Read Online Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) by Olivia Samms - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Olivia Samms
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you gotta get off the streets. You don’t wanna get hurt. It’s nasty out there. I know a couple chicks that’ve been hit hard. Sliced.”
“Sliced?”
“Yeah, even by other girls. They go for your face. Don’t want you to be too pretty. And the dudes wanna claim you. It’s good you dress like that.”
Unbelievable. All the heat he’s dealing with, and he’s worried about me? Giving me advice? Wow. He’s so not guilty—no way.
“Yeah, I gotta do what I gotta do—acting tough, dressin’ butch. But if I’m honest? I’m scared out of my mind.”
He doesn’t have to utter a word, but he’s scared, too—his chin rests on top of his knees tightly tucked, hugging his body.
I draw his face on the pad. The beardless jaw, broad nose,the jagged scar etched in his skin above his upper lip. His hair is closely cropped, forming a perfectly straight line stretching across his high forehead, and his eyes are round like big, wet black buttons.
Junior releases his knees and stretches his long legs out on the bench. “What you drawing?”
“You.” I tear the page off, crumble up the piece of paper, and throw it to him under the bars—under the camera, I hope.
He sits up, bends over, grabs it, and folds the paper flat. “Damn. That looks like me. You an artist or something?”
“Or something. I do tats, a little taggin’, train bombin’.”
“I probably cleaned up your art.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.” He looks away. “I said too much.”
“Well, what else we gonna do to pass the time? We might as well shoot the shit.” I think about the tennis balls, wondering what they mean. “You into sports?”
“Sure. Why you ask that?”
“I dunno. You look buff, is all. Not that I’m checking you out or nothin’.” I smile at him.
He smiles back. “I do a little running, lift weights and stuff with a team.”
“Oh, yeah, where?”
“Around.”
And it happens again . . . crackling fire this time, burning its way into my head like a branding iron: the image—slowly,menacingly, ferociously—takes a swat at and grabs a hold of my mind’s eye. A bear claw flashes in front of me, through me, travels down my right hand, and I draw the claw on the page. I scratch out the furry paw on the paper in front of me—unsheathed, threatening sharp talons. And my head feels as if it’s been torn open.
Two images in one day—and I’m paying for it big time. The room starts to spin. I lower my head between my knees, and the pad of paper falls to the floor.
Junior jumps up off the bench. “What the hell is that?” He backs up against the rear wall of his cell.
“A claw?” I eke out.
“Who the fuck
are
you? Why did you draw that?”
I squeeze the back of my neck. I’m in too much pain to lie. “I dunno. ’Cause you were thinking of one. That’s how it normally happens.”
“What you talking about?”
It feels like a nail is lodged, stuck in my brain. “It’s crazy, I know, but I see stuff. Sometimes stuff I don’t want to see—what other people are thinking, but only when I draw.” I approach the bars, my vision blurred now.
“Get the hell away from me, you freak.” He hugs the back wall.
The room keeps spinning, and I fight to stand on my two feet. “You don’t have to be here. You know that, right? Just tell them—tell them what you know.”
“I can’t. I can’t.” His voice cracks with emotion. He starts to cry, wail.
“Why not? Why can’t you tell them the truth? Who are you protecting?”
“Me! I’ll be back on the streets if they release me.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? What you want?”
“You don’t get it. He’ll kill me, just like he did to Jamal.”
“Who will?”
“We both saw him hide his stash. Jamal threatened to rat on ’im. I had no idea what he did to Jamal . . . until that cop told me. . . .” Heavy tears drip down from his eyes. “I need to stay here. Don’t you get it?” He kicks at the wall. “Leave me the fuck alone. Get
“Sliced?”
“Yeah, even by other girls. They go for your face. Don’t want you to be too pretty. And the dudes wanna claim you. It’s good you dress like that.”
Unbelievable. All the heat he’s dealing with, and he’s worried about me? Giving me advice? Wow. He’s so not guilty—no way.
“Yeah, I gotta do what I gotta do—acting tough, dressin’ butch. But if I’m honest? I’m scared out of my mind.”
He doesn’t have to utter a word, but he’s scared, too—his chin rests on top of his knees tightly tucked, hugging his body.
I draw his face on the pad. The beardless jaw, broad nose,the jagged scar etched in his skin above his upper lip. His hair is closely cropped, forming a perfectly straight line stretching across his high forehead, and his eyes are round like big, wet black buttons.
Junior releases his knees and stretches his long legs out on the bench. “What you drawing?”
“You.” I tear the page off, crumble up the piece of paper, and throw it to him under the bars—under the camera, I hope.
He sits up, bends over, grabs it, and folds the paper flat. “Damn. That looks like me. You an artist or something?”
“Or something. I do tats, a little taggin’, train bombin’.”
“I probably cleaned up your art.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.” He looks away. “I said too much.”
“Well, what else we gonna do to pass the time? We might as well shoot the shit.” I think about the tennis balls, wondering what they mean. “You into sports?”
“Sure. Why you ask that?”
“I dunno. You look buff, is all. Not that I’m checking you out or nothin’.” I smile at him.
He smiles back. “I do a little running, lift weights and stuff with a team.”
“Oh, yeah, where?”
“Around.”
And it happens again . . . crackling fire this time, burning its way into my head like a branding iron: the image—slowly,menacingly, ferociously—takes a swat at and grabs a hold of my mind’s eye. A bear claw flashes in front of me, through me, travels down my right hand, and I draw the claw on the page. I scratch out the furry paw on the paper in front of me—unsheathed, threatening sharp talons. And my head feels as if it’s been torn open.
Two images in one day—and I’m paying for it big time. The room starts to spin. I lower my head between my knees, and the pad of paper falls to the floor.
Junior jumps up off the bench. “What the hell is that?” He backs up against the rear wall of his cell.
“A claw?” I eke out.
“Who the fuck
are
you? Why did you draw that?”
I squeeze the back of my neck. I’m in too much pain to lie. “I dunno. ’Cause you were thinking of one. That’s how it normally happens.”
“What you talking about?”
It feels like a nail is lodged, stuck in my brain. “It’s crazy, I know, but I see stuff. Sometimes stuff I don’t want to see—what other people are thinking, but only when I draw.” I approach the bars, my vision blurred now.
“Get the hell away from me, you freak.” He hugs the back wall.
The room keeps spinning, and I fight to stand on my two feet. “You don’t have to be here. You know that, right? Just tell them—tell them what you know.”
“I can’t. I can’t.” His voice cracks with emotion. He starts to cry, wail.
“Why not? Why can’t you tell them the truth? Who are you protecting?”
“Me! I’ll be back on the streets if they release me.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? What you want?”
“You don’t get it. He’ll kill me, just like he did to Jamal.”
“Who will?”
“We both saw him hide his stash. Jamal threatened to rat on ’im. I had no idea what he did to Jamal . . . until that cop told me. . . .” Heavy tears drip down from his eyes. “I need to stay here. Don’t you get it?” He kicks at the wall. “Leave me the fuck alone. Get
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