Derek was anxious to begin his writing career by setting the tone with an A on his first field assignment; but even more, he wanted to impress Emily. For some reason, she believed in him, despite his flaws and long list of bad decisions. He wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t matter. He was going to make her proud, and nothing was going to stop him. Not Striker, not Tank, and not the juvenile corrections system.
* * *
Emily sat on a wooden bench in Glassford Park to people watch as she tried to piece together the insanity that was her life.
She’d spent the previous night in the shelter with Junie, whose mom still hadn’t shown up, and woke up again with Shroedy purring on her belly. The quantum kitty’s affection was comforting, but it wasn’t enough to rid her of the nagging discomfort swirling around inside about what she had discovered the night before.
She couldn’t believe what she’d seen through the window of Jim Miller’s restaurant. His betrayal had wounded her deeply, and she was having trouble focusing her thoughts on anything else. Every time she tried to rise above what had happened and move on, the vision of Jim sitting with Alison took over her mind. The more she dwelled on it, the more confused and angry she became. More than anything, she felt stupid for trusting him and letting her feelings of friendship cloud her judgment. She knew better. Life had taught her that.
“Don’t get involved,” she mumbled, knowing deep down that it was hard not to do just that. She was human and had feelings, just like everyone else. The emotional bond that came with connecting with others was like candy for her soul. Even so, she needed to be strong and give up on things that only made her life more difficult. That meant Jim.
Junie was trustworthy and so was Derek, but she wasn’t sure about Duane and Sheldon. So far they’d done nothing but help her. Maybe both of them were okay, too.
She was also frustrated because she had no plans with Derek. He’d left the library in such a hurry the night before, they hadn’t had time to set up a time and place to meet. She figured she would just go to the last place they’d been together, at the same time: 7:00 p.m. at Burton Barr. Maybe he’d come to the same conclusion and decide to meet her there by default.
Emily needed something to take her mind off Miller and how he’d betrayed her, so she’d spent the day in the library, combing the Internet for more information about her condition. However, that proved to be difficult. She couldn’t just search for “Time Jumping Teenager” and come up with all the answers, so she had to get creative and try related search terms and connected articles. Studying information about time travel and neurobiology seemed to be her best choices. Everything she could find about aliens seemed crazy—not that what she’d been through was normal. But all the websites about abductions seemed to be written by people who sounded unhinged and completely bent.
Then again, if she were to tell her entire story to the world like that, everyone would think she was nuts, too. How can seventy-seven percent of the US population believe in aliens, yet when you come clean about what happened when you were taken, nobody believes you?
She was no scientist, but she’d read and studied enough to know that if you need to prove something, you need facts and evidence to back it up. Real evidence. And to prove your theories, you needed experiments to demonstrate your findings based on the Scientific Method, complete with mathematical analysis to back it up. Without all that, you had no hope of convincing anyone of anything.
There were two things that all the alien-themed websites seemed to have in common: no verifiable evidence, and no math. In other words, no proof, even with all the cell phones and video cameras on the planet. Just personal experience and shame. You’d think somewhere along the way, somebody would have captured something on their camera.
She’d also been wondering about the direct telepathic link she shared with her abductors. The entire time she was jacked in, their thoughts came to her in English. Why English? The more she thought about it, the more that fact didn’t make sense—English-speaking aliens? Her research showed that there are somewhere around 6,500 different languages spoken on Earth, so what are the odds that travelers from another world would speak English?
It was possible that some type of translator technology was involved, but a telepathic translator? She knew anything was possible, and after what she’d seen and done in her life, that was exactly how she felt—anything was possible. Though now, she had more questions than answers.
For example, why did the Orange Man outside of Miller’s house look human, when the giant ugly heads on the ship didn’t?
Why was he carrying a briefcase full of amazing futuristic technology, but the weapon he carried looked like a gun that was made by humans? Everything seemed to contradict itself, almost as if the aliens weren’t aliens at all. But they had to be, right?
Maybe the aliens were doing their best to imitate human form and technology so they could blend in—maybe the Orange Man was an android, or some kind of clone. It would explain some of it.
Before she could consider the next thought, she heard a sharp meow from the ground below the bench. She looked down. It was Shroedy at her feet, rubbing and purring against her legs. She was happy to see him, but not surprised. After all, he was the quantum kitty that seemed to follow her around, and do so across space and time. Another fact that she couldn’t explain. She wasn’t imagining him since Junie could see him too, so he was real, just not like any other cat she’d ever heard of.
There were a thousand and one things in her life that were baffling—to name three, there were alien abductions, time jumping, and how she felt about Derek. A quantum kitty was the least of her worries. Besides, she thought, he’s really cute and soft. She reached down and scratched him behind the ears.
“Hello, Mr. Impossible. What have you been doing with yourself all day?”
She picked him up and held him in her lap. “Maybe you have all the answers. Do you have all the answers, little Shroedy?”
