Taking Mine Page 8

  Kip snorts. “Yeah, for our services.”

  “He’ll pay half the base MSRP rating on each car.” Kip opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Shock is a light term to describe what he's feeling. “Much more enticing now, isn’t it? On top of that, he’ll add an extra ten grand a piece for commandeering them.” He finally releases his business tone and leans back in his chair again, believing the argument is already won.

  “Oh my God.” I tick off the amount of cars I saw in the folder, calculating over half a million in profit.

  Once Kip finally gathers all his bearings, the sticker shock wearing off, he asks, “Where are we getting these cars from? There’s not a whole lot of six-figure cars cruising around the city.”

  “Jimmy will find the cars, tell us where they’ll be, and when they’ll be there. We’ll go pick them up and drive them to the shipping yard located on the west bank. He’ll reserve a couple storage containers to keep them in before he ships them to one of his other properties in the UK.”

  “He’s smuggling them,” Kip states.

  “He’s transporting them,” Taylor clarifies.

  “He doesn’t want papers on them because he’s trying to bring them into another country illegally.”

  “Even if that is his reasoning, Kip, does it matter? We steal cars to illegally sell them for parts. It’s not that far off. We’re not killing anyone; we’re just scheming the system.

  “So, to make sure I understand this,” I say, garnering their attention. “Jimmy will tell us what vehicle he wants and where it is for us to retrieve it and deliver it? All we’re doing is driving a car from point A to point B?”

  Kip looks at me still holding the picture of the Carrera in my hand. “You’re not actually considering this, are you?”

  I shrug off his question. “It’s kind of a hard deal to pass up. If we do this we wouldn’t have to ever do it again.”

  “She’s got a point, Kip,” Taylor tries to reason.

  “If it’s so damn easy then why doesn’t he drive the damn cars himself?”

  “These are high-class cars and some of them are going to be in high-profile places. He doesn’t want any connection to himself. It’s our jobs to figure out how to get them. We’re the leg work.”

  Kip runs both his hands down his face before blowing out a large breath. He takes the picture from my hand and scans it. “When’s he expecting a decision by?”

  “The end of the week.”

  Kip nods once and stands. “Okay. Let me think on it and I’ll let you know.”

  Taylor’s eyes follow Kip out of the office, returning to me once the door is shut. “Now it’s up to you.”

  “If the money didn’t convince him, Taylor, I don’t know what will.”

  “If Kip has a weakness, it’s you.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  I decide to wait until after work to confront Kip about the deal. It's hard not to balk at the amount of money we can make. It's enough money, even split between us, that we can put some to the side and still pay for the necessities. Like school. It can pay for school. So when I get home, I tentatively step into the kitchen. I know that whatever conversation Kip and I are about to have, it needs to be broached carefully.

  Kip’s breaking down and cleaning the shotgun he keeps next to his door. The kitchen table is covered in newspaper and gun residue.

  This is a promising start.

  “Grab the glock from the pantry,” he says, not looking up from his task.

  I hate the feel of guns. It’s like death is sitting in the palm of my hand. But I know Kip needs reassurance that I’m capable, so I pull open the gun safe we keep stashed in the pantry and bring it to the table. I check the chamber for a bullet and drop the clip out, laying the gun and the clip side by side on the table.

  “Do you remember Dad?”

  Completely thrown by his question, I shake my head no.

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  He pushes back from the table and pulls his wallet out from his pocket and hands me a folded picture. It’s an old Polaroid with a thick white crease down the middle from where it’s been folded over time. Even so, it’s easy to distinguish that it’s a picture of our dad holding the both of us, Kip and me saddled on each hip. I couldn’t have been over a year old, wearing footie pajamas, and Kip is adorned in Ninja Turtle slippers. Dad’s in the middle, dressed in a mechanic’s jumper with a thick mustache, but it’s our smiles we’re wearing that pull my attention. We're all smiling, laughing at something. It's unfiltered happiness.

  “He was the best dad that we could have asked for.” Kip’s voice trembles. I look up to see his eyes rimmed with worry. “I know you have had to wonder what type of man could marry the type of person mom was, but she wasn’t always like that. There was a time when we were all a happy family.”

  My fingers whiten around the picture, afraid it will somehow slip through them. “You’ve never talked bad about Dad. I always thought that maybe it was because you glorified him. Like, maybe you were too young to remember the bad.”

  “I remember,” he says. “I’m not saying they were perfect, but they loved us.”

  I try to control the tremble in my voice. “Mom didn’t.”

  Kip’s breath is deep. “Sometimes I think that, too, but I think maybe she was just lost without him. He was so sure and happy all the time. He was an anchor for her. For all of us.”

  “I wish I could remember.”

  “Me too. Sometimes I wish you could remember Mom when she was sober. But maybe it’s a good thing you don’t. Maybe it’s easier to hate her for leaving than remember her any way else.”

  “Because then it’s just sad.”

  “Yeah, it’s sad.”

  He finishes piecing the shotgun back together and reaches for the glock. Thinking the conversation is over, I stand and push my chair in. It’s not exactly how I expected the conversation to go, but it wasn’t awful. Kip’s voice stops me in my tracks.

