Overdrive (6 page)

At the DeLorean, he freezes. “
That
is an exact replica of the
Back to the Future
car.”

“It's not a replica,” Roger says.

It's almost adorable the way Nick gasps. Almost.

We catch up to Mat and Chelsea on the third floor. I don't know what I expected—
a gold-plated Rolls Royce?
—but I'm flush with disappointment. A dozen or so ordinary cars are parked in two neat rows. A Civic, two Corollas, even a minivan.

Chelsea raises an eyebrow. “Scraping the bottom of the barrel here, Rog.”

He tenses. “They have their purpose.”

I cough out a laugh. “What? Distraction from the real goods?”

But the smile dies when my eyes land on a midnight-blue RX-8. The right bumper is smashed in and a long scrape follows the length of the door. Mud cakes the wheel wells. My gut tells me this is the same RX I stole. The one that landed me in cuffs.

Bile rises and burns my esophagus.

I force calm even though everything within me writhes with rage. “Guess the joke's on me.”

The fucking bastard set me up.

“Julia—”

The patronizing tone of his voice makes me snap. I whirl on him, my hands balled into fists. “You baited me!”

He jumps back as I lunge and I narrowly miss slamming my knuckles into his nose. Nick grabs me around the waist and lifts me off the ground. I kick and scream at the air.

His breath whispers against my ear. “Easy, girl.”

But I'm too far gone to listen. I squirm until I break free and shout. “Asshole!” I don't even know if it's directed at Roger or Nick.

Roger raises his hand in mock surrender. “I paid for the car so the owner wouldn't press charges,” he says. “That's the truth. I had to store it somewhere. I'm sorry, I should have told you.”

“Bullshit,” I say. “You set me up. You set all of us up.”

“I know how this looks—”

“Explain,” Nick cuts in. “Now.”

Roger rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe we should—”

“Explain,” Mat repeats.

My body goes limp with relief. I'm fired up enough to do this alone, but having Nick and Mat at my side fuels my confidence.

“This collection is . . .”

I expect Roger to say something sentimental—important, valuable, noble.

“Incomplete,” he says.

Cold realization washes over me as pieces of the puzzle start clicking into place. Roger doesn't have a soft spot for troubled teens. He has a use for them, and I have a sinking suspicion about why he's brought us here.

Chelsea furrows her brow. “What the hell could be missing?”

“Seven cars,” Roger says, with a matter-of-factness that twists my guts into knots. Fuck me. I know I'm right. “And I must have them.”

“Better our asses than yours, right?” I quip.

Chelsea gasps. “You can't possibly think that Roger—”

“Wants us to steal those cars for him?” I snort in disgust. “That's exactly his plan.”

Any hope that I'm wrong disappears when his expression transforms into something cruel. “It's not like any of this is new to you. You're already criminals.”

Son of a freaking bitch. Anger threads its way into my vocal cords, turning my voice into a high-pitched squeak of denial. “Are you a fucking lunatic?”

A web of emotion wraps around me so tight I can't even talk. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. “Don't you guys see what Roger's doing?” I focus on Mat. “He set us up. All of us.”

Chelsea shakes her head. “No, I—”

My patience snaps. “For fuck's sake, Chelsea, look around you!”

Roger claps his hands in some kind of kindergarten classroom management tactic. His voice rises. “Everyone calm down and listen to me.”

“So you can keep lying to us?” I square my shoulders. “What could you possibly offer?”

Roger slides his glasses up against the bridge of his nose. “I have a proposal.”

“A WHAT?” JESUS. NOW I'VE
heard everything. I fold my arms across my chest. “Fuck you.”

Chelsea grabs my wrist and yanks me toward her. “Jules, stop!”

With my suspicions confirmed, I've speed-shifted from fear to anger and Chelsea's pathetic attempts at Zen are only adding fuel.

“Everyone calm down. Come with me,” Roger says. He leads us to the former break room and motions to a small table. A dusty soda machine hums in the corner. “Sit. Take a breath.”

Not a chance. “I'll stand.”

