Overdrive (25 page)

And this time, the loss will crush her.

Nick pulls me into his arms but even he can't stop me from trembling. “None of us really knows what Roger's capable of,” I say.

He brushes his finger across my lips.

I sense Roger's approach before he appears. He gives me a tentative, almost apologetic wave. “Julia, can we talk?”

Nick holds my waist, like he thinks I might bolt. I lift my chin to meet Roger's gaze.

“I'm afraid my behavior tonight has been deplorable.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets on the side of his vest. “I hope you know I would never intentionally harm Emma. Any of you, really. I admit I can get carried away when it comes to my passions.”

My shoulders slump. “I know the cars are important, Roger. I just don't get why . . .” My voice trails off. Why should the reasons matter? It doesn't change the fact that we've already agreed to the job, that we're in too deep.

“I know what it feels like to lose someone,” he says, and I know he means his wife. “It leaves a hole.” Sadness radiates off him, chipping away at the armor strapped to my heart. “We were supposed to celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary this year. Silver.” He blows out a breath and changes the subject. “I'd never let anything happen to Emma. Please believe that.”

In spite of everything, I do. “We'll get the Aston Martin back.”

He fiddles with his Rolex. “If it's more money you want . . .”

Tempting. “It's not.”

Roger nods. “Again, I apologize.”

“I think I just need to get out of here for a bit.” I try for a smile. “We're all a little cooped up.”

Nick puts his hand on my shoulder. “Stay here. I have an idea.”

Alone with Roger, the awkwardness creeps back in. He kicks at a patch of grass, looking sheepish. “I've registered Emma in a good ballet school.”

“I don't doubt that.” Though a twinge of resentment trickles through the gratitude. I should have done that. “Emma's dream is to dance, so thank you.”

“I'm not a bad man, Jules.”

Nick whistles from across the yard. I look over and he waves me toward him. “I should go. . . .”

Holy hell, this is awkward.

Roger bows his head a little, sending a shockwave of guilt through me. I should say I know he's not bad–maybe just a little misguided–but the words don't come out. I offer him a pathetic finger wave instead, and then catch up to Nick, who is already in his Mustang with the window rolled down.

The engine purrs like it wants to go fast.

He leans across the console to push open the passenger door and winks. “Wanna go for a ride?”

There is suddenly nothing I want more.

“Hell yeah.” I hip check the door closed and climb in through the window.

  •  •  •  

Vicki corners like she's on rails.

My shoulder bashes into the side of the car door before I'm jostled left. Right. Another left. The car picks up speed.

Everything feels so fast, but my senses are heightened by the blindfold across my eyes. Nick's idea. That, and the promise of a surprise.

His fingers skim across my knee midshift and my skin tingles. I feel everything–the rumble of his laugh, the vibrations of the car flying across the asphalt, the steady beat of my pulse.

The tires squeal as we peel around another corner.

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Don't you dare throw up in Vicki.”

I pretend to make gagging noises.

“That's it, we're taking the long way,” he says. I can't see his grin, but I hear it.

I thought being on his motorcycle was the pinnacle of excitement, but I realize this is so much more. Tonight, we are not planning a boost, not sneaking away in the shadows, putting our lives at risk. For the first time since I can remember, I am free.

Nick downshifts and eases off the gas. Slowly, he comes to a stop and turns off the ignition. I wonder if my disappointment is as visible as it feels. “Do I get to take off the blindfold yet?”

He shushes me.

The passenger door opens and Nick holds on to my wrists, leading me out of the car. I'm dizzy, disoriented, but he doesn't let me stumble.

“You trust me, right?”

The question lands hard. For so long I've fought to keep my emotions in check, masking my feelings under the pretense of taking care of me and my sister. Truth is, I've been afraid to let anyone in.

But in two months, Nick and I have been thrown together under the most difficult circumstances.

I've laughed.

Cried.

Fucked up.

Nick's seen me at my best and my worst, and through it all, he's stuck by my side. It's more than boosting cars that bonds us and I'm surprised to realize . . .

