CrissCross (Crossroads Book 1)

by Mandie Tepe

  A heavy body dropped onto the bench beside her, bumping her. “Hey,” a deep voice greeted. She looked over to find it was Chance who had joined her. “Is this someone’s seat or is it okay if I sit here?”

  “No, you’re fine,” she answered. “Tired of riding the fence?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Coach tell you to get lost?”

  “No,” he laughed.

  “You two looked pretty chummy,” she fished.

  “Yeah. Kennedy was one of my best friends back in high school. We actually played football here together. We were dubbed Pierce’n’Snare by the local paper’s sportswriter. He was the quarterback and I was his wide receiver. Our defense was called The Stockade. We made it to State our senior year.”

  “Awesome.” She looked him over. “You don’t look like a receiver, though. You’re built like a linebacker or a tackle.”

  “Thanks for noticing,” he cracked. “I bulked up quite a bit since I joined the military.”

  “Right,” she muttered. “So you were a jock kid. Other sports?”

  “Baseball and wrestling. I was all into sports.” His lips twitched. “I never even knew we had an art program.”

  She smiled, but a group of kids gathered under some trees outside the stadium fence caught her attention and wiped her smile away. She watched them closely and must have been doing it for awhile, because she heard fingers snapping right next to her ear and Chance’s voice rumbling, “Earth to Jimi . . . you still in there?”

  She straightened and dropped her feet off the bench in front of her as a couple moved in to take their seats there. “Yeah, sorry.” Her eyes remained on the group outside the fence.

  Chance turned his head to find what had her attention. “Who are they?”

  “Just a group of possible troublemakers,” she murmured.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked in concern. “You got a problem with them?”

  “Not personally. I’ve just noticed that Shad—you know, the Crosswinds manager’s kid?—has been hanging out with them lately. They come around and loiter by the dumpsters behind the building.”

  “Do they come inside? Get up to any trouble?”

  “I’ve never seen them inside. Just out at the dumpster and sometimes on the front lawn under the trees. When they’re at the dumpster I can see them from my living room window.”

  “Maybe they’re just being kids with nowhere to go, so they’re just chilling. They’re probably just smoking weed out there or something,” he suggested.

  “Could be,” she said unconvincingly.

  “Is there anything specific that makes you nervous?”

  “No,” she huffed self-deprecatingly. “I guess I just have a suspicious mind.”

  He laughed. “Hard to believe that your mind could be more suspicious than mine.”

  “Well, you know more about the evils of the big wide world than I do, but I’ve seen a few things in our little corner of the globe.”

  The two of them watched as a pair of cops who were working the game that night approached the kids and spoke to them for a few moments. The group wandered off in a herd—a few slowly peddling bikes and the others on foot—shooting dirty looks over their shoulders at the cops who watched until they were off the property.

  “There they go,” she said softly, “taking Shad with them.”

  Jimi’s group of friends returned at that moment and stepped over Chance and Jimi to take their seats on her other side and behind them. The kids forgotten, Jimi introduced Chance to everyone—some of whom had been acquainted with him back in the day. By the time she finished the introductions, both teams had trotted back out onto the field.

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Joining the flow of spectators out of the stadium after the game, Chance stayed in step with Jimi. The crowd’s spirits were high after the Trappers had taken it by one touchdown in the last quarter.

  Once they made it to the parking lot, Chance asked, “Where are you parked?”

  “In the lot beside Crosswinds Apartments,” she laughed.

  He shook his head. “What a coincidence. Me too.” He peered down at her, keeping to her pace toward the general direction of home. “You walked it alone?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Is it safe for you to do that?” It was a question, but it sounded like a statement.

  She shrugged. “I think so. Why?”

  “Did you think about it being after dark on your way back?”

  “No, Mother. I guess I didn’t. Maybe I should ask one of my friends to drive me,” she said sarcastically and looked around the lot as if searching for rescue.

  “Just be careful,” he warned.

  “Normally I’d be with my friend Isla. But she’s out of town on business, so tonight I’m by myself. But, you’re right. I’ll be more careful.” She shot him a sideways glance. “However, may I point out that you walked over here alone tonight too?”

  “It’s a little different scenario. I’m trained to kill with my bare hands.”

  “Well, there is that,” she admitted, smirking. “I guess I can trust you to get me home safe.”

  By now, they were almost a block past the stadium parking lot, and he mused, “You know, I had this ritual back in the day. I’d go for Paisano’s Pizza after every game. You hungry?”

  “I always have room for Paisano’s,” she answered.

  He put his hand to the small of her back and guided them left at the corner where they would have turned right and crossed the street toward home. She hoped he didn’t notice how that kicked up her heartbeat.

  “We’ll order carry-out,” he announced. “The place will be packed after the game.” He pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and opened the Paisano’s app, thinking how he usually missed the old days and ways but, in cases like this, modern technology had its appeal. “What do you like on your pizza?” he asked.

  “I like anything,” she informed him. “I usually just order the Spazzatura. It has everything on it.”

  “Cool,” he murmured as he thumbed the order in.

