Taking Mine Page 6

  “There’s a fire,” she says, untying her apron.

  “Fire,” Justin parrots, his mouth full of food.

  “Yes, a grease fire. The entire kitchen is in smoke.”

  It’s then that we notice black smoke starting to billow from the double doors leading to the kitchen. Our waitress hops over the counter and opens the register, pulling money out and stuffing it in her bra. Justin hurries, grabbing both our cheeseburgers and fries, and I grab the drinks. We’re almost out the door when Justin remembers our books. Food is obviously first priority.

  We exit the diner along with everyone else, jogging across the street to gain a better view of the building and the black smoke rising high into the air. It’s kind of unbelievable we didn’t have a clue what was happening, sitting and eating like everything was a-okay. All the while, an inferno had taken off. Sirens echo down the street, followed by horns bellowing. I glance at Justin and see him shoving a couple of fries into his mouth, eyes fixated on the scene before us. I had forgotten about the drinks in my hands, suddenly aware of them again.

  “You really are bad luck,” I say, incredulous. “I guess that’s a night.”

  Justin looks down at me, swallowing his last bit of food. “Is your car at the diner?”

  “No, I rode with Kaley to school this morning. I can walk home from here.”

  He draws his eyebrows together as he looks down the block. “That’s a long walk.”

  “I walk it all the time. I’ll be fine.”

  He leans over and drinks out of one of the cups in my hand. I’m unsure as to whose is whose at this point, but I doubt he cares.

  “I’ll walk you,” he declares after finishing.

  “That’s dumb. You’re going to have to walk all the way back.”

  My words get muffled by the sound of the fire trucks and ambulances pulling to a stop in front of us. Justin tosses the now empty basket of fries into a nearby trashcan and pulls me along after him in the direction of my house. I don’t attempt to argue until it’s quiet enough to be heard. We walk almost the entire length of the block before he speaks.

  “I live in the apartments across from the university. I’ll take a cab back.”

  “And then you’re paying for a cab, also dumb.”

  He takes another bite of his burger. “I didn’t have to pay for dinner. Cancels itself out.” At the next cross section, we finish off what’s left of our food. We’re about to cross the crosswalk when a haggler approaches us, dressed in the same Batman shirt I’ve seen him wearing for the past two years.

  “Come on, I’ve told you, you can’t pretend to be Batman and ask for money.”

  He smiles. “How else do you think Bruce Wayne got his money?”

  “Not panhandling, I can guarantee you.” I’m already pulling open the zipper of my backpack, digging for the stray dollars I save for the vending machines at school.

  Justin bends and whispers in my ear. “Do you know this guy?”

  “Not really,” I say. “I don’t even know his name.”

  The man replies, “Yes, you do. It’s Bruce Wayne.”

  “Actually,” Justin says. “Bruce Wayne’s fortune came from family money.”

  Batman narrows his eyes and throws a thumb in Justin's direction. “Who’s this kid?”

  I hand him a couple of one-dollar bills and pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you next week, Bruce.”

  He smiles, showing his lack of teeth. “Tell your brother I could use some more socks.”

  “He told me to tell you he’s dropping off a box at the shelter on Monday.”

  “Good man, there.”

  “It’s almost curfew. You don’t want to be last in for top bunk,” I respond. He mumbles something under his breath, shuffling away. “He’s hard on newcomers.”

  “New to where? This intersection?”

  “The shelter is about a block that way,” I say, pointing down the street. “We’ve been donating there for a few years now. Usually only residents come through here.”

  We walk a few paces before he replies. “It’s strange how protective your brother is, yet he lets you wander around sketchy neighborhoods by yourself.”

  His words come off all knowing and judge-y, and it irritates me.

  “My brother doesn’t let me do anything. I am my own person.”

  Justin is surprised by my backlash. “I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. It’s just that I’ve noticed you frequent some rough areas, and you’re best friends with a homeless guy who won’t tell you his real name.”

