Chapter 1: My New Car
Rudii's POV~
I slammed my foot down on the gas of the car, hard, and shoved the rush of excitement down as it lurched forward down the street. I love driving fast cars, I love cars in general, but the cops are a bit too close for comfort. As I twisted my sleek new ride-no, I don't know who the owners are-through the streets and allies of some city in America, I smirked at how silly the whole thing was. First off, there was no way even in their dreams those stupid cops were going to catch up to me in their obnoxious cruiser. I was in a freaking convertible Jaguar F-Type, this was the baby's first year out, and I was an excellent driver. The silly boys would go home and dream about this. I felt the Jaguar's V6 engine purr, agreeing with me that the cops stood no chance. I glanced in the rearview window and didn't even see them anymore.
Second reason, I really wasn't high priority for them. I kept a low profile, and I've never endangered anyone's-bad gang member's or normal civilian's-life. I was just a nuisance, really. Oh, wait. I'd just stolen a Jaguar F-Type…ok, maybe now I'm a little higher on the list. I shrugged. I did the person-and car company-a favor by showing them just how easy it is to steal and how dumb it is to leave it top-down on the street-with the keys in the freaking glove compartment. I mean really, they asked for it.
Not even hearing sirens anymore, I got onto the freeway and just drove, enjoying the feeling of the car's speed. I didn't have anywhere to go, and I had everything I owned in my backpack, so I just drove down Interstate-whatever until it started getting late and I got tired.
I exited and ended up in the middle of nowhere. That was good and bad. Good, because it meant no one likely heard if the police sent out a message about me. Not that they would bother anyway, I've been at this for years and am very good at it. Plus, like I said, I was just a nuisance: I wasn't a threat, so usually they didn't spend time on me. And this town was off the radar, and I liked off the radar. Usually I liked to be in a city, but whatever. Although, this town was bad because it also meant I would draw a lot of attention in my snazzy ride.
I parked in front of a motel and stepped out, already feeling the gazes of the people milling around in the bar across the street burn into me and the Jaguar. I chuckled internally when no one approached, and thanked the gods that I had acquired a rather intimidating outfit over the years. No skulls and spikes, I was more of the silent-but-deadly kind. I had my scuffed, black leather combat boots that came up to the middle of my calves. I had a small pocket knife stored in the inside of my right one, but they didn't know that. Dirty black jeans hugged my legs and hips, my iPod in the back pocket. I didn't have a cell phone-I didn't need one, who the hell would I call? I had a fitted, long-sleeved, black shirt with an attached hood on, and under that I had a white tank top. Over them both was my trusty black leather jacket I'd had for hundreds of years-literally. It was warm but not heavy, weather-proof, had outside and inside pockets, and fit me so perfectly I could run without feeling resistance. It had been long, but I'd cut it so it now came just above the middle of my thighs. Yeah, I probably wasn't Miss Fashionista, but it sent the right message: go away, I'm not interested, I can and will kick your ass. It also did blend into cities very well.
The Jaguar, on the other hand, screamed its presence. It was bright, shiny red. But I loved it already anyway. Grabbing my backpack, I put the hood up and locked the car, putting the keys into one of my jacket's inside pockets. I also did a handy little trick on the doors and hood that I'd learned: I kicked them. Hard. So hard, that it dented in a way one of my buddies in an old car racing gang had showed me: it made the space where cars could be illegally unlocked dent so that the bars didn't catch right. Don't ask me the specifics, I didn't really understand them. I hate physics and all that science-y stuff. I did the same to the hood so it wouldn't snap open and someone couldn't wire it.
Ignoring the stares, I went in and got a room, paid for it-yes, I do have real money, borrowed or stolen it doesn't matter because it's mine now-in cash, and went up to it without food. This place was cheap for rooms, but the meal prices made up for that and I really didn't want to spend more than I had to. I kept in shape from all the running, climbing, and gymnastics I did as my regular life, I could eat a cheap fast food burger. I showered quickly then climbed into the bed in my tank top and underwear. I closed my eyes, but of course I didn't fall asleep immediately. Nope, every night, my brain just would never shut up.
The two things I'm best known for are car racing and graffiti. And for the graffiti, trust me, you have to get into some weird positions and develop strange methods to climb onto a lot of structures. And my graffiti is not the trashy just-my-name-in-bubble-letters crap. My graffiti is good. I spend time on it. That's the only thing I spend a lot of money for, paints. I paint massive murals of anything in my head: forests, snow scenes, lakes, the dreams I have that feel more familiar than others, some cities or places I've been. I never do people, and I never sign them. That would just be dumb, then people could chase me around. The painting keeps me grounded. Also, it's extremely important that they get on the news, so I work hard to make them special and sometimes kick-start a security alarm nearby so it gets noticed. I have to, I can't stop hoping.
You should know that I'm not some big tough criminal with muscle and scars and tattoos everywhere. First of all, because I'm a girl. In case the dress sense didn't tip it off. I have tattoos, but I didn't get them by choice. They're really more like scars. I have muscle, hell yeah, but I'm not some freaky body builder. I'm toned, you know? And I have scars, of course. I've fallen from structures while painting, gotten in some car crashes (thankfully, I had some good buds that got me to and out of the hospital), and I am quite the seasoned street fighter. But no big, ugly scar across the face with a dramatic backstory kind of thing.
And I don't feel like thinking anymore. You don't tell your life story in one night, or a few minutes. And I don't want to go into it anyway.
I focused on my breathing, and finally began to feel sleep creep up on me. I rolled onto my stomach and curled up, protecting myself instinctually in such a foreign-granted, very comfortable-place. I didn't dream, or if I did, I don't care enough to remember.