  “I can’t tell you what to do, Lilly. You’re old enough to decide for yourself. But I can expect enough respect for you to be honest with me. Tell me where you are so I don’t worry myself sick that something bad happened to you. Especially when I know you’ve been working for Taylor again.”

  A weight drops. “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not?” The level of accusation and disappointment emanating from him is what I've been trying to avoid.

  “I lost my scholarship last semester. I couldn’t bring up my grades in time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What could you have done? Tuition is more than what both of us make combined.”

  “I would have figured out something. Anything other than what you’re doing.”

  I sit back down. “And I knew you’d say that. It’s not your load to carry. Like you said, I’m old enough to be responsible for myself. This is my burden, not yours.”

  “You’re not a burden, Lilly. Don’t ever think that.”

  “But I am. I always have been. This is bigger than today. This is my future. And I want it, not just for me, but for you. I know you hate working for Taylor, and this is the only way I can make a difference.”

  “It’s not your job to worry about me.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all your life? Worrying about me? You hate the shop and everything it represents. From the time you started working for Taylor’s dad until now. And you’ve done it only with concern for me.”

  He runs both of his hands through his hair and then folds them across the table. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

  “No, Kip,” I say, sadness radiating from my voice. “It was Mom’s. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so grateful to have you. Who knows where I would be today if I didn’t. You’ve carried me this far and now I want—no, I need to carry myself.”

  “So what’s your plan? How are you going to get through the next four years of school without a s
cholarship?”

  “Well, since you brought it up, I was thinking about the offer from Jimmy.”

  “The one that’s too good to be true?”

  “Yes, that one. It’s enough money for both of us to not have to worry for a long, long time.”

  “At what cost?”

  “We don’t know that there is a cost.”

  He looks at me with such endearment. “There’s always a cost, Lil.”

  WHEN I MADE MY PAYMENT to the bursar’s office, I thought I would feel like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but it doesn’t. I no longer only carry school, but also Justin’s involvement with Taylor. At some point in the last week, I inadvertently and effectively derailed both of our futures. Logically, I know Justin decided for himself, but it doesn’t stop the guilt from settling in. How can he make a smart decision when he has no idea what he’s in for? Taylor also mentioned that Justin is going to need to prove he’s trustworthy.

  I'm stumbling. I've been going through the motions, but I can't find steady ground where I'm secure in knowing I'm doing something right. I'll take anything at this point.

  Kaley looks over my shoulder as we're walking toward the courtyard, looking at the grade scrawled across the paper. “Lance told me he informed you about what was going to be on the test.”

  I yank the sheet from her view, crumbling it into a ball. “Yes, Kaley. Thanks for the reminder.”

  She’s quiet from the backlash and I immediately feel bad, but not enough to apologize.

  “Why don't you go out with us tonight? Forget about all the worrying and really let go. Maybe even have a drink or two.”

  I give her a look. She knows I don't drink. If I do, it's very rare.

  “At this point it can't hurt you more than help you.”

  Stopping in the middle of the courtyard, letting Kaley walk ahead of me, I try to recall the last time I felt like I could breathe. The last time it didn’t feel like I was doing everything on default. A quick image of me straddling Justin’s lap runs through my mind, and I have to force myself to divert my train of thought.

  Kaley finally notices that I'm not walking next to her and turns around. She raises her hand to shield the sun from her eyes, squinting at me. “You coming?”

  She's my ride home, but I just need…air.

  “No,” I say, pulling my phone from my back pocket. “Go ahead. I'll text you later.”

  “You sure?” she asks, concerned.

  I roll my eyes, giving her enough reassurance to continue without me.

  And then I text Justin.

  The apartment building Justin lives in is located right off campus. It’s a hot spot for students who want to be close to the university but don’t want to live on campus and deal with campus regulations. It's cheap housing with free cable. Makes it kind of hard to pass up.

  As I'm ascending the stairs that lead to his apartment, I tamp down the doubt floating around in my head. We're friends. He said so himself. There's no need to overanalyze why he's the person I want to be around right now. None whatsoever. He answers the door with a lopsided smile, and it eases some of the uncertainty I had mere seconds ago. Stepping to the side, he lets me in.

  “I'm sorry I'm kind of dropping in on you last minute,” I say once he shuts the door behind me.

  “Is everything okay?” He watches me so intently. It's a part of who he is, I think. Observing people, emotions.

  “Yeah,” I say, breathing in the smell of his apartment. “Can we...” I trail off, dropping onto his couch, past the point of wanting to stand. “Can we just hang out?”

  He raises his eyebrows, running a thumb across his bottom lip. “Yeah, sure. We can do that. What would you like to do?”

  “Anything, nothing. I don't care as long as I don't have to think for a little while.”

  This brings a small smile to his face. “The last time I tried to distract you, a restaurant caught fire and you said I was bad luck.”

  “First of all,” I say, holding up a finger. “You said you were bad luck first. Second, Chuck's is already back in business, so no harm done. And third, saving me from the cops is enough retribution in my book.”

