Taking Mine Read online

  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.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgements

  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.

  THE GARAGE IS BUSY when I pull the Chevelle into the shop a little past one in the morning. Toby’s Car and Auto is a run-of-the-mill auto shop: oil changes and tire rotations. But sometimes, half the time, it's a little iffy. A chop-shop.

  Taylor’s dad died when Taylor turned eighteen, leaving Toby's to him. It never was a clean business, but Taylor and Kip banded together to venture as close to legit as possible. They've amassed a large clientele. A buyer will give an order for a certain amount of parts that they want, and we deliver. Mostly classic cars that are harder to find, sometimes a mass quantity of a certain brand. In the between time, we lift and break down automobiles and sell the parts on the black market. The sum of a vehicle is worth more
in pieces than whole. It’s how Taylor and Kip met.

  They’d been lifting cars together since high school under Taylor’s dad’s watch, Todd Moore. He wasn’t an honest man, per se, but he was a decent man in the eyes of the three of us. When Kip and I were struggling after our mom left, Todd took us under his wing. He didn’t want to see us go into foster care, so he gave us what he could, taught us what he couldn’t, and left us with backbone.

  My ears ring after I cut the engine, the sound echoing off the metal walls. The shop doors open from both sides of the warehouse, giving access to the alley and the main street. Dan slides the overhead door down behind me.

  “Lilly,” he says, smiling down at me through the window. “You always preferred rust buckets.”

  I roll my eyes. “I take what I can get.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about your moral compass. Still afraid to boost minivans?”

  Dan's ribbing rolls off my shoulders. He acts like a hard-ass, but I remember when he returned a car after he found an infant car seat in the trunk. Becoming a father kind of does that to a man.

  “Is yours still parked out back?”

  He laughs and steps away from the door, letting me out. “Melanie took the kids to her mom's for the week. I'm stuck taking the bus.”

  “A carjacker who takes the bus to work. Comical. Is Taylor in?”

  “In his office.” Dan closes the driver door behind me and peeks his head in. I laugh when I hear him gag. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that smell?”

  “Was your mom riding bitch?” Ethan asks, laughing as Dan covers his nose with the neck of his shirt.

  Dan punches him in the shoulder and they tussle for a moment before returning to work, removing an engine from a Thunderbird. Totally a Dan steal.

  There's a thin slice of light coming from the door to Taylor’s office. The blinds are drawn over the window he uses to keep watch over productivity. I know he had to hear me enter, so I tap lightly on the door as I open it.

  “Working late…” My words trail off as I scan his empty office. His usually tidy desk is littered with activity logs and inventory sheets. A few balls of scrunched up paper are tossed around the wastebasket next to the door.

  “It looks like you’re the one working late.” A small shriek flies from my lips as I jump away from the voice behind me. Taylor’s smirk gives away that he was trying to sneak up on me.

  I slap the back of my hand against his chest. “Stop being a creeper.”

  “What about you? You’re the one snooping in my office.” He peaks through the blinds, looking into the shop. “I don’t remember an order for a Chevelle.”

  “There's not one,” I say, leaning against the glass partition. Taylor holds the keys in his fist as he awaits my explanation. “I was hoping you’d let me sell it.”

  “You're in need of some cash?”

  There’s no way in hell I’m telling him about my suspension from the scholarship program. Taylor has always been pretty good at keeping things between the two of us, but I'm not taking the slim chance he might tell Kip. “I need a new computer for school.”

  He walks around his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’ll always help you out.” His eyes rake over my face, trying to gauge my honesty.

  “I know we haven’t been getting in any large orders lately.”

  “Toby’s is doing fine. We’ve got a couple of jobs lined up.” He swivels slightly in his chair, still watching me.

  If Taylor decides not to sell the car, I’m royally screwed, in more ways than one. It leaves me being the one to ditch it, and that’s always risky if there’s a dispatch out. We eye each other over the length of his tiny office. Taylor’s dirty-blond hair looks two-toned under the fluorescent lights. His Italian heritage reflects in his skin and eye color, both close to a honey-brown hue. His features are strong, giving him the all-American look.

  “I don’t have anyone here to dismantle it. Workers are going to be here in…” He eyes an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Six hours or so, and we can’t have an undocumented vehicle sitting in the shop. What exactly were you hoping I’d do with it?”

  “What about Dan and Ethan? It'll take them a couple hours, max three, to dismantle the Thunderbird.”

  He thinks for a moment and then taps his knuckles against the desk. “Tell you what, I’ll break it down tonight, personally, but you’re on inventory duty for the next month.”

  I scan the inventory logs heaped across his desk. “Something tells me this isn’t much of a hardship on your end.”

  Taylor's smirk tells me that I'm right. “Come on, I haven’t broken a car down in years. I’m drawing the short stick here.”