  They chatted while they walked the four blocks to the restaurant, neither seeming to mind that it would add those four blocks to the six-block walk from the school to the apartment building.

  It wasn’t a very long wait for their order and Jimi grabbed a handful of napkins on their way out. She insisted that smelling that pizza while carrying it for ten blocks would amount to torture, so they opened the box, put gooey generously topped pizza slices on napkins, and closed the box. She put his slice on the box like it was his own personal tabletop and she held her own since her hands were free.

  Their chat continued while they munched on pizza and leisurely strolled home, comparing notes about growing up in Carrefour. Although their childhoods were vastly different, they enjoyed sharing stories. Before they knew it, they were rounding the corner on their street.

  “Come to my place,” he invited. “I have beer.”

  “Do you have wine?”

  “No, sorry. Is that a deal breaker?”

  She chuckled. “No, but I’ll stop at my apartment for my wine and bring it over to yours . . . if that’s alright.”

  “Perfe—”

  He broke off at the sound of a car alarm going off. They were just stepping onto the lawn to cross to the front door when it sounded.

  “Crap,” he muttered. “That sounds like mine.”

  He thrust the pizza box at her and took off running as soon as she had a grip on it. She followed at a slower pace and found him digging in his front pocket for his keys while scanning the parking lot. When Jimi looked in the direction he honed in on, she noticed several human-shaped shadows fading around the back corner. Chance must have noticed them as well, because he sprinted off in that direction while simultaneously aiming his key fob toward the Charger to silence the alarm.

  Jimi moved toward his car and looked around to see if she cou
ld see anything odd. There were lights in the lot, but they weren’t the best or brightest. She noticed a weird faint glow coming from below the car and went into a crouch to peer underneath. It was no easy task keeping her balance while keeping control of the large pizza box. She heard his booted footsteps returning and stood up.

  “Find anyone?” she asked.

  “Just shadows,” he answered. She noticed how his sprint hadn’t elevated his breathing rate in the least—he was in that great of shape. “They took off in every direction, so I gave it up.” He must have noticed her looking around his Charger. “You notice anything?”

  “Yeah. They dropped a penlight or something. It rolled under the car.”

  He dropped to his belly and inched under far enough to grab the little flashlight.

  “Should you touch it?” she asked. “Maybe the cops can get fingerprints off it or something.”

  “Nah. I won’t call the police. I can make a report tomorrow so they know to watch for car break-ins in the area, but I don’t think they’d bother taking fingerprints or anything.” He aimed the penlight toward the door and looked for damage.

  “Any scratches?” she asked.

  “Nothing that won’t buff out.” He switched off the light and turned at a flapping sound coming down the sidewalk.

  It was the building manager, Ben Tyler. “Everything okay?” he asked, stepping carefully, his slippers slapping the bottoms of his feet. He must have heard the alarm and not bothered to change out of his pajama pants and t-shirt or put his boots on.

  “Just some prowlers messing with my car,” Chance informed him. “They took off.”

  “Do you want me to get the police over here?”

  “No, I’ll make a report in the morning just so they have it documented in case there comes a rash of car break-ins in the neighborhood. Do you know if there already have been?” Chance asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard of,” Ben replied, “but you have a really hot car, so maybe that’s why they targeted it.”

  “Maybe.”

  The three of them moved toward the building and Chance thanked Ben for checking on the alarm while Jimi scanned the area for prowlers. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  Once inside, Chance took the pizza box from her and they went upstairs to find Willy and Roscoe lingering in the hallway. After they were filled in on what had happened in the parking lot with the alarm, Willy commented, “Well, it’s good you keep your car stored when you’re out of town. We wouldn’t know what to do if that happened with you gone,” she fretted.

  “Don’t worry, Willy,” Chance soothed. “I’m sure Ben would be on top of it. But I do feel better having it stored instead of it just sitting out for weeks at a time.”

  He offered the older man and woman pizza but both turned him down, wary of probable indigestion from eating spicy food at that late hour, so they said good night and disappeared inside their apartments.

  “I guess Axel is out carousing instead of entertaining at home,” Chance joked, “or he might’ve been looky-looing too.”

  Jimi snorted and didn’t comment on that subject, instead declaring, “I’m going to get my wine, unless you want to come in and eat at my place.”

  “I prefer my beer, so no thanks. Come on over when you’re ready.”

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

  “. . . and she informed him that the annual Vagabond blood drive and toy collection was coming up and she and the other old ladies were busy organizing them, so he should cut her some slack and respect the fact that she even remembered she had kids while she had so much going on.” Jimi paused to sip her wine and listen to Chance chuckle.

  “Wow.”

  “I know. Right? Then he said that, no matter how busy she was with her motorcycle gang, surely she could do better than sending old shriveled up hotdogs for my lunch practically every day. That’s when she explained that if those hot dogs didn’t sell after they’d been in the store’s roller cooker for so long, they’d be thrown out and she was doing the world a favor by cutting down on wasted food. Mr. Lester started to snark back, and she suggested he stick those hotdogs up his—well, you can fill that part in—and he should keep his nose out of her kids’ lunch bags because it was none of his business what she fed us. Finally my pops waded in to calm things down by telling the principal that he’d make sure she at least quit putting those nasty pickled eggs in our lunches. Mr. Lester said that was good because we never ate them and after we threw them in the trash, they stank up the entire cafegymatorium.”