  “I’m also walking home with someone following me without my permission,” I throw back.

  He laughs. “But you know I'm not going to hurt you.”

  Do I?

  “Look,” he says, stopping mid step. He turns me toward him, his hands resting on my upper arms. “At least let me show you some self-defense moves.”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously? You don't think my brother’s covered the basics with me already? I learned how to throw a punch when I was like twelve. You saw it for yourself.”

  “I saw you sloppily throw a punch. You’re lucky he was drunk. He wasn’t that hard of a target.”

  “Bullshit. It was good and you know it.”

  “Okay,” he says, taking a step back. “Show me what you got.”

  “I'm not going to hit you.”

  “Don't worry.” He smiles. “You won't.”

  I wrack my brain, trying to recall a hazy memory of Kip teaching me stance. But then I think, Fuck it, and swing. Or stumble. Justin catches me around my waist as my step hits the curb, turning me around and placing me back on my feet.

  “Stop laughing,” I say, embarrassed.

  He wraps his forearm around my waist, his chest pressed to my back, and I feel the rumble of his laughter.

  “I'm sorry,” he says, trying to speak trough his hysterics.

  I struggle, trying to break free.

  “I quit,” I say, marching in the direction of my house.

  “No, no,” Justin says, pulling me back by my hand. “I'm sorry. No more laughing.” He crosses his chest with a finger. “Promise.”

  I grumble but give in. “I’m not in the right mindset,” I say in defense.

  “Did you have this much coordination when you were twelve?”

  Maybe he can sense the amount of patience I'm working with because he straightens his features.

  “No laughing,” he reiterates.

  When I relax, his smile reappears.

  “Okay,” he says, standing alongside me. “Position your feet farther apart like this.” He waits for me to mirror him before continuing. “Your fist is good, but when you throw, throw across your body.”

  “But you're taller than me. How do I aim across if your face is an entire foot above me?”

  “That's the largest misconception. People thinking hitting someone in the face draws the most damage, but really all it does is piss someone off. Aim for the throat.” He taps right above his Adam’s apple, effectively distracting me. “It's the most vulnerable and no one sees it coming.”

  I wonder if his stubble tickles when—

  “Lilly,” Justin says. His eyes are hooded. It's the same look he gave me at lunch, except this time he's a little less unsure of it.

  “Yes?”

  He swallows, positioning himself in front of me. “Get your stance right and follow through with your body.”

  I focus on that specific point on his throat, which surprisingly helps, considering my attraction comes with weird, violent thoughts toward him, and I swing. Not so bad this time. I manage to get close to my target without nearly killing myself, but he deflects easily.

  “Pull your momentum in with your hips.”

  “My hips,” I repeat, confused.

  “Like this,” he says, placing his hands on either side of me. “When you swing, turn your body with the throw.”

  There's a small part between his lips as he looks down. I lied. It's not his neck I
want to taste, it's his mouth.

  I want him to kiss me.

  The feel of his hands burns through my clothes, kicking my heart rate up a few notches. His mouth falls open a little farther, his tongue barely touching the top of his bottom lip. His grip on my hips tightens, and I feel like he's fastening me, like I need him to be my anchor. After what feels like an eternity of waiting for him to move, I find the courage to look from his mouth. He's focused on my lips, completely zoned in on them. Instinctively, I wet mine, wondering if he's going to act on it, to show me I'm not the only one wanting this.

  The action snaps him away. Closing his mouth, he drops his hands from my waist. The uncertainty that was missing from his gaze earlier is back full force this time, no mistaking the conflict in them. He backs up a few paces, putting distance between us.

  “Um,” he says, clearing his throat. “Want to try one last time?”

  I swallow, gathering my emotions. I can't pinpoint exactly what I'm feeling, but I'd say disappointment and confusion are high up there, followed shortly by embarrassment.

  “Sure.”

