Sleeping in My Jeans

by Connie King Leonard

  “Go get her.” My command surprises me. It surprises the mechanic too, because he jerks his head back like I landed a punch on his jaw.

  I take advantage of the situation and back away until I can lay my hand on Ruby. “You can keep our car.” I thump her side. “Just let us go.”

  The mechanic breaks into laughter, making my head pound. The sound bounces off the walls and metal of the garage and scares me so much my breath gets caught in my throat.

  He waves his hand at Ruby. “That piece of junk?” He laughs again. “Not worth the time to process it.” His hand stops moving, and his finger points at me like a gun. “Now you. You are worth a lot.”

  “You’re a … a pimp?” I spit the word at him.

  “Nope. Too much work. Not enough money.” He rubs his fingers together. “I’m a businessman.” He points back at me. “And you’re young. Black. Pretty.” He winks. “Your mom’s not worth as much, but you? You’re worth a fortune.”

  “You … you what? Sell people? Like slaves?” My hands shake and my knees turn so watery I can barely stand. “You’re a trafficker?”

  My body feels saturated by fear. My hand trembles as I run it along Ruby’s side, feeling my way along. Her back bumper is gone. The dents in her body are fixed and sanded, leaving shiny spots of exposed metal.

  “You’ll get caught.” No matter how sick his intentions are, I’ve got to keep talking. Keep minutes ticking off the clock in hopes Meg makes her call and the police are coming.

  “People will look for me.” I force the words out through gritted teeth. “If I don’t show up at school, teachers and kids will ask what happened to me.” Cold seeps through my feet from the smooth cement floor. It rises up my legs and through my body until my face and fingertips turn to ice.

  “The cops. The FBI.” I move around Ruby’s back end. Her rear bumper is set off to the side, next to the front one. “Someone will call them.”

  “If someone was going to miss you that much,” he says, tipping his head toward Ruby, “you wouldn’t be living in your car.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Street kids. The homeless. Drug addicts. They go missing all the time. No one pays attention.”

  I slide around Ruby until she’s between me and the mechanic. “Where’s our stuff? Did you toss it in the dumpster?” I inch along. “The cops will find it. Then they’ll know for sure.”

  The mechanic steps around Ruby’s back end. “Oh, you mean the stuffed animals and bags of little girl clothes?”

  I stiffen. Meg. Of course he knows about Meg.

  The mechanic nods toward the back door. “You weren’t dumb enough to bring her, were you?”

  My heart hammers in my chest.

  His eyes narrow as he studies me. “She’s outside? You brought her?” A flicker of excitement passes across his face, but the silence that follows terrifies me more than anything else he’s said or done. It’s a quiet, animal stillness, like the game’s over and he’s ready to pounce.

  The tool bench is off to my side. Is that where he’s pushing me? Trying to trap me there? Tools lay scattered along the top of the workbench and in piles along the floor. The right tool could be a weapon. Maybe the perfect weapon.

  “You take advantage of people. Of their misfortune.” I move closer to the bench, wary of being trapped between Ruby and the wall. My brain goes into hyperfocus, checking for tools, escape routes, hiding places.

  “If I don’t, someone else will.” The mechanic’s arms hang loosely at his sides, but his fingers twitch in a steady rhythm.

  I reach for the workbench. My hand fumbles across the wooden surface until it closes over the metal handle of a wrench. I grab it and switch it to my other hand. “Money is more important than human lives?”

  My fingers slide along the bench and bump into a piece of metal. I grab it—not sure what it is or how to use it—knowing I need every advantage I can find to fight.

  The mechanic picks up his pace—not fast, just steady. I move quicker. He’ll rush me, and I need to be ready, even though it’s a cat-and-mouse power trip I’ll never win.

  I hold up my weapons while I back away. His quickened pace and the loose way he holds his hands out from his sides tells me he is done with my chatter. Done studying me. Done stalking me. I need a new plan.

  My fingers wrap tighter around the metal in my hand. I take a quick breath, pull my arm back, and throw it straight at the light hanging over the workbench. The metal flies out of my hand, shattering the bulb and showering small slivers of glass over the tools.