  Chance burst out laughing and pulled her into his side. They were sitting on his couch, the pizza box, wadded up napkins, a couple of beer bottles—one empty and one almost that way—and her wine bottle on the combination ottoman/coffee table in front of them.

  “She really brought your lunches home from her shift at the convenience store every day?”

  “Yep. Usually it was hotdogs or sandwiches they were getting ready to throw out, either because they were too old or to make room for the breakfast items. She could take that stuff for free. The deli staff would make up the best sellers ahead of time and have them in the case. The best days were when there was a sandwich they called The Dagwood leftover. I never knew why they were called that.”

  “I think it was an old cartoon about a guy who made huge sandwiches with everything on them. River and I would go spend a week every summer with my grandparents and on days before she shopped for groceries, my grandma would announce that it was Dagwood sandwich day. That meant we had to eat whatever was leftover in the ‘fridge to clear it out.”

  “Oh,” she mused. “That make sense, because these sandwiches were huge and had a lot of stuff on them. One of them would feed both Daisy and me so Mama would cut them in half. When I was in fifth grade I noticed a lot of the cool kids would bring those fancy Lunchables. I thought that was the height of sophistication,” she laughed. “So, I made my own one time by deconstructing my Dagwood sandwich. Somehow, it didn’t measure up to those Lunchables, though,” she said wistfully.

  He watched her face and felt sad for the little girl with the embarrassing lunches. He never had that issue, but at least she had a mother who tried. His father would just load up his and River’s lunch accounts at the beginning of school for the entire year and the thought or concern of what—or even if—his sons were eating never crossed his parents’ minds again.

  Jimi continued her lunch saga. “When I got to middle school I finally convinced my mama that if she would keep peanut butter and jelly stocked at home, I’d take over lunch preparation. So, every morning I’d make our sandwiches and throw expired bags of chips and snack cakes from the convenience store into our lunch bags. She still brought the Dagwoods home on occasion and that switched things up.”

  He tangled his fingers absentmindedly in her corkscrew curls. “I like that she went toe-to-toe with Principal Lester,” he commented. “I always thought he was an ass.”

  “Yeah, but it was embarrassing. I wasn’t technically in the room during the fight, but I could hear every word from my chair outside his office. Silver lining, though . . . that was the end of the pickled eggs—Mama’s solution for our protein requirements. They were disgusting and whenever I was in the store with her, I avoided that jar like the plague. It looked like a jar full of eyeballs watching me,” Jimi shuddered. She shifted sideways to face him, her knees bent and bare feet in the seat of the couch. She dropped her knees to rest against his thigh, wondering how they’d ended up cozied that closely together. But it felt good, so she just rolled with it. “You probably got to buy your lunches,” she guessed.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate.

  Jimi cocked her head. “What does your dad do for a living?”

  “He’s a doctor.”

  “Whoa. What kind?”

  “Plastic surgeon.” He seemed almost embarrassed by the admission.

  “He must be really smart,” she commented i
n awe. “And successful.”

  “Yeah. He runs a thriving botox business,” he said bitterly.

  “You have a problem with his job?” Jimi asked in surprise.

  “Not really,” he admitted as he continued to play with her hair. “I think he’s really good at what he does. It’s just the most superficial of medical fields and that describes Dad to a tee.”

  “But, plastic surgeons do a lot of reconstructive surgeries too—right? Like for accident victims?”

  “Dad’s a full-on cosmetic surgeon, though.” He sighed. “It seems like both my parents chose fields ripe with options for new significant others. Kind of like an alcoholic running a liquor store . . . or a sugar addict opening a bakery.” She didn’t reply, so he added, “Sorry. I sound really judgmental—don’t I?”

  “Maybe, but everyone judges people. I can get pretty judgy about my parents too sometimes.” He wasn’t looking at her, so she put her hand to his cheek and gently turned his face to hers. “They did something right with you and River. I mean, you went after your dream and look how far you’ve gone. All the way to becoming a SEAL. And I hear that River is really talented. I’ve never seen his band, but I’ve heard they’re really good. Your folks raised two successful sons.”

  “We raised ourselves . . . and each other,” he stated flatly.

  “You wanna know how I see your family?” she asked, “when I compare yours to mine?” She waited for his reluctant nod. “Everyone in my family is a plug-awayer, while you Loughlins are goal-achievers.”

  “Plug-awayer? What’s that?”

  “We find something we’re passionate about and we just go about plugging away in jobs to make it possible to indulge our passions. Like my parents with biking. Everything they do centers around it, working dead-end jobs just to keep that going. As for my job, most people wouldn’t be satisfied with it . . . but I love Jesus, my church family, spending time with my family and friends, and my art. So I make my living working in a church office and I’m content plugging away, paying my bills . . . so I’m free to create and sell my art.”