  He doesn't look at me when I swing, getting everything right, but without enough force. He blocks me but still compliments me on my form. This is the first time things have been this awkward between us. It's silent, too late in the night for traffic, and the bustle at Chuck's is too far behind us to be heard. His movements draw my attention from the corner of my eye as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He opens it and slips one into his mouth, the act completely habitual, something only achieved through repetition. He lights it, sucks in a deep breath of smoke, and releases.

  It's like this the rest of the way. Me in my thoughts and him in his. Whatever just happened between us has effectively put a strain on our friendship, if that's even what it was, and it makes me sadder than I think it should. I hate to admit it, especially to myself, but I think I like him. Or liked. Or whatever at this point. But either way, it's obvious he doesn't feel the same or he would have acted on it.

  When we reach the intersection a block from my house, I convince Justin that I'm fine walking the rest of the way by myself. A reminder of what Kip's possible reaction would be if he saw him helps my case when he wants to argue. I jog across the street when I hear my name being called.

  “If you're ever in a position to, always run. Don't fight unless it's a last resort.”

  I smile, breaking a small chip off the large iceberg that had successfully wedged its way between us.

  “I'll tuck that tidbit away just in case.”

  He doesn't smile, simply nods. I take a couple more steps when he calls out my name again.

  “Yeah?”

  “I'll forward you that practice test from Blake. You never traded emails.”

  “That sounds great. Thanks, Justin.”

  He nods again but makes no effort to move. I walk the rest of the way feeling like his eyes are burrowed into my back. I fight the urge to look until I reach my driveway and give in. He's there, standing in the same spot, new cigarette lit. I can barely make out the shape of him, only the movements of him smoking. The ember gets flicked away and I lose sight of him.

  EVERYTHING'S PICKED UP and the shop's ready for closing. It’s later than what we usually close, but we were abnormally busy for a Wednesday. Kip left about thirty minutes ago and I have to stay behind to file. At least, that's what I told him. His concern didn't help my conscience when he suggested I go home after I spilled an entire pan of grease on my shoes.

  I had a meeting with my adviser earlier today and it didn't go very well. She pretty much confirmed what I already knew. Considering I was never emancipated and my brother wasn’t ever assigned as my legal guardian, I have no proof of my parents’ income. When I applied for financial aid before the semester began, they declined me and I had to file an appeal. The problem is, it can take up to three months to process and there’s still a possibility it will be revoked. Tuition is due now, so I don’t have the luxury of waiting. Loans are an option, but lenders tend to only approve students who are already accepted into law school, wanting to better their odds to see the money returned. I can change my major, but if I really want a chance at being accepted, I need to stay on course. In the end, I'm just screwed.

  I poke my head into Taylor’s office. “Are there any orders out yet?”

  He shakes his head but motions me into his office since I'm here. “Jimmy wants to offer us a different solution to the dilemma with the Mustang.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “We're still going over the logistics, but there's a catch.”

  “What catch? How can there be a catch? We made a deal.”

  “We did,” he says. “But he's offering us something extra. Something beneficial on our end.”

  “Okay,” I say, drawing it out.

  Taylor clasps his hands. “But I'm fairly positive Kip isn't going to go for it.”

  “Can you get to the point?”

  “I don't want to say too much until everything is ironed out, but I'm giving you a heads up. You know, since you are the one who got us into this mess.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say dryly.

  “You're welcome,” he repeats in the same tone.

  Dan saunters in, dropping a large sum of money in front of Taylor, looking like the cat who ate the canary. Taylor looks to me and back at Dan. Getting the impression I'm intruding, I start to leave.

  “Are you going scouting tonight?” Dan asks.

  My eyes connect with the stack of money and then Taylor when I respond. “Yeah.”

  “Let Ethan know to prepare to stay late,” Taylor says, directing me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, feeling every bit of the place he's putting me in.

  Beneath him.