  Darkness hits me, but I’m already running. Two cars are parked near the front of the garage. I hold my hands out in front of me and hope I don’t trip. My tennis shoes make slapping noises on the cement floor, giving away my direction. The wrench in my hand bashes against the car fender, sending echoes through the room.

  Rapid footsteps thump across the cement after me. I run along the cold metal of the car as fast as I can, kicking off my tennis shoes as I go. When I get to the front fender, I angle toward the other car, running on tiptoes and sock feet. I hold my empty hand out in front of me and keep the metal wrench at my side.

  I touch the car and slide along the driver’s door and around the front bumper until I’m on the far side. I stop to listen. Nothing. In a space this big, there must be overhead lights, but the mechanic doesn’t turn them on.

  Sweat runs down my back and soaks my t-shirt. I concentrate, straining to hear the brush of a shoe or the bump of a body against metal. Nothing but my heart pounding in my ears. I crouch behind the car and focus on listening. Without struggling to see, my nerves calm and my heart rate slows.

  Do I keep moving? I could smash right into him. Do I stay here and listen? Hope I hear him before he grabs me? I slowly straighten my legs and glance toward the back door and the window flanking it. The night makes dark gray squares in the flat black of the far wall. I could run for the door. Try to unlock it and be out of the garage before he gets to me. Then what? Grab Meg and run? If I got out the door, we wouldn’t get ten feet before he’d catch me and Meg too. No. I trust in Meg and Jack and hope the police get here soon.

  Metal crashes against metal. I jump and turn toward the far side of the room. Is he over there, or was that a diversion? I press against the side of the car and swing my gaze in a wide circle. One lighted dot near the front wall is the only break in the flat black ensnaring me. A light switch? A garage door opener?

  Another crash, this time closer. A hand grabs my arm from the other side.

  “Gotcha.”

  Muscles in my face and stomach contort, sending acid shooting up my throat. I yank myself away. The mechanic’s grip crushes me until my wrench clatters to the floor. He pulls me tight against him, breathing into my hair. “I like playing games in the dark,” he whispers.

  Tears spill down my cheeks. “Monster!” His body molds itself against my back. I swing my free arm at his face, but he grabs my wrist and pushes me against the car. I squirm and twist, sickened by the closeness of his body.

  The mechanic holds me so close I feel the stubble on his cheek against my face. “Your mom fought like this.” His heart pounds against my back. “A real scrapper.”

  My body fills with such an ache, such a sadness for Mom, that my limbs turn weak and wobbly. The mechanic takes advantage, tightening his arms so much my upper body can’t move. I try, but the more I wiggle, the harder he squeezes.

  The mechanic is not a big man, but I feel small and frail wrapped in his hold. My head is forced against his shoulder and my back and bottom press against his body. His nearness makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn. I make myself relax, wait, breathe. All I need is one chance. Just one single instant and I’ll be ready.

  The mechanic locks us together so tight that his heart rate and breathing soon match my own. He waits. Seconds tick off the clock. I ache inside and out from the pressure. He slowly
backs up, easing us away from the car. It’s the moment I need.

  I swing my feet up, plant them against the metal of the car, and shove as hard as I can. He doesn’t expect the force, and the two of us topple over backward.

  The mechanic hits the floor under me with a thud. Air flies out of his lungs in a whoosh and his arms loosen from the impact. I throw myself against his grip and roll away, scrambling to my feet and behind the car.

  I need to hide, but where do I go that he won’t find me? I close my eyes and listen. Soft brushing sounds float through the air. He grunts. I open my eyes, letting them sweep across the dark even though I can’t see anything. It may be foolish not to keep moving, but I stay behind the car and listen for his breath.

  I catch the sound of him stumbling against metal and freeze. The noise came from the far side, near Ruby and the workbench. I wait, my ears straining to pick up the tiniest of sounds. My heart pounds. My breaths are short. Shallow. Quiet.

