Overdrive (23 page)

“We should get Roger to weigh in.” All eyes land on me. “Even before we plan this boost, we have to know if the car's in good enough shape. Otherwise we're spinning our wheels.”

Mat points to the grainy picture of the Aston Martin. “Not those wheels.”

I give him a high five. “Smart-ass.”

“What if Roger doesn't want the car?” Chelsea says. “Does that mean the deal's off?” She screws the cap on the nail polish and flexes her toes in admiration. “Will he go back on his word?”

Mat's face drains of color. “Better not, or I'll have some words for that asshole. Finding my parents is the only reason I agreed to this.”

Nick rolls off the coach. “He'll do right by us.” He grabs my hand and squeezes. “Jules and I will make sure of it.”

  •  •  •  

Music from Roger's room drifts out into the hall with loud dramatic beats and trumpets. An orchestra is playing
in
his bedroom. Either that or those are some impressive surround-sound speakers.

I toe the edge of the Persian rug covering the inlaid floor in the hallway. A massive raised panel door is inches from my fist but I can't seem to muster the courage to knock.

I've just about figured out what I'm going to say when the door swings open. Roger stands in the frame wearing nothing but a thin, short robe that barely hits mid-thigh. My gag reflux ignites. I squeeze my eyes shut. Too late. The image of his pasty white legs is burned into memory.

Annoyance flickers over his face.

“Give me a minute,” he says, closing the door.

I crash into Nick's chest. “Kill me now.”

Nick shakes with laughter. “That could have been so much worse.”

“Don't even go there.”

Seconds later, Roger comes out of his room fully dressed. His slicked-back, wet hair only accents his receding hairline. He runs his tongue along the top of his mouth in an exaggerated expression of displeasure.

I'm conscious of how close I stand to Nick.

Maybe he's pissed about our relationship or, whoops, he checked the security footage at the Trophy Case and saw the steam rising off the hood of Nick's car. I meant to ask Mat to delete that film, but I couldn't think of how to phrase it without embarrassing myself.

“I can assume you aren't foolish enough to reopen negotiations.”

Part of me thought Roger and I had bonded over Vicki, but it's clear the only thing he cares about is the cars on that list. Asking him for a favor means I've used up any leverage we might have had.

“The Bond car's a bust,” Nick says.

Roger blinks. “I don't understand that terminology.”

“The car's in pieces,” I say. “No wheels, exterior damage.”

That gets his attention. “Can you salvage it?” he asks Nick.

“Impossible to know right now.”

Roger grunts. “Aren't you some kind of mechanical genius? Never mind. Just get me the car.”

We could have called that bet. “It's not even a showpiece car anymore. What about a substitute? Maybe another Camaro?”

“I must have the Aston Martin,” Roger says. His voice cools. “That is nonnegotiable. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Roger disappears into his room.

“We'll need a tow,” I whisper. The orchestra kicks up again and I raise my voice. “It's not like we can rent one.”

“Or steal one,” Nick says. “If we got busted, we'd have no chance of outrunning the cops.”

“Know anyone with a truck?”

Nick chews on his lip. “I do–but I don't think you'll like the plan.”

  •  •  •  

“This is the stupidest idea ever and you're an idiot,” I say. “And I hate you.”

Nick shrugs like he knows I'm joking, which is partially the truth. Mostly I'm scared. I'd tell him as much, but I can't even look at him right now. He reeks of cheap whiskey. It's in his hair, splashed across his T-shirt–there's even a giant alcohol stain on his thigh.

He's wasted.

At least, that's what we need Kevin to think.

Kevin.

At the thought of seeing him again, my stomach clenches with unease. Which is why I'm hanging outside the pub while Nick pulls off an Academy Award–worthy performance.

I make a left turn into the parking lot of the HAZE Lounge, a run-down bar where the owners don't double-check ID and scum like my ex go to suck back a few illegal drinks. A popular watering hole among Riley's crew.

A giant neon cowboy waves at us in the distance. Vegas Vic isn't really flagging us into the HAZE, but from this angle, it almost looks that way.