* * *
Derek heard footsteps coming down the hallway outside the locker room, accompanied by loud, garrulous voices—it sounded like four or five people. He realized they were coming right for him, and though he was tucked away and out of sight, he wasn’t exactly hidden. He decided to change position and duck behind two rolling laundry gurneys and peer through the gap to see who it could be.
Shit.
It wasn’t Tank and his team or assistant coaches. It was Mr. Asshole himself, Harry Striker, accompanied by two arena security guards—both imposing black dudes—and an older, grizzled-looking white guy with a bent nose wearing a maintenance uniform.
They went by without seeing him, passing a brass-colored flask between them as they walked. Makes sense, Derek thought. They’re loud ‘cause they’re half-drunk. He watched them go by and disappear through the doorway to the service stairs at the end of the hallway, the same set Derek had come down earlier.
Derek exhaled, relieved.
Then something caught his attention. Something totally out of place—the faintest whiff of a familiar odor. Skunky. Sweet and pungent.
What the—? Weed? Down here? Could Striker be drinking and smoking blunts while on duty with two rent-a-cops and some other dude from his staff?
Maybe Derek could use this fact against Striker. Wouldn’t hurt to have something on the jerk, in case he needed it. Not only that, but it would make an even bigger story than an interview with a minor league hockey coach. If he captured their activities on video, he could expose Striker’s drug and alcohol problem. He could say that Striker and his staff were putting the safety of everyone who attended events at the new arena in serious jeopardy. Probably get them all fired, and maybe even prosecuted. He smiled, thinking about Striker becoming a stupid criminal himself. Talk about poetic justice.
His excitement shot up a level. He was starting to like his new career. A breaking story like this would certainly get everyone’s attention, including Emily’s. He could almost taste the A+ he was about to recei
ve for his first major scoop.
He slipped out from his hiding place, ran down the hallway to the door to the stairwell and put his ear to it. He heard muffled voices, but it didn’t sound like they were directly on the other side of the door. Up one level?
He cracked the door open half an inch and looked around. Nothing. He opened it all the way—slowly and quietly. The voices were louder now, but he still couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were definitely one level up.
Derek crept through the door and over to the stairs, staying focused and alert. He took the stairs one at a time. When he reached the first landing where the stairs reversed direction, the four men came into view. They were on the level above him, standing in an open doorway. He could see a parking lot outside the arena.
They were passing a blunt, sure enough. Derek guessed they were standing there to blow the smoke outside, but they weren’t doing a great job of it. Besides, who was going to bust them? The security guards and the GM of the arena were smoking together. Who’s gonna stop them or report them? Surely no one from Striker’s staff, not without fear of losing their new job.
Striker took a long drag, then offered the doobie to the maintenance guy, who declined and took a swig from the brass flask instead. Striker shrugged and handed it to one of the security guards, who took a quick hit.
The maintenance guy said something Derek couldn’t make out, then handed Striker a Ziploc bag. It was hard to tell from where he was standing, but when he put it together with the odor and the fact that they were passing a blunt around, he figured it had to be weed. He knew from his brief time running with the West Side Locos that it was about half an ounce.
Derek edged closer, being careful to keep out of sight. He also took out the borrowed phone and started the video camera app and turned off the light.
“This what we got,” the maintenance guy said in a thick, Eastern-European accent.
Striker opened the bag and sniffed the contents.
“Just a grand? This is good shit.”
“Yes. Bargain-basement price. Have many more where this comes from.”
Derek was psyched. He’d gotten the whole thing on video—maybe not high-quality sound, but the pictures would be compelling. His night had just changed dramatically: only minutes before, he thought he was going to get an exclusive interview with a hard-to-corner, ex-NHL player turned minor league hockey coach. Now, he had video evidence proving that the general manager of a controversial new sports arena was drinking on the job, smoking weed, and better yet—conspiring to sell weed.
Scoop!
He shifted his position slightly, trying to get a better angle, but then the phone rang with a screaming rendition of the Evil Empire theme from Star Wars and Derek dropped it, startled. It clattered to the floor and broke to pieces. The four men jerked their heads in his direction and saw him standing there.
“Get him!” Striker told his two security guards.
Derek ran down the stairs to the door he’d come through, but it was stuck. He yanked three times on the handle and it finally screeched open. He was about to bolt through it when he felt a pair of powerful hands clamp down on his shoulders.
Shit. Cornered.
He didn’t fight back when he was spun around and pushed against the door, slamming it shut. The bigger of the two security guards was face-to-face with him. The second guard was coming down the stairs with Striker behind him, yelling commands. The maintenance man had stopped on the landing and was busy picking up the pieces of Derek’s borrowed phone and examining them.
“I give up! You got me!” Derek said, wanting to avoid a beating for resisting arrest. He kept his hands up, in plain sight, where everyone could see them.
Striker motioned for the guard to let go of Derek and take a step back. He did. Striker got in Derek’s face.
“What the fuck are you doing here? I thought I told you to vacate the premises!”
Derek could smell a strong mixture of booze and pot on the man’s rank breath. “I snuck down here to get that interview—that’s it. I swear. I’ve been waiting in the hallway and was just coming up here to get some air. That’s all.”
