Overdrive (7 page)

Yeah, I get it, Chelsea is way cooler than me.

It bugs me, even though Emma's impression of her new foster sister should be the least of my concerns right now. We've got twenty-four hours to consider Roger's proposal and, after spending the day weighing the pros and cons, I'm no closer to a decision.

Roger
tsks
at Chelsea, then points his fork at my sister. “There is nothing wrong with widening your palette, young lady.”

Ems and I gave up
widening our palettes
long before we hit the foster system. Even when Mom gave a shit, she was hardly a gourmet. Back then I was ballerina-waiflike thin. Agile and liftable, but pretty much a preteen walking dead. Guess it's not so hard to see how I transformed from ballerina into Ghost, though, since I was basically a skeleton.

Roger stops eating, sets his knife and fork on either side of his plate, and stares at Ems. Waiting. Her eyes flit nervously toward me, then back to the rubbery blob on her plate. Small hives dot behind her ear. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Roger says. The softness of his tone masks expectation and underlying annoyance. “It is considered rude not to at least try what our chef has prepared.”

Screw it.

I'd rather suffer Roger's wrath than watch my sister go into a full-on anxiety attack.

“Ems, you do
not
have to eat that,” I say firmly.

“Course she doesn't,” Mat says.

He shoves a piece of octopus in his mouth and my stomach lurches. His cheeks puff out and his eyes grow wide and bulgy with an exaggerated expression of mock disgust that sends Ems into a fit of giggles. By the time he swallows—his Adam's apple sliding up and down his throat—there's a piece of the shit on the end of Emma's fork, hovering in front of her lips.

“You can do it, homegirl,” he says, encouraging.

Emma glows under the attention. She pinches the bridge of her nose, opens her mouth, and sinks her teeth into a speck of meat about the size of an ant. Even still, my stomach roils.

Emma swallows fast and shudders, her entire body vibrating with disgust. “It does
not
taste like chicken.” She sticks out her tongue and waves her hand back and forth with exaggeration. Her theatrics are met with a muted chorus of chuckles.

I hand her a glass of water. “Dramatic much?”

Truth is, it's nice to see her be a little kid again. I know it's partly my fault she's had to grow up so quickly.

“Drama must run in the family,” Nick says.

I whip my head around to glare at him. I thought we'd made headway last night at the Trophy Case, but clearly Nick's reverted back to being an asshole. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“We do not swear at the table,” Roger says.

My face explodes with heat. The air is thick, claustrophobic. I'm a volcano set to erupt, but I can't decide which way to shoot the lava—at Roger for pretending he's suddenly Dad of the Year, or Nick for rocketing straight back to the top of the dick-o-meter.

I toss my napkin onto the table and shove my chair back. My stomach rumbles like a turbocharged Mustang, but I've suddenly lost my appetite.

Nick raises one eyebrow. They're too bushy for his face and I'm almost pissed enough to say so.

“Little worked up over octopus, aren't you?” He flashes a wolfish grin before his teeth disappear into another piece of the grayish rubber. I'm tongue-tied with disgust.

“I don't appreciate being bullied into trying something I know I won't like,” I say, fending off a tidal wave of nausea. Damn, the stuff stinks.

“So you haven't tried it?” Nick says. He tugs on his lip ring with his top teeth while I pretend the motion isn't sexy as hell. It's more than the piercing. There's something about the way he challenges me that really revs my engine. Jesus. I probably need a full team of therapists to analyze that shit. “Seems to me you're just passing random judgment.”

Smoke billows from my ears like my brain's spun a burn-out. He can't be serious. “That's a little like the pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?”

Nick smirks. “Don't you mean white?'

“Uh, maybe we should change the subject,” Chelsea says.

“Perfect,” I say, shoving away my plate of octopus. “Just. Perfect.”

The serving staff files in loaded up with trays of food. I'm sure I'll never get used to it, fancy dinners with real china and a personal waitstaff that tops up my water glass and passes the salt. But as one of them sets a plate of steaming roast beef in front of me, my veins fill with liquid relief. Fuck Nick and his pretention. I'm starving.