  “But you still think I'm bad luck?” His smile is teasing as he stands. It's now that I notice he's wearing flannel pajama pants and a black t-shirt, his scruff a tad bit longer than he normally allows it to get.

  “Were you sleeping?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable in my jeans and v-neck.

  He looks down at his clothes as he scrubs his cheek, trying to hide the color in them. “Uh, no. I'm ashamed to admit I haven't put on real clothes all day. I kind of played hooky.”

  “I wish.”

  “Anytime you need a breather, you're more than welcome to come hang out.” He digs around in the fridge. “Want something to drink? I've got water or beer.”

  “Water is fine.”

  “I was about to order dinner. Does pizza sound good to you?”

  “As long as I get to pick the toppings.” He gives me a hesitant look. “Extra cheese and pineapple.”

  “No,” he says, horrified. “Absolutely not. We'll do half and half.”

  He tosses me the remote while he orders the pizza. I take a sip of my water and look around his apartment. It’s a small one-bedroom layout, just enough space for one person. The kitchen takes up the entire back wall with a low breakfast bar separating it from the living area. His furniture consists of a navy blue couch and matching recliner, a small coffee table, and a mounted flat screen. There’s nothing else of significance.

  “What,” he says after he hangs up the phone.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  He thinks for a moment. “About a year and a half. Why?”

  I make a point to look around the room. “There are no decorations.”

  He glances at the empty space around him and shrugs. “I’m a guy.”

  It's not just that though. It's the lack of knick-knacks. There's no loose change or receipts or loose items of clothing littering the floor or hanging up. There's nothing to distinguish that someone actively lives here.

  He runs his thumb over his lip again, and it dawns on me that it’s a nervous tick. He catches me staring and drops his hand.

  “This is weird, isn’t it?” I say, facing the issue head-on.

  We stare at each other in silence.

  “This is not going to be weird because we’re not going to let it,” he says, an air of authority in his voice. “I’m going to go outside and smoke, and when I come back things are going to be normal.”

  I nod in agreement.

  I wait until the door shuts behind him before sagging back into the couch. This is proving to be more awkward than I thought it would be. Why am I doing this to myself? An annoying voice in the back of my mind whispers, It's because he makes you feel, and it sounds like the creepy creature from The Lord of the Rings.

  Shaking off a chill, I straighten myself, determined to not over think anything. Literally, my goal for the night is to think about as little as possible and still be considered a living entity.

  Justin comes barging back inside, this time a pizza box in hand. “One pizza pie, half amazing goodness and half nasty Hawaiian shit.” He drops the box on the coffee table and points at me with new energy radiating through him. “I'm going to change. Be ready to leave when I come out.”

  “Wait, what?” I say to his back as he's already walking away.

  “Five minutes,” he says in warning.

  “What about the pizza?” I yell loud enough for him to hear me through his bedroom door.

  “Bringing it with us. The food at the bowling alley is stupid expensive,” he calls back.

  “Why are we going bowling?”

  This time I don't get a response.

  “BOWLING IS THE BEST American sport there is. Other than baseball, of course.”

  “No it’s not,” I say, lacing up my shoes. “Bowling predates America. They found artifacts dating back to before Chris
t.”

  He stops tying his shoes, turning to look at me. “You've just had that stored in your head?”

  I shrug. “I took Sports History my freshman year. It was one of the things that stuck for some reason. Ask me what I had for breakfast—couldn't tell you.”

  “A blueberry muffin and coffee with cream.”

  My heart stops.

  He rolls his eyes. “You have the same thing every morning at the cafe. I think you're the only one who doesn't realize it.”

  Justin makes the smoothest transition from unmanageable awkwardness to easygoing effortlessly, and it occurs to me that he can make my mood reflect his. It's hard not to smile when he smiles, hard not to laugh when he laughs. He's contagious.

  I've caught the type-A strand of the Justin-flu.

  “I hate to tell you this,” I say as I watch him put our names up on the board. “But I'm about to school you with my bowling skills.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, smiling. “Sports History must be really hands-on.”

  “Come to think of it, the teacher was kind of touchy-feely.”

  He takes a seat on one of the plastic chairs, waving me first. “Show me what you got.” I sift through the bowling balls, trying to determine the one that feels best. “Today,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice, urging me to hurry up.

  I sneer at him, choosing a random ball near me. “You can't rush perfection.”

  He snorts.

  Holding the ball close to my chest, I let out a breath as I move forward, releasing it at just the right angle. It’s a strike. My smile is cocky as I turn to face Justin. “Did I mention I’m going to kick your ass?”

  “I thought you were joking.”

  Justin looks slightly less intimidated as he stands for his turn. He takes longer than I do to pick a bowling ball, his face serious as he decides.

  “Today,” I tease, laughing when he shoots me a look.

  His first bowl only knocks down half the pins, and I bite my lip, fighting back a smile.

  “Just getting warmed up,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

  This time, he knocks down the rest of the pins, garnering a spare. He beams a triumphant smile as he turns around, dancing to the pop music playing overhead. I laugh, impressed by his smooth moves. His dancing is reminiscent of an eighties version of Michael Jackson, just a little less coordinated.