Nick drapes his arm across my chest and slurs. “Do you thhhink I thound drunk?”

“If the slurring doesn't work, your stench will do the trick.” My nose scrunches up. “Jesus, are you sure you
didn't
down that bottle?”

“Stone-cold sober.”

I'm still nervous. We're taking a huge risk and I'm not convinced the payoff will be worth it. The plan seems simple: Nick will bump into Kevin inside the bar. He'll act like we broke up and he needs a buddy to drown his sorrows. Nick will shift the conversation to shop talk, which makes sense, since boosting cars and me are the only things the two of them have in common. Nick will slip in the information about the Aston Martin. Kevin will pass the info on to his boss, because that douche bag is always looking for brownie points. If Riley takes the bait–and that's the part that worries me–his crew will boost the car for us.

And then we'll steal it from them.

“A lot could go wrong here,” I say. “What if Kevin doesn't tell Riley?”

“That shit-weasel needs any piece of leverage he can get if he wants to stay in Riley's good books. I know what it's like to be on the outs.” He leans across the console and kisses me on the cheek. “Trust me.”

I choke on his stench and shove him away. “You're so getting in the shower after this.”

“If you say so.”

“Alone.”

His lower lip juts out. “Tease.”

I bat my eyelashes and try to look coy, but flirting still makes me feel like the only duck in a pond filled with swans. Literally every girl on the planet is better at it than me.

Nick jumps out of the car and leans in through the window. “We've got this.”

“Make sure you're hooked up.”

He pulls back the collar of his leather jacket to show me the Bluetooth wire taped to his neck. As I start to drive away, his low voice curls into my eardrum. “You're sexy when you're stressed out.”

“Keep your head in the game, idiot.”

I'm sure he can hear my smile through the wires.

I pull around to the back of the parking lot, find a spot between two beaters, and cut the lights. The Ford Escort I've chosen from Roger's selection of specialty bait cars is the least conspicuous, but it's still nicer than the rest of the vehicles around me.

A homeless guy plods from behind a Dumpster, bottle of booze dangling from his outstretched hand. If another zombie comes out, I'm activating my Apocalypse Survival Plan. For now, I lock the doors.

Another voice snake slithers through my earpiece. “Jesus, Nick. You look like hell.”

Kevin.

Nick mumbles something but I can't hear over the background noise. I turn up the speaker and a high-pitched squeal bites at my eardrum. “Fuck.” I turn it down and lean forward, my chest pressed up against the steering wheel like it's somehow going to help me hear.

The horn blasts.

Startled, I jump back.

Across the lot, the drunk zombie tilts his head with an inquisitive stare. I hold very still.

“Where's Ghost?”

The sneer in Kevin's tone is clear through my headset.

Nick lays it on thick. “Bitch dumped me.”

According to Kevin, I wasn't worth much–certainly not getting busted over, which is why he bailed on me. He wouldn't have lasted a day in prison anyway. I don't care about him, but that doesn't mean the words don't sting.

I pull out a pair of binoculars from the glove box and train them on the windows of the bar. Bodies are everywhere, including a half-dozen women wearing not much more than bikinis. Two of them flank an oversize guy sporting a leather vest. I spot his Harley at the front entrance. He kisses the blonde on the cheek, plants one on the brunette's mouth, and then pulls them both closer to his side.

Somewhere behind him, I think I see Nick.

“Took a boost and fumbled it,” he's saying. “And now I'm jammed up. Jammed real bad.”

“That's the shits, man.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Nick says. “This car . . .”

Music from the band drowns out the rest of his sentence. Frustration shakes through me. I'm starting to think this plan isn't going to work.

“Why? So you can rat me out to your boss?”

Okay, so somehow I missed the transition, but it sounds like Nick's on track.

The interest in Kevin's voice is unmistakeable. “Nah, we got history, bro. I've got your back. You can bank on that.”

“Bullshit,” I spit out. I know from experience you can't believe a thing Kevin says. All trusting Kevin ever got me was a trip to the cop shop and a broken heart. I sniff. Screw that–love was never on the table.