  Taylor always walks a fine line between carefree and giving one too many shits. There is no middle ground with him. Where my brother, on the other hand, lives in the middle. After informing Ethan, I wait for Dan outside the employee entrance. He comes barreling out, an even bigger smile than before.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  His smile drops. “What was what?”

  “Don’t play stupid. The money?”

  Dan lets out an exasperated breath, already tired of my questioning. “We’re just doing some business on the side.”

  “It’s not drugs, is it?”

  “God, no,” he shoots back, repulsed. “Lilly, I have a family. Even I have standards. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  Deciding to leave it alone for now, we part ways. It’s still early. Earlier than I’d like to be looking for cars, but it’s a weeknight and Kip’s already suspicious. There’s a motel a block away from the shelter that I used to frequent. It’s mostly drug users and out-of-town laborers, but every now and then a good vehicle comes up. And there are no security cameras and they never fix the streetlights, so it’s an easy fix.

  It’s about a twenty-minute walk, maybe a little longer without shoes. I keep my eyes peeled for anything worthy of being avoided, which is pretty much any and everything that looks questionable. Figuring since I’ll be close to the shelter, the lack of shoes will help me fit in. I stop a building over from the motel, scoping out the parking lot. The building is U-shaped with the lot settled in the middle. I’ve been spotted here before. Someone happened to see me outside their window as I was picking the lock, but with the way the parking lot juts right up against the street, it was easy to make a run for it. And again, no cameras to identify me or to pinpoint the direction I went.

  I end up waiting for over an hour, watching lights turn off one by one before I’m satisfied with the lack of traffic between rooms. I tuck my hair under a spare baseball cap I found in the break room, hiding the blonde locks that can be a giveaway. Already spotting a couple of Toyotas that look promising, I mark out a game plan. They have the best resale value for parts and there's never a short supply of buyers. The adrenaline coursing through me makes me jumpy, ready to get this over with.

 
It’s the first vehicle in the lot that gives me pause. It’s a Toyota Camry, early 2000 model, in decent condition, unlocked… with the keys sitting in the cup holder. It’s not as big of a surprise as people think it is to find an unlocked vehicle, keys sitting right in the ignition, let alone the cup holder or glove box. Relatively common, actually. I’ve stolen a car that was left running outside of an apartment complex once.

  Feeling a bit smug when no alarm goes off when I open the door, I’m paralyzed when I hear my name. Standing stock still, as casually as I can, turn my head in the direction of the person the voice belongs to. The voice I like a little too much and almost the last person on Earth I want to see right now.

  “Justin,” I breathe out. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes trail from the car and back to me as he holds up a to-go bag from Chuck’s. I’m momentarily impressed by how quick the diner was able to get back up and running in just five days. By the amount of smoke the kitchen was emanating, I had assumed they’d be out of commission for a while.

  “Lilly,” he says, his voice cautious, taking a step in my direction. “What are you doing?”

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out, the red and blue lights behind him distracting me.

  “LILLY.” JUSTIN REPEATS MY NAME an uncounted amount of times. It takes an absorbent amount of focus to avert my eyes from the cop’s direction. “Get in the car,” he says.

  Not giving me any more time to decide, he grips my arm and not-so-gently shoves me into the Toyota. I scramble over the center console, Justin climbing in behind me.

  “What are we doing?”

  He picks up the keys, adjusting his seat and starting the car.

  “Justin, what are you doing?”

  The cop exits his car, turning his head into his shoulder and dispatching something into his walkie. He hikes up his belt, preparing himself as he tries to get a good look inside the car. My eyes fixate on his walk toward us, his face determined.

  “Justin.”

  “Do you want to go to jail?” His eyes are hard as he looks at me. I shake my head no.

  The tires squeal as he floors the gas, bottoming out as we hit the street. I snap my seat belt on, holding on to my seat for dear life. I check the passenger rear-view mirror, watching the cop turn around and jog back to his car. We run a red light and a cascade of brakes screech to avoid us.