Roger tucks a linen napkin into the front of his button-up and lifts his fork and knife. “Did you find some new clothes at the mall, Emma?”

I freeze. The mall?

My sister stabs into a mountain of mashed potatoes that erupt with butter and stuffs her face. “Sort of. Mr. Grasdal wasn't much help.”

Roger takes a sip of red wine. “We don't talk with our mouths full at the table, young lady.”

Dinner etiquette. This should be entertaining.

Ems swallows.

“You took the butler to the mall?” Chelsea sounds incredulous. “Next time, I'll go with you.”

Emma brightens. “Can we still go in the limousine?”

“I'd rather take that sweet Camaro in the driveway,” Mat says.

Roger's spine stiffens.

“It's a Chevelle,” I say. “Nineteen-seventy.”

“Seventy-one,” Nick counters.

I turn my head to look at him. “Close enough. They're basically identical.”

“Not quite. The grille's different on the seventy-one.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Car Expert.”

A smile plays on his lips. “Just think, I haven't even gotten into the changes under the hood. The improved fuel consumption, faster speed—”

“Go on. I'm mesmerized.”

I'm mostly joking, but there is something hot about the way Nick knows cars. Not in a douchey way like Kevin. Scratch that, Kevin faked it. Nick may be a jerk, but he's not trying to be someone he's not. I can respect that.

“All right, cool it you two,” Chelsea says. “I don't know what you're both getting worked up over. It's just a car.”

“A sweet car,” Mat says under his breath. “How come it's in the driveway and not at—”

Roger cuts him off with a sharp look of warning. “It was my wife's, a gift on our twentieth wedding anniversary.”

I trace the gold rim of my fancy dinner plate. “A car like that should be in the garage, at least. Want me to park it for you?”

Roger leans back in his chair. “The garage is off-limits.” He pins me with a look that says he knows what I'm thinking. Interesting. I'm always up for a challenge. “It's my one rule. Break it, and there
will
be consequences.”

Tough talk. Too bad I'm immune to Roger's thinly veiled threats.

  •  •  •  

I fold the thick duvet around my sister's body and pat it until she's tucked into a cotton cocoon. She wriggles free and bats away the strands of hair stuck to her forehead. “Jules, you're suffocating me.”

“I'm protecting you from the monsters under the bed.”

She rolls her eyes. “I'm not six.”

No, my little sister is growing up fast. Too fast. I inch my way to the edge of the bed and study her face. Her skin is clear of the hives that alert me to when she's scared or on the verge of an anxiety attack.

“You're feeling okay?”

“I like it here,” she says.

The simplicity of her words dig deep. Emma has suffered anxiety since our parents abandoned us. None of our fosters took it seriously, even though they were part of the problem.

Stability.

The doctors tell me that's the cure.

I tap the tip of her button nose. “You just have a crush on Mat.”

Her eyes widen. “I do not!” But then her dimples become craters as a slow smile creeps across her face. Something about that grin makes my heart hurt—it's when she most looks like our mother. I hate that her happiness brings out a memory of someone I despise so much.

“Okay,” she concedes, “he
is
cute.”

“And old.”

She burrows deeper under the covers. “Not too old for you.”

“I definitely do not have a crush on Mat.”

“Because you like Nick.”

My breath hitches. “Emma!”

She's obviously off base. Nick is obnoxious and pompous and completely unpredictable. A total dick. His attitude toward me changes so fast I could get whiplash if I let myself dwell on it. Which, of course, I don't.

“He's totally not my type.”

She smirks. “You've made questionable choices before.”

I want to believe she's only talking about my ex-boyfriends, but there's an edge to her voice that warns of something else. I look away.

Discarded clothes cover her floor like mini landmines. The towels are bunched into the corner next to an empty laundry hamper. I count three empty soda cans and two bags of chips. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe this is a normal family environment.

