Overdrive (3 page)

“Hi,” Emma says in a swoosh of air, and my chest constricts. My sister wants this so badly,
I
hurt.

Roger drops his gaze to her. “You're shorter than I imagined.”

Her face goes red. “You're older than I expected.”

At this, they both laugh—Ems with a bit of a nervous hitch, Roger with a confidence that feels forced. Or maybe that's just my nerves kicking in.

I scope out the foyer in the background. The scent of
old
is cloying. Like we're in a museum past visiting hours and there's an invisible screen covering the flashing signs warning us to
KEEP OUT!, DON'T TOUCH!, GET LOST!
As though our greasy fingerprints might mar the polished gold finish of the gilt frames or the glossy wood.

What a joke.

Roger waves us all over the threshold. “Please, do come in.”

We've barely stepped in the door before some dude in a penguin suit swoops by to grab Emma's suitcase and my duffel bag. He's halfway up the wooden spiral staircase before I can mumble out a halfhearted protest.

Roger turns to my sister. “Well then, you must be Emma.”

“Ems,” she says, and gives him a look that's been known to bring parental types to their knees. Not quite, but Roger bends a little to shake her hand.

Our life has always been about extremes—people who don't give a crap, or those who try too hard. Roger is clearly the latter, and maybe I should be grateful, but frantic energy bubbles through me.

“I'm Julia, if it matters.”

There's a split second of hesitation, and I think I catch a flash of annoyance before Roger acknowledges me with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Of course. Do you prefer Jules?”

I shrug. “Whatever works.”

Sunlight cuts through the windows, reflecting off a giant chandelier. Dozens of rainbows dance on the walls. I shield my eyes with the edge of my hand and look up. “That thing looks like it's straight out of
Phantom of the Opera
.”

Roger twirls the end of his mustache. “It is.”

My jaw goes slack. The chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling by a gold interlocking chain I'm sure can't hold it. Maybe it's symbolic. Like, if it shatters to the ground, everything else does too.

“So, Mr. Montgomery,” I begin.

He cuts me off with a grimace. “I'm not much into formalities. Please, just Roger will be fine.”

Roger, Roger.
“What's the deal here?”

He blinks.

“Nice digs.” My sarcasm spews like antifreeze from a cracked radiator hose. “But it's not exactly teen-friendly. Want to take us out to the dog shed or wherever you keep the rest of us hoodlums?”

Vanessa admonishes me with an out-loud
tsk
. I expect smoke to steam from Roger's ears any minute, but he masks whatever he's feeling with a soft expression of sympathy. My spine stiffens. Screw him. I don't need his pity.

“I can show them around, Rog,” comes a voice from my right.

A willowy redhead glides into the room, flashing a smile I'm sure has fired up a few engines. The outline of her bathing suit shows through a sheer cover-up—a flashy bronze and brown one-piece with strategic cutouts. Something I could never pull off.

I gather my hair to the side of my neck and knot it around my fingers. I'd give anything for a brush, shampoo. Scissors.

“Chelsea,” she says with a tilt of her head. “You must be Julia.”

I nod, drawn to her hypnotizing coffee-colored eyes.

“And I'm Emma.” My sister's cheeks glow pink. “You're
really
pretty.”

“And you”—Chelsea pokes Emma's chest—“are my new favorite person.”

My sister rocks back on her heels, proud, while quiet jealousy pulses at my temples. It's not just my sister's reaction. Everything about Chelsea is intoxicating, even her laugh, like it's infused with champagne. I swear she radiates confidence.

“Go on, then,” Roger says, nudging his chin toward the spiral staircase. “Vanessa and I will finish up the necessary paperwork and be up in a few minutes.”

Emma bounds up the stairs like a turbo-boosted pace car. At the balcony landing, she leans over the edge, face beaming, and shouts, “Jules! Check this out!”

This
is a long, narrow hallway peppered with framed artwork. I'm no expert, but it reeks of the big names—Monet, Picasso, and something that reminds me of a Van Gogh at the end of the hall. I pause and tilt my head sideways to study the image. It can't be real.

“You're a fan?” Chelsea asks.