Mat flips around a chair to straddle it while Chelsea saunters over to the soda machine. A Diet Coke
clunk-thunks
into her palm. She flicks the tab and takes a long swig as she makes her way over to a chair opposite Roger at the table. Gross. That shit's probably stale.

To my surprise, Nick inches closer. “Relax,” he says through the corner of his mouth.

Easier said than done. One look at the RX in the corner and my pulse surges again.

“Is this where you threaten us?” I say, looking at Roger. Ignoring Chelsea's sharp intake of breath, I flare my nostrils and keep going. “Tell us that unless we steal those cars for you, we're back on the streets—or worse?”

I was joking about him being a sociopath before, but now I'm not so sure.

Chelsea taps her fingernails on the table. “Can we just listen to what he has to say before we overreact?”

“Overreact?” I say with a huff. “That's rich.” I point at Mat. “You're a hacker, right? That's what you and Chelsea were talking about before with all that wind interference stuff.” At his nod, I turn to Chelsea. “And your skill? Something to do with locks . . .”

She shrugs. “I might have broken into a few warehouses.”

“Don't be so modest,” Mat says. “You could probably win the Olympics of lock picking,
chica
.”

Chelsea's eyes widen. “Wait, I could compete?”

Frustration gnaws away at me. A lock picker, a computer hacker, and a booster. Tight team, and I haven't even gotten to Nick. I jab him in the chest. “Let me guess, you're the muscle?”

His eyebrows arch. “Car thief,” he says. He flicks his lip piercing with his tongue and smirks. “That's right, princess. You and I are the same. Except I don't come with my own street name . . .”

A cold sweat breaks out along the nape of my neck. I squeeze my eyes closed to block Nick's voice, silently begging him to shut up, to just shut the fuck up. But of course he doesn't and before I can interject, the word
Ghost
oozes from his lips like a contagious disease.

Mat grins. “Spooky.”

“She's a fucking legend,” Nick says. “What is it, Jules, forty cars?”

Again, forty-three, but who's counting?

Mat lets out a low whistle.

“Enough,” Roger says. “Now that we've laid our cards on the table—”

I'm mad enough to blow a gasket. “Not all of us.”

Roger leans forward and sets his clasped hands on the table. “Further to my proposition. The Trophy Case is missing seven cars. And I need them.”

Mat shifts a little in his seat. “So buy them. It's not like you don't have the money.”

Roger grimaces. “Unfortunately, these vehicles are not for sale.”

Everyone's being so nonchalant, it makes my blood curdle. Don't they all see how fucked we are? Roger is a pillar of the community. A damn saint.

My patience snaps. “What's in it for us?” All eyes land on me and I shrug. I've had enough of the veiled kindness and underlying threats. We're just spinning our wheels here. “What? He's obviously got a plan.”

“If you're successful in obtaining—”

“Stealing.”

Roger glosses over it. “—all of the cars, then you may consider my home yours for as long as you wish.”

“That's very generous of you,” Chelsea says.

I shoot her a glare. “Are you kidding me?”

“Well, it is.”

Mat silences my response with a look. “Let him finish.”

“If you choose to move out, your basic needs—housing, education, et cetera—will be taken care of. Indefinitely.” His eyes meet mine. “That includes Emma.”

My throat clogs up like I'm guzzling motor oil. No way in hell he's dragging my sister into this.

“I know you're frustrated,” Roger says to me.

“Try pissed.”

He spreads his thumbs wide in acknowledgment. “Fine. But if you look at it as a business transaction . . .”

Chelsea picks at a piece of lint on her shirt and flicks it onto the floor. “Why not just hire a couple of thugs?”

“I'm afraid that route didn't pan out for me,” he says. “And each of you was selected for a particular skill set.”

Not to mention the convenient cover of housing a crew of orphans. I can't hold back a snort of disgust. “Are we supposed to take that as a compliment?” My eyes flick back to the RX and my temper spikes. Good. Anger keeps me on my toes. I get stupid when I go soft. “News flash: Blackmailing us isn't cool. It's sick.”

It's also kind of genius.