  I squat close to the floor and brush my fingers across the cement, light as a feather. I search for something to throw. Nothing. I balance and reach out farther. There. A screw? A bolt? Doesn’t matter. It’s small, but big enough for what I need. My fingers close around the scrap of metal and transfer it to my other hand. I feel for more, gathering a tiny arsenal.

  Slowly, I stand, pick a piece of metal from my hand, and listen. No sounds. No hint of the mechanic. I throw the metal to the front near the door. Back at you, I whisper in the silence of my head.

  The noise is only a ping. It is a small sound, but big enough to cause the mechanic to make the tiniest of mistakes. A stumble? A quick movement against a car? Enough for me to hear him.

  I can’t stand still and throw screws and bolts across the room. The mechanic is smart enough to look in the one place with no noise. I ease away from the car and inch toward the tiny dot of light shining in the front corner.

  My feet—soft and light—touch the cement, feeling for a clear path. Breath enters my lungs in shallow whiffs. No noise leaves my lips. My heart slows to match.

  Halfway across the front of the garage, I throw another bit of metal. The tiny ping bounces off the opposite wall. I wait, but I don’t hear a scrape, stumble, or sound.

  I inch toward the tiny dot of light until I can press tight against the wall. The last place I should be is backed into a corner, but hopefully it’s also the last place the mechanic will look.

  I wait, pushed into the corner, silent and alone. My knees shake, and my legs grow weak from fear and fatigue. I stiffen them, letting the minutes slide by, each one filling me with hope and energy that I’ll survive. Meg will make the call. She will. I know she will.

  “Game over.” His voice is so close that it shocks me with his nearness.

  I strike with my fist, but he’s got my arm before I can connect. I swing the other one, but he gets that one too and twists them both so hard my bones threaten to snap.

  The mechanic leans toward me, the smell of his breath robbing me of air. “Guys pay fortunes for this kind of fun.”

  I kick out with my foot and connect with his shin. He grunts, but doesn’t loosen his grip. “You soulless creep!” I spit the words into his face. “You empty … heartless …” But words can’t describe such sickness. Such evil.

  The mechanic is so close we’re cheek to cheek, pressed together like lovers. “It’s not about you, honey,” he whispers in my ear. “It’s business. Remember?”

  I twist and turn to fight, but he’s stronger. Bigger. He picks me up, dragging me out of my corner refuge. My feet flail against his shins, but he doesn’t care.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The back door crashes back on its hinges. “Police!”

  His grip loosens enough for me to pull my arm free. I slam my hand at the button by the garage door. “Help! Please help!”

  The door rumbles to life, inching its way off the floor. The mechanic spins me around and wraps his arm across my chest, locking me in front of his body. I fight until cold metal presses against the softness of my cheek. I don’t have to see the gun to recognize the icy hardness and rounded barrel. Was it tucked in the waistband of his jeans all this time? Or did he pick it up when I was hiding?

  “Police! Put your hands on your head! Walk out, slow and steady!”

  “Help! He’s got a—” The mechanic shifts the gun away from my cheek and clamps his other hand across my mouth. He squeezes so tight against my nose I can hardly breathe. I struggle against him, but his thumb pushes down, cutting off my air. The garage door slowly rumbles open, and all I can think about is breathing. I can’t fight his grip without air. I ache for one good breath, but all I get are tiny whiffs through my smashed lips and pinched nose.

  The mechanic shoves me forward. “Shoot and she’s dead.” He yells the words right next to my ear. I stumble, my stocking feet trampling against his. He pulls my head back and up. His other arm pins me, the gun now pressing hard against my side. I can’t see anything but the black ceiling of the garage. He thrusts me forward until we’re under the dark gray of night.

  “Drop the girl!”

  Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. Meg. Meg called the police. She’s safe, and even if I die right here in a blaze of bullets, someone will take care of her. And Mom—if she’s still alive, the police will find her.

  The mechanic pulls me along. “Back away, all of you.” He states his orders in the same calm manner he described trafficking human lives. “One mistake and she’s dead.”