Not really, but I shrug to avoid sticking my foot in my mouth, remembering that Roger is the reason Ems and I are still together. Besides, I'm more intrigued by a series of hanging wood carvings that look suspiciously like weapons.

“Cannibal tools,” Chelsea says. “From Fiji.”

“Charming.”

A shy smile tugs at her lips. “Roger likes to collect . . . things.”

I'm mid-wondering where Ems and I fit in Roger's collection of misfit toys when Emma's high-pitched squeal ping-pongs through the hall. My pulse spikes with a split second of fear, until she peers out from a doorway, giant grin stretched across her flushed face.

“Jules,” she breathes. “This room is . . .”

A preteen girl's wet dream.

The walls, the bedding, the furniture, even the ceiling, is splashed with neon—pink, green, orange, yellow. It's enough to give me a headache. Behind an oversize bed overflowing with pillows, graffiti covers a charcoal brick wall.

Emma runs toward a giant keyboard set in the floor in the corner of the room.

I want to scream at her not to touch it. Not to touch
anything
. But she's already planted her feet on the alternating black and white keys. A deep musical note erupts from surround-sound speakers. We both jump in surprise.

Chelsea laughs. “We should probably turn down the volume on that.”

Fuck, yes. “This entire room could use some toning down.”

Emma jumps onto her bed, burying herself into a mountain of pillows. When she emerges, one is tucked against her chest, her hands wrapped around it so tight, it's now in the shape of an hourglass.

My heart races so fast I'm sure it will redline. I'm on the verge of tears and I don't know if it's because I'm scared or happy or pissed right the hell off. Mad because even though none of this makes sense, it
has
to. Emma needs this.

Maybe I do too.

I conjure up a smile. “However will you sleep in here?”

She flops back onto the mattress with a sigh. “Perfectly.”

Her response twinges something in my subconscious and a shiver of unease trickles across my spine. Emma's entire room is perfect—too perfectly Emma.

I drop my voice to a whisper. “What's Roger's deal?”

Chelsea raises an eyebrow.

“All this”—I scan the room—“seems a bit much.”

It's like a lightbulb goes off in her head. “Right? You'll get used to the way Roger spoils us. . . .” She holds out her wrist and a heavily jeweled bracelet blinks at me. “He gave me this for my birthday.”

“Nice,” I lie. Am I the only one that finds this all a bit . . . ick?

My sister flings opens the French doors that lead to an en suite. Her gasp rebounds off the gleaming tile and punches me right in the solar plexus. “Oh my goodness.”

It's more spa than bathroom. Dozens of shampoos, soaps, bubble bath containers, and pedicure tools overflow from a basket propped beside a deep claw-foot tub. The jewel-framed vanity mirror sparkles like it belongs backstage at a burlesque.

Air catches in my lungs, causing me to choke. “It's a little over the top, no?”

“Only the best for my children.”

I spin around to find Roger staring at my sister with shimmering dark eyes. The guy creeps me out in an I-need-to-take-a-shower way, but I get what's at stake here. Emma and I have one shot to stay together. Roger's it.

“Do you like it?”

I sputter out a huff of disgust. “How could she not?”

Emma's face glows. “It's the best room I've ever had.”

Roger may not know the significance of her words, but his chest still puffs with pride. And while I'm not convinced he's quite the White Knight my sister has inadvertently labeled him, I confess there may be some silver armor beneath that stuffy tweed vest.

But when the smile begins to fade from my sister's face, I know her anxiety is threatening to smother this new excitement.

“Do you want to have a sleepover?” she says, and my heart cracks a little.

My room at the Millers' was barely larger than a storage closet, the hard futon no bigger than a twin, but when Emma woke with night terrors, I'd curl her into my arms and whisper, “Come on, let's have a sleepover.”

Chelsea puts her hands on her thin hips. “How do I get invited to this slumber party?”

Annoyance flashes through me, but I mask it with a forced smile. “Maybe I should check out my room first. It could be even cooler than yours.”

Emma's eyes widen. “I bet it's perfect.”

Probably not. And yet, my stomach clenches as we all make our way down the hall. Emma's room is slam-dunk perfection. That can't be coincidence. So does that mean my bed will be covered in satin, like my old ballet slippers? Will dance posters cover the walls?