  “What if I help?”

  “You can help by getting started on these check-in sheets.” He picks up a stack of papers almost a foot high and drops them on the desk in front of me.

  “I don’t get an option, do I?”

  “None,” he says, standing. “I’ll take care of the car for you tonight, given I get fifty percent of the profit for half the work.”

  “Fifty percent? No way. Thirty-five.”

  “Are you trying to negotiate dropping a car on me last minute? You’re lucky I don’t make you dump it.”

  I inwardly cringe. “I’ll have to stay late at least twice a week to organize the mess in inventory. Work with me here.”

  He clicks his tongue as he thinks. “Forty percent and maybe next time you’ll think about just coming to me for money when you need it.”

  “You had to add a little chastisement to harden the blow, didn’t you?”

  His shrug is halfhearted. “Kip would kick my ass otherwise. Speaking of which, I’m guessing you need me to cover for you tonight, too?” I give him a cheeky smile. “Thought so. Okay, fine. You start working on the stockroom tonight, so when Kip double-checks the time tomorrow you’ll have a legit alibi.”

  Not really what I wanted to hear, considering I’ve got class in the morning, but I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks, Taylor,” I say, kissing him on the cheek as he leaves me with a mountain of paperwork.

  I PLACE MY THIRD CUP of coffee on my desk and it knocks my phone to the floor. Too tired to pick it up, I leave it. A few students non-discreetly side-eye me.

  “Making new friends on the first day of the semester, hmm?” Kaley picks up my phone and hands it to me.

  “You know me, always the people person.”

  “Be careful, that glorious attitude of yours is going to ward off hopeful prospects.”

  The thought of any male coming within ten feet of me this morning pisses me off. I blame Taylor. “I can only hope.”

  “Come on, Lilly. It’s the start of a new school year.”

  Kaley is the closest thing I could ever call a best friend, but days like today I want to duct tape her mouth shut. I swear she wakes up every morning with the sun shining out of her ass. She's too damn happy. I didn’t get home until four and my earliest class is at eight. Three hours of sleep isn’t conducive for me to pretend to like people. It’s really not.

  “This year is going to suck balls,” I say, copying the important notes Professor Whitticker is highlighting on the syllabus.

  “That doesn’t really deviate from normal, but why is that?” she asks, lounging against her armrest, braiding her long brown hair. Some may think Kaley’s the stereotypical rich girl from uptown with her high-end designer handbags—which she is—but she’s also ridiculously smart. We met in high school and she still ceases to amaze me. She never takes notes, barely pays attention, and passes each class with ease. I, on the other hand, bust my ass for a couple of mediocre test scores.

  “I’m on academic probation.”

  She uncrosses her legs and sits forward. “I’m sorry, it just sounded like you said academic probation.”

  “Since when do you have hearing problems? You can hear gossip four rows down while the slides play.”

  “Just because I hear you doesn’t mean I’m listening. Now repeat tha
t for me.”

  I finish off my note reminding me to bring back the syllabus signed next class period. God forbid I lose five points. No, seriously, I hope God forbids it.

  “Technically I’m suspended from the scholarship program. I get zero moolah until I bring up my GPA.”

  “My ears are protesting as you speak.”

  “Tell your ears they need to take advice from your legs and open up.”

  “It’s the same scenario. My legs don't open for just anyone they see.” She recrosses her legs and smiles at the boy one row down.

  I roll my eyes. “Does that include Knee-Slapper Tommy?”

  She quits smiling and groans. “I can’t escape the horror.”

  I tsk. “You should have known the same guy who sings show tunes as he—”

  “Okay! Okay,” she whisper-yells for me to stop. After a few moments of silence, Kaley leans into me. “I know a study group that gets together a few times a week. Might be able to help.”

  I hate study groups. They’re equivalent to group assignments. Plus, with doing overtime to clean up inventory, I'm going to have zero time for anything else. “Maybe,” I answer noncommittally.

  I asked Kaley to tutor me one time and it was an epic fail. Kaley trying to explain anything is like trying to take directions from a drunk. They know what they’re saying, but the other person trying to listen is confused as fuck. Only she makes sense to herself.

  Professor Whitticker ends the class early. Even with enough caffeine in my system to send a rocket to the moon, I'm slow to pack up.

  “Lunch,” Kaley says, already leading the way.

  “As long as they have more coffee.”

  We end up at the cafe right off campus. With free Wi-Fi and hours until midnight or later, it's a popular student destination.

  As I sip my fourth cup of the day, I question whether or not I should have gotten that extra shot of espresso. “How many classes are you taking this semester?” I ask.

  Kaley keeps eying the carrot top in the corner in cut-off jeans. I snap my fingers to direct her attention back to me.