Glasses clink together and there's some kind of murmured oath of secrecy before the band kicks in again and the conversation is drowned out by an out-of-tune bass riff trying to mimic Gene Simmons.

I can't hear a fucking word they're saying.

Two guys leave their seats at a table. Nick stumbles into view, nearly crashing into the chair. I catch him searching the parking lot for me before plunking down across from Kevin. Maybe if I zoom in enough, I can read their lips.

Their conversation cuts in and out between the guitar riffs.

“. . . Bond movie . . .”

“Serious, bro?”

“. . . airport hangar . . . security . . .”

I chew on my fingernails and tap the floor mat. Okay, Nick, time to wrap this up.

Across the parking lot, zombie dude slumps up against a rusted Chevy Malibu. A little paint, some TLC, the car would probably clean up nice.

Movement from the bar draws my attention. Nick stumbles into a standing position and fist-bumps Kevin. I throw the binoculars into the backseat, flick on the headlights, and drive up to the side of the bar.

A couple of guys come out and stare at me before getting into a taxi that pulls up behind me. By the time Nick trips into view, my nerves are rattled and my heart is pushing against my chest with fear.

“Well, hey there, purdy lady,” he slurs. “Is it time for that shower now?”

His scent is so strong it takes my breath away. “Way past due.” I wait for him to buckle up and then step on the gas. With the pulsing HAZE sign in the distance and the image of Kevin wiped clear, the tension finally drains from my shoulders. “You think he bought it?”

Nick rolls his head toward me and smirks. “Oh yeah. He practically pissed himself. I give it until morning before he spills his guts.”

CHELSEA AND I ARE WHITE-HAIRED
twins. I come by it naturally, and yet she wears it better.

The blue glow of her cell gives her tanned skin a slight neon hue that somehow looks exotic. I've never been more aware of our differences.

“Tell me again why you chose a white wig for this stakeout?”

Chelsea looks up from her Instagram feed. “Nick said we should make like we're invisible,” she says. “So we're, like, sister ghosts.”

Somehow I doubt that's what Nick meant.

She frowns. “Still nothing?”

“Nada.” This is our third shift since Nick told Kevin about the Aston Martin. We figured Riley would have jumped on it faster, but maybe he's working through the logistics. It's not like they're working to a deadline.

Ten days.

That's what's left of our seven-week heist, and we've still got two cars to go. My confidence is beginning to wane–and that's a bad sign. I shuffle down in the seat, staying far enough above the dash so I can see what's happening.

We've parked on a side road that sits parallel to the hanger. A thick cluster of trees obstructs most of our view, but I managed to find a small clearing that allows just enough of a sight line.

Chelsea holds out a bag of popcorn. “Hungry?”

I can't eat when I'm stressed. “Go ahead.”

She tosses a kernel into the air, catches it with the tip of her tongue, and curls it into her mouth. Her eating habits are a bit lizardlike tonight.

“I can't decide if that's sexy or gross.”

She looks up at me from behind hooded lashes. “You'd be amazed what I can do with my tongue.” To drive home the point, she licks her lips.

“Disgusting.”

“So far you're the only one that thinks so.”

That's probably true.

I check in with Mat, who is back at the mansion working on the trawling program. There's nothing new to report there, and Nick's asleep, so I turn on the radio to cut the silence.

Chelsea taps the dashboard clock. “I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

“Three more hours of fun to be had.”

She rolls her eyes. “Would it kill you to talk a little?”

The question takes me aback. I'm probably the worst stakeout partner, since for the past two hours, all I've done is stare through the binoculars and answer Chelsea's questions with one-line responses. Except when she asks about Nick. I pretend not to hear her.

“What, you want to gossip?”

She twists a strand of hair around her finger. “Sure, if we can gossip about you and Nick.”

“No hablo Inglés.”

She flicks a popcorn kernel at me. “Like hell you don't speak English. Come on. Give me something here.”

I'm almost surprised it took her this long to say something. It's not like Nick and I have been hiding our . . . well, whatever we want to call it. But I'm not ready to tack a label on it. So much of our future depends on what happens in the next ten days.