“You've got everything you want here,” I say.

Her voice clogs up. “Not everything.”

I'm surprised to see she's almost in tears.

The fissures in my heart spider-web like a cracked windshield in the cold. Emma's crush on Mat, her awe of Chelsea, even hinting of something between me and Nick—they're all symptoms of something much more tangible and raw. A desperate need to belong.

“Julia, you won't go into the garage, right?”

I lick my lips, stalling.

She squeezes my wrist. “Promise me you won't.”

Emma's not trying to be mean, but her words are a clear reminder that she somehow knows I'm responsible for us bouncing from one bad foster home to the next.

Stability.

Family.

I want that too.

But how do I tell her this isn't the right place?

I can't. Not without spilling the whole truth. Which leaves us at a standstill, because I won't let her see that side of me. And so for now, she'll go on believing that this can work. And why wouldn't she? Piece by strategic piece, Roger has given my sister the illusion that we
can
be a family. Dysfunctional as it may be.

What Emma doesn't realize, what she may never know, is that the bastard is in a far better position to tear us apart.

CHELSEA STRETCHES ACROSS MY BED
on her stomach, ankles crossed as she thumbs through a magazine. It's not her normal
Vogue
, but something on surveillance with tech gadgets I know nothing about.

“Let's do it.”

The rest of us stare at her and she shrugs. “It'll be fun. Unless we get caught, obviously. But we won't.”

Fun.
The word settles on my tongue like bad breath. I consider launching into a monologue about morality, but let's face it, I'm no poster child, and that's not really what's holding me back.

Mat whistles low. “Lot of expensive chrome in that warehouse. We're not talking Ford Escorts and RX-8s.” At my wide-eyed expression, he adds, “With respect, Ghost.”

The nickname still makes me squirm. Moving into the mansion was supposed to exorcise that part of my past. In light of Roger's proposition, a resurrection seems imminent.

My heart flutters with a mix of fear and adrenaline.

“I'm not sure we've got the chops to pull off this kind of boost,” Nick says. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, like fully entering my room will concede some kind of truce. “We're not talking low-hanging fruit here.”

At least that's something Nick and I can agree on.

“Beyond my skill set,” I admit.

Morals, fear, and fresh starts aside, I don't have a clue what we're up against. A simple Google search of rare and expensive muscle cars coughed up a hundred or more candidates, and I wouldn't bet our odds on any of them.

“Individually, maybe,” Chelsea says. She bounces her gaze between me and Nick. “But how many cars could you have stolen if you'd had access to a lock-picker or a hacker?”

At least double.

“We're talking top-level security here,” Nick says. “No disrespect, Chelsea, but when it comes down to it, we're all amateurs.”

Mat snorts. “Speak for yourself,
cabrón
. I've cracked some tough databases.”

Chelsea snaps her fingers. “So that's how you passed algebra.”

I slide down onto the floor, using the bed frame as a backrest. My enormous walk-in closet overflows with shit I'll never wear, and the duffel bag stuffed with my basic necessities is still half-packed. No matter what I told Vanessa, Ems and I aren't staying here—this is just a pit stop.

Nick paces like a caged tiger. “I'm out of the life now.”

I offer a weak smile. “Me too.” Or so I thought.

I'm wavering and that sucks. I can't stop thinking about Emma and how being here, even for this short time, has tempered her anxiety. Roger's proposition means a chance of normal for Ems.

Stability.

I owe her that.

“You've got your sister to think about,” Nick says. “Makes sense you'd give it some serious thought. But what's in it for me? I can survive on the streets.”

For a brief, startling few seconds, his ice-blue eyes lock on mine and I see it—unease. A small shred of vulnerability.

Tension radiates off him in waves. “There's no way we can pull this off,” he says.

“Definitely not without the right tools,” Mat says. “I'd need scanners, rerouters, access to a Tor networking site.” He acknowledges my blank stare with a grimace. “Sorry. Tor is software that allows me to post anonymously.”

“Got it,” I say.