Roger scans each of our faces. “Do you all feel this way?” After a brief silence, he blows out a deep breath. “I see.” He unhooks his fingers and lays his palms flat on the table. “I'm really not a bad man. Of course, you can reject my offer—without consequence.”

I scoff. “Funny how you give us the illusion of choice.”

The look on his face tells me I'm right. My skin prickles.

“True. If you refuse my proposal, I will simply kill you all and start over.”

Roger starts laughing before I can get the gasp out. He slaps his palm against his chest, and chuckles. “I'm sorry. That was in poor taste.” He wipes his eyes. “Of course no harm will come to any of you, regardless of your decision.”

“But we'll be of no use to you,” Mat says.

“When you turn eighteen, you'll be expected to move out, as per normal foster care arrangements.”

Right. Except that none of this is normal.

“Once you've considered all of the factors, I'm sure you'll find my proposition intriguing,” he says.

“What cars are on the list?” Nick says.

A sly smile tugs on the ends of Roger's mustache. “I'm afraid that's classified information until you've agreed to the terms.” He fixes his gaze on me. “I'm truly looking out for your best interests. Even Emma's. None of us would want anything to happen to little Ems. It's such a cruel world.”

My temperature spikes. I lunge forward, fist clenched. “You hurt her and I swear . . .”

Nick grabs my wrist, spins me around. My body slams into his chest. I punch him once, twice, over and over. I can't stop. He wraps his arms tighter around me until my awkward struggle ends in a whimper of defeat.

There's no turning back from this—Roger has dead-ended us.

Nick runs his hand over the back of my head. I bury into him, soaking up the warmth, desperate for a split second of normalcy. Even in this terrifying moment of clarity, there's something about the way Nick holds me that feels so . . . right. I'm not ready to let go.

“We won't let anything happen to Ems.”

“Dear God, no.” Roger feigns shock. “My apologies if I gave you that impression.”

The depth of Roger's scheming astonishes me. I shouldn't be surprised—I knew there was something off about him. But this level of maliciousness? I had no idea. I unwind from Nick's hold and wipe my eyes before turning around. The smug expression on Roger's face makes me want to vomit.

He stands, tucks his chair back under the table, and adjusts his fedora, his vest, straightens his glasses. “Such a delightful little girl.”

“So, how would this work?” Chelsea says. “I mean, if we decide to do this, what happens next?”

Roger smiles. “Once you've all made a decision, I'll provide you with the necessary details and tools.”

Mat leans back in his chair. “And if not all of us are in?”

“That's not ideal, but I suppose we could come to some sort of arrangement,” Roger says. “However, I'd advise each of you to consider my offer carefully—and quickly. I'm not a patient man.”

IT'S SQUID. MAYBE OCTOPUS. HELL
if I can tell. Either way, it's not going in my mouth. If the stench alone doesn't make me gag, the texture will finish the job.

Nick's lips twist. “It doesn't bite.”

I give him the evil side-eye and I push my plate forward. “Yeah, well, me either.”

He shoves a forkful of the shit between his lips and makes a scene out of chewing. Up-
crunch
-down-
slurp
-up. Gag. A ball of vomit inches its way up my esophagus. Beside me, Emma pokes at her appetizer with a fork. I form a crooked smile of sympathy. “Not your thing either, huh?”

A flush of red creeps up the side of her neck. She drops her voice. “What is it?”

“Octopus,” Roger says. He sits upright and slices off a piece of the meat for himself. My vomit ball swells, almost choking me now. “I would like for you to at least try it, please.” My sister screws up her face with disgust. Roger isn't fazed. “It's a delicacy, Emma. Some people say it tastes just like chicken.”

Sure, if chicken's made of rubber.

She leans forward and sniffs. “It smells funny.”

Which is part of the reason I won't touch it. Fish, the odd shrimp—only if I'm desperate. I draw the line at tentacles. My taste buds are so far from adventurous, they're basically prudes.

Across from me, Chelsea dips a piece of octopus in a cream-colored sauce and stuffs it into her mouth. My breath tastes like bile. She chews-chews-chews for an eternity, swallows, and then opens wide to reveal a black beaded tongue piercing.

Emma is mesmerized.