“Yes, I do trust you.”

He kisses my cheek and then takes my arm, guiding me along what I think is a sidewalk. He removes my blindfold.

My reflection stares back from a bank of tinted windows. The building has sandcastle beige stucco walls, with swooping architecture that reminds me of the curl of sheet music. “Where are we?”

Nick bends over the door lock with a tool that looks suspiciously like one of Chelsea's.

“Are you breaking into this place?”

The lock clicks and he yanks open the door. “We're just borrowing it for a little while.” He motions for me to go inside.

Nick flicks a switch and a series of fluorescent lights flicker to life. The lobby is clean, professional, and filled with memorabilia from various famous ballets. Framed satin slippers from one version of
The Nutcracker
. A signed poster from the cast of
Romeo and Juliet
.

Tutus hang from a rack outside a small merchandise shop that's obviously closed.

I'm utterly speechless. Because even though I have never been to the Nevada Ballet Theatre, I have dreamed of dancing on this stage since I was a little girl. I'd recognize it anywhere.

“Hang tight,” he says, disappearing from sight for a second. When he returns, he holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

A single spotlight shines over the stage in the giant theater.

The memories come rushing back. Glitter and costumes and muscles that ache with a need to be stronger, better, the best. My eyes fill with tears.

Nick pushes me gently toward the stage. “Go on.”

“Oh, I couldn't. . . .”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls something out of his pocket. It's my old pink tutu, folded and squished together, somehow rescued from the trash. Impossible. “How did . . . ?” The answer dawns on me. “Emma.”

He hands me the tutu. “Just stand. That's all you have to do.”

Slowly, I make my way down the aisle. My fingertips brush along the tops of the velvet-covered seats. I grip the tutu so tight it crinkles.

The stage is a magnet, pulling me closer. Several times I pause, fighting the urge to turn back, resisting the need to go forward. And by the time I get to the base of the small staircase that leads to the stage, my insides are twisted into knots and my pulse thrums.

“Just once, Julia.”

I take a step. And then another. Three more. I keep going until my running shoes thump against the stage. I stare at my feet under the spotlight, this strange juxtaposition of my past and present, colliding in this moment.

It's then that I notice the music weaving through overhead speakers.

I close my eyes and allow the melody to carry me far from back alleys and dusty warehouses. I kick off my shoes and slide the tutu over my hips. It probably looks ridiculous over my jeans, but it doesn't matter. There is no one here who will judge.

Knowing this gives me confidence.

My feet move to match the rhythm as they draw tentative, and then crazy, invisible patterns on the floor. It's too much–my legs feel like lead.

“You can do it,” Nick calls.

I pause, draw in a deep breath, and try again, this time gliding across the stage with confidence. The music transports me to another time and place, and if I squeeze my eyes shut, I can imagine my mother and Ms. Griffin praising my arabesque. I hear them tell me how my balance is flawless, my form impeccable. I am their little dancing ballerina princess.

I lift my leg into a pirouette, and as I spin, I'm transported back to happier times. I can feel myself glowing, as though the light that once shone inside of me has been turned on again. Shining brighter than it ever has.

For so long, I've avoided looking into a mirror, tried to run from this place. No matter what happens now, there's no looking back. There is no reason to be scared. Because for a ballerina–for me–the mirror is home.

MY LEG STRETCHES OVER THE
ballet barre in the basement, muscles unwinding. Even overnight, they've tensed up.

I catch Mat approaching in the reflection of the mirrors. He blinks, then grins. “Whoa. Nick told me I'd find you here, but this is . . .”

His voice trails off.

“I didn't even know this room existed, let alone that we have a prima ballerina living in
casa de
Roger.”

I turn away to hide my blush, simultaneously lowering my leg and reaching for a towel to dry off. My forehead drips with sweat.

“Roger built it. Creepy, right?” Anxious to change the subject, I gather my sweats and pull them up over my tights. I start overheating right away. “What's up?”

