Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Read Free Page B

gaze of fluid ice and fire sweeps my bare breasts, I feel . . . embarrassed.  Gawd .  My nipples harden, and not from the roo m’ s air conditioning.  I ca n’ t help myself.  My bod y’ s reacting like an unruly teenage r’ s.  I feel . . . stupid, and I tell myself so: Alaina, how can you be feeling like this?  You just met him.  H e’ s a stranger, a LEO for Go d’ s sake. 
    I ca n’ t explain it, but i t’ s there, the chemistry.  No on e— no on e— coul d’ ve told me how this feels.  It this what love at first sight feels like? I wonder. 
    “ I do n’ t believe in love at first sight ,” I say.  I do n’ t believe in love.  Period.  I t’ s a four-letter word if you ask me.
    Taking a few steps backward and holding his gaze, I mouth the word ,“ Five ? ”   I t’ s an old con-artis t’ s trick Berta taught me.  When yo u’ re getting busted, beg for time and moon walk backward.  The second yo u’ ve put enough distance between you and the cop, run like hell. 
    “ No ,” he mouths back.  One hand moves to a holster snugged tight in the depths of his windbreaker, and I feel a little tingle in secret bodily spaces.  Dange r— and gun s— thrill me more than I care to admit. 
    His square jaw locks in a hard grimace I recognize from childhood: mean-assed cop stare.  Down stage, Tater clamors from his chair, and then Rotty catches my gaze.  Another short wiry guy with black hair detaches from a stool at the bar and beelines toward the stage.  H e’ s been loitering all evening, hanging out and drinking soda water, watching me dance, salivating.  Cop, I’ m guessing, same as the two wh o’ re after me. 
    This is getting ugly. 
    Thinking fast, I toss my black curly hair off my shoulder.  Exposing my breast, I keep moon walking backward.  Is it wrong to use my body to distract the Viking cop?  I do n’ t think so.  “ Gypsy blood ,” Berta Colby said, explaining where I got my dark looks.  By eighth grade, I’ d figured her out: not Gyps y— liar.  Her daddy, my grandpa, was a down-at-the heels musician wh o’ d been hitchhiking through Goshen to a gig in Cincinnati.  H e’ d stopped at the Fried Pickle long enough to down a greasy cheeseburger, meet my grandmother who waitressed there, and get her pregnant with my mom, Berta Colby.  I’ ve never met him, but my cousins tell me I’ ve got his genes, the black curly hair and dark eyes, his passion for dance and music.  Berta either did n’ t want to share that family secret with me, or she did n’ t know her famil y’ s ethnicity.  Did n’ t know a lot of things, turns out.  Truth?  My grandpa was n’ t a Gypsy, but a handsome black man with a taste for my grandm a’ s rhubarb pie and fine Gypsy women.
    Holding the co p’ s gaze, I inch backward.  “ Five minutes ?” I repeat. 
    He motions me toward a folding chair by the D J’ s table, this time with a hard commanding finger jab.  “ Sit.  Over here . ”
    I shake my head.  “ No . ”
    When he rockets into a forward sprint, his gawky long-legged partner who looks part giraffe right behind him, I turn and bust butt, pumping my legs, but fearful of slipping on Oma r’ s greasy floor, I protect my ankle.  Zigzagging through the cockroach-infested kitchen, I snatch my backpack from O.J .’ s Army surplus desk.  Digging for my hoodie, I yank it over my head and run.
    When I hit the alley, I hear the cop s ’ pounding footsteps behind me.  I fully expect that big Viking body to crash me to the ground any second and demand I roll over on Robin.  I just keep running, speeding far down the alley.  Can I outrun them?  The Viking one has long legs, so I know he can run.  The female cop with the bleach blonde hair looked athletic, too.  Still, I gotta try.  Gotta get home and see what Robi n’ s done before I talk to them.  My heart slamming my rib cage, I sprint past the one dumpster all the businesses in the alley