“You’re lying.”
Behind Striker and the security guards, the maintenance guy held up the broken cell phone and spoke with his thick accent. “Phone? Yours?”
“Ummm . . . no? Never seen it before in my life.”
“No matter,” the man replied, dropping the pieces on the ground and smashing them with the heel of his work boot. He picked up the fragments and put them in his pocket.
“Now I burn. Big incinerator,” he said, looking at Striker for a long second. He nodded, then turned and went up the stairs and out the door.
Striker’s face grew red and he made a pair of fists.
“You’re going to pay for this, kid!”
Striker took a swing—a huge, telegraphed, see-it-coming-from-a-mile-away left hook.
Derek had been in plenty of fights growing up on the west side of Phoenix, and knew how to handle himself. Striker was slow and wasted; much slower than the guys Derek had fought before. He slipped the clumsy punch and responded with a right of his own—a stiff, straight jab that landed square on the GM’s jaw.
Striker staggered backwards, falling on his ass.
The two security guards must have also been stoned—they started laughing and making comments.
“Oh shit!”
“Did you see that?”
“Boss, I’m sorry—but that kid just busted you the fuck up!”
“Shut up! And help me up!” Striker said.
Derek looked at the security guards—he wasn’t about to fight them. They were huge and in good shape. Surely able to take him out easily, high or not. He thought about making a run for it, but the men had him pinned in. He decided to put his hands back up and wait as they helped Striker to his feet.
“Hold him for me,” Striker said to the guards.
They hesitated.
“Do it!” their boss insisted.
The security guards moved forward and grabbed Derek by his arms, holding him firmly against the wall.
Striker stood in front of him and snarled like a rabid dog, then punched Derek in the gut. The air flew out from his lungs as he doubled over in pain.
Striker backed up and nailed him with a hard uppercut to the jaw.
Derek’s head snapped back, stunning him. Everything ran into a blur and started to spin.
Then Striker kicked him in the groin, sending Derek crumpling to the ground in a heap.
“I can handle it from here,” Striker told his men. “You two get back to the concourse.”
Derek heard footsteps heading up the stairs. He rolled to his side while holding his nuts and dealing with the pain from multiple impact sites. He looked at Striker just in time to see his foot coming for his face. It landed hard on his cheek, flipping him over and onto his back.
He heard Striker say, “Your ass is mine, punk,” just before he slipped into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emily and Shroedy walked together through Glassford Park. The orange and white tabby seemed to be acting like he was her protector while trotting a few paces ahead of her. The kitty kept sniffing the air and looking back at her as if to say “the coast is clear.”
Emily smiled and quickened her pace. When she caught up to him, she knelt down and gave him a two-handed rub across his back and neck. “You’re my fierce little guard kitty, aren’t you? I’m so glad you’re here to protect me since Mom and Derek aren’t.”
He meowed and ran ahead, appearing to scout the path in front of them.
She stood up and followed the precious little fur ball while her brain slipped into analysis mode. Emily was starting to understand Miller’s betrayal. If the cops were all over him about her, there had to come a point when he’d have to make a decision: take care of himself or protect her. She knew all about the first option—her whole life for the past few years had been abou
t protecting herself and not getting involved with anyone. She used to live by her rules, ignoring the rest of the world in the process. That’s what she was upset about, mostly: she’d trusted him, and she knew better.
“People gotta do what they gotta do,” she mumbled, trying to convince herself that Jim wasn’t a bad guy.
If she were going to revert to living by her strict set of rules, then she needed to take a few minutes to reevaluate whether or not she should trust the various people in her life.
Junie was a no-brainer. She was a kindred spirit—a young girl making the best of a shitty situation on the streets of Phoenix. Junie felt like a little sister, and Emily knew the feeling was mutual—her second sight told her so, every time Junie looked at her with those big, clear eyes.
As for Derek, he had saved her more than once, and usually at great risk to himself. Especially when the twisted sicko, Rob the Rapist, was holding her captive. She knew her heart was getting in the way of her logic, but she fought through it, letting the facts bubble to the surface and speak for themselves. She was ninety-five percent sure he was the real deal. Granted, he had his own demons to deal with, but he was a good guy and was crazy about her. He was someone she thought she could trust, or maybe it was someone she wanted to trust. For herself and for her heart. Her logic was telling her to be cautious, but her heart was screaming to grant him permanent membership in her circle of trust.
Miller, on the other hand, had saved her from a group of West Side Locos; but when she thought about it, the gangbangers were holding a gun on him, too. He was saving his own ass, as well as hers. It was clear he was interested in her life story, sure. But was it so he could write a story to publish and further his career, or was it because he genuinely wanted to help her? There was no way of knowing which was true. Could be both, she conceded.
But what about Duane? He seemed trustworthy, but he was also Jim’s longtime friend. Ties like that can blind a person, making him susceptible to compromise and betrayal. She didn’t know what to do with him. So far, he hadn’t let her down once, but there was more to factor in than just that. Tough call.
Glassford Girl: Part 3 (The Emily Heart Time Jumper) Page 9