  “And then you’re wanted for murder,” says a cop.

  The mechanic tightens his grip on my mouth and shrugs his head to the right. “Over there. Guys behind the garage too.”

  He’s still. Relaxed. His body is tight against mine, but there is no tension. No fear oozing through his skin. We wait. Boots scrape on pavement. Bodies shuffle away from us. Equipment creaks and groans, but the police are silent. I feel their movement, but can’t see any of it. I study the roof. The sky. Search for stars, knowing it’s too early to catch their bright twinkles of light.

  “Turn your backs.” The mechanic’s breath brushes across the side of my face, but I’m numb to his nearness.

  More shuffles and scrapes, creaks and groans.

  “Face down on the pavement.”

  “No way,” yells one of the cops.

  “Down or she’s dead.” The mechanic doesn’t yell, just insists in that calm, vile tone. My life rests in the hands of this heartless man. One wrong turn—or a trigger-happy cop—and I am dead.

  My head aches as I struggle to breathe. I listen to the last of the sounds before the night turns silent. No clank of equipment. No boots on pavement. Nothing but a deep, eerie stillness.

  The mechanic backs away, dragging me with him. Slow. Steady. I should struggle, should fight him, but all my energy goes into pulling tiny wisps of air into my aching lungs.

  The pavement changes to sidewalk under my toes. “No one moves or the girl dies,” he says again. This time, the words startle me, shocking me out of the fog that seeps through my aching head. Will he kill me anyway, even if the police do everything he asks?

  The mechanic pulls me backward, farther and farther away from the garage. I concentrate on the cement under my stocking feet, feeling for every break in the concrete. Rooftops slide by, but my vision blurs. I struggle to stay alert.

  The mechanic drops his hand from my nose and mouth. Surprised, I try to breathe, but my lungs don’t respond. Too late, I remember to struggle and yell, but my movements and voice are sluggish and slow. He shifts the arm across my chest. It’s the one with the gun. Do I fight or freeze? I take my chances and thrust my weight against his arm.

  The mechanic throws me to the pavement, and my head hits with a crack. Bright flashes of light dance in front of my eyes. I can’t feel or see what is happening. All I can do is lay on my back, staring at the st
ars swirling in front of me. All I can do is suck air into my starving lungs.

  I am alive. I am breathing.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mom. I’ve got to get to Mom. Tell her to hang on. Make sure she’s alive. I roll to my side and try to push myself to my hands and knees, but my head is throbbing.

  Gunshots crack and pop. Voices call orders over my head. Boots pound past me. Officer Rodriguez hovers by my face. “You crazy girl. Why did you do this by yourself? Why didn’t you call me last night?”

  My voice doesn’t work. My throat is so dry it takes all my effort to speak. “You made it,” I whisper.

  “I got your message. We were already on the way when your sister called.”

  “Meg?” The word is barely louder than my breath.

  “In my car with your boyfriend. Worried as hell, but okay.”

  I try to stand, but my head pounds. Officer Rodriguez presses me back against the pavement until I am flat on my back. “Stay down.”

  “The mechanic?”

  “We’ll find him.” Officer Rodriguez squeezes my shoulder.

  “Mom.” I reach for his arm. “Get Mom.” My voice wobbles and my vision swims. “She’s in that room. That room over the office.”

  His hand stays firm against my shoulder. “We’re on it, Mattie. Just stay down.”

  “Go now.” Tears leak down my cheeks. “Please?” I grip the fabric of his shirtsleeve. “Please?”

  “Stay flat. Promise?”

  His request feels cruel, like acid burning my throat. I ache to run back to the garage, fly up the stairs, and wrap my arms around Mom. I need to know she’s like me: scared, traumatized, but alive. I loosen my grip and let that be my answer.

  Officer Rodriguez keeps pressure on my shoulder and waves over another officer. I try to follow everything that’s happening, but my eyelids slowly slide shut. I work at prying them open, but give up and listen to the activity surging over me. Rodriguez’s heavy hand leaves and a lighter one takes its place.