I'm Yours [Under Reconstruction]

One

I'm Yours

One

I crouched low behind the black vehicle as I saw a cop come out of the gas station minimart. Dammit, I thought. Was it just me or were all the streets leading to Nate's infested with cops?

Now, before you get the wrong idea, I'm not a criminal. Well... it depends on your definition of a criminal.

Criminal: (n.) a person who has committed a crime

Is running away from your foster home a crime? Because if it is, then, yeah-- I'm a criminal. My bad.

But, you see, I had no choice.

I'll get into detail later, because right now I'm hiding from a cop.

My chest was almost touching the asphalt as I lay with only my hands and toes supporting my weight. Under the midnight black Cadillac (which was very nice, by the way), I saw the pudgy, black-shoed feet of the police officer who had just stepped out of the gas station's mini store.

Rusty's Gas Station was in the middle of nowhere, so I didn't know why the police dude was there. Maybe he got lost on his way to the donut shop. Maybe thought the coffee here was better than the city's, which was about five miles south of here, where he came from. And I didn't blame him-- Rusty sure had a good supply of coffee.

Whatever the reason, the obese police dude had decided to drink his joe leaning against the door of his cop car, which was, quite unfortunately, facing me. Just my luck. Not that I expected any from the years of misfortune I've had. By now, I didn't believe good luck existed for people like me. Only miracles, which I didn't get a lot of, either.

Anyway, here I was, my fingers now practically getting scorched off because of the late-August sun heating up the asphalt to the point where I could fry an egg if I wanted to. California didn't understand that summer was supposed to be coming to end, apparently.

Wincing, I slowly got up so that I was still crouching low, except my knees were now touching the ground instead of my hands, which were red and painfully hot with little black pebbles imbedded in my skin. Brushing my hands against my jeans, I felt a fat drop of sweat roll slowly down the side of my face as I thought of any possible ways to escape my dilemma.

I could just walk out of here, like I just decided to take a stroll around an almost-abandoned gas station.

Yeah, right.

I could pretend that I got lost while I was on a hiking trip.

Like that was likely to work.

Finally, I came up with an idea, which was hopefully going to work, or else get me tased, arrested, shot, or all of the above.

Deciding to risk it, I slowly got up and made my way to the cop, who had the bushiest mustache I had ever seen, as he was finishing up his pastry and taking swigs of his coffee. As I approached, he stopped drinking immediately and put his hand to his holster, where I'm sure was a fully-loaded gun. Or maybe a taser, which was equally as bad, in my opinion. If you've never been tased, consider yourself blessed by all things holy. Which I'm not.

But I couldn't blame the guy. I mean, if a gangly teenage guy with tattered clothes, messy black hair, and wild blue eyes came up to me out of nowhere, I would've unleashed my hidden ninja powers on him.

So as I came up to him, I held my hands up with my palms facing him, as a sign of peace or whatever. He didn't lower his guard, but at least he wasn't shooting.

"Hey," I said, giving him what I hoped was a charming smile, waving slightly with my right hand. The cop just scowled, but I kept going.

"So, my car broke down about two miles east from here, so I ditched it and found this place after walking exhaustively in the heat," I stopped, seeing his reaction. It was still hardened, but at least he wasn't gripping his gun so intensely anymore. "I was just wondering if you could give me a ride, you know, just about a few miles west, where I was heading to visit my dying mother."