For a second, he looks confused. “Oh. Yeah.” He puffs out his chest. “We can't find James at the impound because he isn't
at
the impound.”

“No shit. We've checked all of them–twice.”

Five separate ones to be exact, and then we cased out another two outside the city, on the off chance we missed something. Either there's a secret compound for stolen cars in Las Vegas, or James has pulled another disappearing act.

“Riley has the car.”

Impossible. “I saw the police, Mat. And the tow truck . . .” That's when it hits me. “Shit. That asshole's got cops on his payroll, doesn't he?”

“I had a hunch,” he says. “So I took a look at some LVPD contracts and compared them to the picture of the logo Chelsea snagged. Turns out, Silver State Towing is one of their go-tos. I hacked into Silver's corporate profile and guess which asshole owns the joint?”

A slow smile spreads across my face. “Riley.”

  •  •  •  

Nick slouches low in the front seat of a Ford Escort and adjusts his ball cap. “I can't believe I didn't think of this.”

When he first started beating on himself, we all tried to make him feel better, but after another drawn-out stakeout, mine isn't the only patience ready to give out.

Mat snaps a piece of chewing gum between his teeth. “Yep. You totally should have.”

“I worked for the guy,” Nick goes on, like he hasn't heard a thing we've said. “I'm off my game.”

“Hey, at least you've got game,” Chelsea says. “What the hell have I contributed?”

Obviously she's mocking Nick's woe-is-me shtick. I crane my neck to make sure, surprised when I see she's on the brink of tears. I fumble for some kind of comforting words. “Jesus, Chelsea, you don't even realize how many jams you've gotten us out of. You've definitely done your part.”

“Nah. You would have found a way in,” she says. “Nick could have busted up some doors. Mat probably would have Google searched how to pick a lock. I'm kind of a tagalong.”

I get where this is coming from, even if her words don't make sense. We could all kick ourselves for not considering this possibility, for making mistakes. It's tough to think positive when you're staring down the barrel of a deadline that has the potential to explode in your face. Knowing Riley has the Aston Martin should give us some comfort, but we still haven't caught a glimpse of James.

Chelsea curls up into the side of the car and yawns. “Maybe it's not even here.”

“Gotta be,” Nick says. “This is his garage.”

A couple of rough-looking dudes in oil-stained jeans and wife-beaters loiter outside the building, smoking and tossing back some beers. We can't get close enough to see inside.

“What if this isn't his only garage?” I say. “Is it possible he's expanded?”

“Maybe.” Nick holds the binoculars up to his face. “I recognize a couple of those guys, but some of the regulars are missing. Could mean something. We'll have to wait it out and see.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Chelsea says with an exaggerated eye roll. “Seriously, after this gig, I am so done with crime. Half your time is spent being bored out of your mind.”

I smile. “What happens when you get to Harvard and there's all that boring studying?”

She waves me off. “That's different. Med school is something I'm passionate about.”

“Doctor Chelsea,” I say, enjoying the way the title sounds on my lips.

“Has a nice ring to it,” Mat says.

She pouts. “Are you mocking me? Because that's not funny.” She shrinks lower into the seat. “I was actually thinking about doing something with chemistry. Maybe getting a PhD.”

Nick twists around in his seat. “Hey, you could mix potions and stuff.”

“I'm not a witch, douche bag.”

Mat nudges her shoulder. “You could totally do anything you wanted.” Chelsea's eyes soften and a tint of red touches Mat's cheeks. He recovers quickly. “We all could.”

I never pegged Chelsea as a scientist or a doctor–but I bet she never figured me for a ballerina, either.

Nick sits upright. “Something's happening.”

Chelsea and I lean forward. “Hallelujah,” she says.

Nick peers through the binoculars, giving us the play-by-play. “Riley just showed up. He's handing someone a key. . . .” He waits. “Okay, now that guy and some other dude are getting into a tow truck. Shit.” He hands off the binoculars. “Keep eyes on them. We'll follow and see where they lead us.”