here I am, stuck again in another bad situation of my own making.  Goshen gimp,
I’
m destined by birth like Meer
a—
by virtue of my famil
y’
s cast
e—
to become a criminal.  I am, that is, if I allow myself to believe the narrative my famil
y’
s poverty has created for me as a female. 

So who freaki
n
’ cares what Aidan Hawks thinks?

“
I care
,”
I say, turning to Stoke.
 “
I no longer choose to act like a Goshen Colby
.
”

“
Blaze, what the hell are you talking about
?
”

“
Nothing, Stoke.  Le
t’
s walk to my place, okay?  We do
n’
t need that truck.  You and I can sit down over a pizza and work out a plan for helping catch An
g’
s killer
.
” 

What I do
n’
t say would shock him further. 
Soon as I get home,
I’
m calling Aidan and turning in myself and you, Stoke Farrel.  I want all this craziness to halt.

“
Hullo, Blaze
,”
he says.
 “
I
t’
s colder than blue hell out here.  Are you crazy
?
” 

“
Definitely
,”
I say
,“
but you gotta promise me yo
u’
ll stop doing this.  Even though we wiped it, that truc
k’
s probably got our prints all over it.  Sooner or later w
e’
re gonna be caught
.
”

“
Nah, not my prints
,”
he cackles
,“
I wipe
d‘
em
.
”

I
t’
s my turn to stare.
 “
What is that supposed to mean
?
”

“
Yours
,”
he says, and then shrugs.
 “
Your prints.  Maybe I missed a few.  A few got left
.”
 

“
Yo
u’
re a punkass
,”
I say.  Slowly, hoping
I’
m doing the right thing, making the right choice for once, I voice the thought tha
t’
s been brewing in my confused brain.
 “
I need to find a new friend
.
”

“
My lady
,”
he says, doing another of his weird one-eighties and giving me another of his ridiculous Robin Hood bows
,“
tha
t’
s unnecessary.  Did you not say you needed my help finding Angi
e’
s killer?  I can do that
.
”  

H
e’
s got no intention of helping.  Not answering right away, sensing
I’
m being manipulated, I take a final glance inside the crack hous
e’
s gaping black maw, the dirty-white storm door hanging like a loose tooth in Robi
n’
s meth-head mouth. 
Why would
n’
t he invite me in?  Why does
n’
t Stoke want to help find Angi
e’
s murderer? 

Maybe Stok
e’
s telling the truth.  H
e’
s embarrassed by that smelly basement he calls home and does
n’
t want me to see it.
 “
How do I know you did
n’
t kill her
?”
I say.  The time for being sensitive about his feelings is over.
 “
Ang hated you
.
”

“
Stupid remark
,”
Stoke says, his glare sending chills up my spine.

“
Stupid remark for a stupid friend
,”
I retort.

Stoke straightens.  H
e’
s five-seven, short for a guy, not much of a heavy weight if push came to shove.  But h
e’
s stronger than he looks.  I learned that trying to free myself from his embrace in the stairwell.  If h
e’
d really wanted to hurt me down there at the bottom of those steps, he could have.  If h
e’
d wanted to
kill
me, he could have.

“I’
m stupid
,”
he says
,“
because I jack Coke trucks to put your key back under the mat, like
you
ordered?  To make Oma
r’
s deposit, like
you
told me?  So
you
do
n’
t have to walk home?  Because I rob bars to pay
your
tuition?  Because I want to help
you
make your jump-the-line video, sinc
e—
excuse me for mentioning thi
s—
but
your
best frien
d’
s not here to do it
?
”

He stops, catching his breath.
 “
I
t’
s always all about you, Alaina, is
n’
t it
?
”

H
e’
s right.  His logi
c’
s twisted, but Stok
e’
s right.  H
e’
s done these things for me.
 “
I hate you
,”
I say, wanting to cry
,“
but
I’
ve allowed myself to do things that are . . . not legal.  I
t’
s not your fault
.
”