The idea is obviously ridiculous because I doubt Roger sees past my scuffed running shoes and oversize hoodie. Doesn't matter anyway. Unlike Ems, I won't be so quick to get caught up in this fairytale.

At my bedroom door, I straighten. Take a deep breath and flick on the lights.

My stomach sinks so fast I'm rooted to the floor.

“Oh.”

Plain black furniture spots a room that is otherwise blanketed in white—the curtains, the bedspread, even the carpet. I curl my toes into the floor for balance.

Emma jumps on my bed. “Wow! It's so . . .”

White.

White and cold and impersonal.

I rub my hands over my jeans and then wrap them around my upper arms. Goose pimples cover my skin. I catch Roger staring at me, and for a split second I get a solid view of what's behind those brown eyes—the design of my room is absolutely deliberate. A silent signal.

White as a Ghost.

And then, whatever malevolence I envision is replaced with deceptive charm. He has the arrogance to look sheepish. “I admit, it's a bit of a blank canvas right now.”

I steady my voice. “All good.”

Chelsea butts in. “Roger seriously knows nothing about teenagers. We'll get this place fixed up in no time.”

A sly smile tugs at Roger's lips. “Please, order . . .” He pauses. “Anything you'd like.”

Emma gasps. “Anything?”

“Of course.” Roger winks at her before leaving the room with a likely unintentional plié.

“See,” Chelsea says, nudging me with her hip. “Harmless.”

Not quite my assessment, but I need to get my bearings before I tackle that debate. “So, there's three of you, right?”

“Yeah. Mat's in the pool and Nick is . . .” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder and mischievous flecks of hazel twinkle in her eyes. “Nick, say hi.”

I spin around and freeze. A guy stands in the hallway wrapped only in a towel that rides low on his hips. Tattooed angel wings stretch across his broad chest and feather downward to muscular arms marked with black tribal ink. My pulse picks up speed.

He's not the biggest guy I've ever seen, but his presence somehow fills the space. Commands attention. He is . . .

Dangerous.

Sirens go off in my head and I should break the stare. Something pulls me in. Makes me hold on a little longer than I should.

Hit the brakes, Jules.

His eyes are blue. Not the kind of blue that makes my knees buckle or makes me start planning our wedding, but a blue that sends vibrations of unease up my spine. A cold, ice blue that growls,
Back. The fuck. Off.

Nick scrapes his teeth along the corner of his lip. Jesus. There's a piercing.

The tension between us is so thick, it practically crackles. Instinct tells me to steer clear of this bad boy, but then I remember the promises I made to Vanessa, to Emma. I can't screw this up.

I force nonchalance. “Hey, I'm Jules.”

A hint of laughter plays on his lips just before they twist into a bone-chilling sneer.

A RED FERRARI ZIPS ACROSS
the giant flat-screen. Nick shifts while his thumbs easily work the knobs on a game controller. He leans left, a quick right, and then sends the car hard into the corner. It spins out of control, slamming into the virtual sidewall. A fiery explosion blows through the surround sound, rattling the bookshelves against the wall.

I flinch, but no one notices me hovering on the sidelines of the enormous games room. The place is obnoxious, like a kid's toy box on high-grade nitrous.

The guy next to Nick throws his hands up. “Crash and burn,
pendejo
!”

If that's Matias, I already like him. My Spanish might be rusty, but I'm pretty sure he's just called Nick an asshole.

Nick tosses the controller and grunts. “Think you can do better?”

The two of them are stretched out on a leather sofa that floats in the middle of the room. An antique jukebox in the corner pumps out a Maroon 5 tune, while Chelsea hip-checks the right side of a pinball machine into submission. The overhead light flashes, sirens wail. She fist-pumps the air. “Take that!”

Matias leans forward to push the reset button on the Xbox. Need for Speed splashes onto the screen, the intro music drowning out a crooning Adam Levine.

“Check this.” Matias's thumbs work in tandem to move a Lamborghini onto the virtual track. “Control. Vision. Determination. These are the fundamental components of a race car dri—”