Overdrive (15 page)

“We've got this.”

I wish I felt more confident, or knew how Nick was doing. He should be done by now.

His voice cuts through the tension. “The key's not here. It was right fuc–” He breathes out a sigh. “Never mind. Got it. Jules, be ready.”

On cue, I pop open the door. “See you at Reggie's house.”

“Drive slow,” Chelsea says. “Don't draw attention to yourselves.”

I'm learning that Chelsea's panic sometimes turns her into a bit of a know-it-all. “Got it.”

I hit the street just as Nick backs out of the garage. The winged Corvette door lifts with a soft hiss. The car's distinct coloring stands out under the streetlight–deep blue body paint that fades to gray. Easy to see how it was inspired by the sleek mako shark.

“Much nicer up close,” I say, hopping into the seat. The door lowers and I buckle up. My eyes land on the shifter and I realize the Mako's an automatic. “Or not,” I say. “What good is a sports car if you can't shift it into gear?”

Nick pulls out onto the street and makes a slow left turn. “That's not my only problem with this thing.”

I roll down the window to listen to the engine noise. Obviously the car's a collectible, but I guess I understand why it's not always recognized as a muscle car. It's missing that earthy rumble, that angry growl that tells everyone to back off. Without it, my pulse is steady. Like we haven't just stolen an expensive concept car, but are cruising urban Las Vegas in a Pontiac Sunfire.

“Chelsea wanted to remind us not to attract any attention.”

He snorts. “This car's a gawker magnet.”

The point is driven home at the first set of lights. We pull up next to a black sedan. The driver rolls down his tinted window. Heavy bass thumps into the street. “Nice car.”

I pretend not to notice.

The music fades. “Hey, I said . . . nice wheels.”

I muster a weak smile and look over. Jesus. It's like the guy stepped straight out of the downtown Mob Museum. Gray and white pinstripe suit, tilted gangster hat, cigar hanging from his lips–he's a wannabe Al Capone. My creeper radar shifts into overdrive.

“Thanks,” I say loudly, nodding with enthusiasm. My smile is as fake as his toupee. To Nick I say, “We have a fan.”

I press my back into the seat and Nick leans forward. His jaw tightens. “Shit.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “You know this guy?”

“Something like that.”

The light turns green. I expect Nick to hit the gas and get us out of here, but he pulls in behind the sedan instead. His pained expression tells me we're not hitting up the 7-Eleven for a Slurpee.

MY LUNGS FILL WITH AIR.
“what's going on?”

Nick grips the steering wheel so tight his biceps flex. He stares ahead, his jaw like chiseled stone. “I'll handle it.”

What does that mean? Handle what?

He pulls into a parking lot and cuts the engine, leaving the keys dangling in the ignition. The Al Capone guy gets out of the sedan and leans up against the door, lights a cigar. White smoke drifts into the streetlight. It's all so damned cliché.

I'm struck with realization. “That's Riley, isn't it?”

Nick stretches across me and locks the passenger door. His hand brushes against my hip, stays there a little too long. “Roll up the window and stay here,” he says under his breath. “Keep your eyes open.”

Right. Eyes open.

What the hell am I looking for?

Across the parking lot, a drunken bride and her tattooed groom spill out of the small wedding chapel that's wedged between a pawnshop and a twenty-four-hour liquor store. A burly guy on a Harley raises an oversize beer can and gives me a toothless grin.

Nick gets out of the car.

He's not even gone two seconds when my heartbeat picks up speed. I drop open the glove box looking for something–anything–I could use as a weapon, but all I find is a busted pair of Ray-Bans and a couple of poker chips.

The two fist-bump like old friends.

“Shit, Riley, thought you were never getting out,” Nick says.

The seconds tick by with agonizing slowness. The longer we loiter in public view, the stronger our chances of getting caught. I should slide over into the driver's side, fire up the engine, and peel out of the parking lot. Nick's a big boy–he can handle himself.

I rub my hands over my face to rebalance my equilibrium. As if I could leave him behind.

A high-pitched squeal pulls my focus left. The bride now lies on the pavement with her wedding gown up around her thighs. Her groom hovers over her, hand outstretched like he wants to help, but they're both doubled over in laughter.

Probably drunk.

Riley's low chuckle reverberates through the window and sinks into my gut. “Fuckers let me out.” He blows out a puff of smoke and nudges his head toward the car. “Yours?”

Nick rubs the back of his neck. His T-shirt slides up enough to reveal the taut V where his stomach and pelvis meet. I can't help it–my eyes are drawn there. A bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades.

He glances over at the 'Vette likes it's no big deal. “Just a junker I'm working on for a friend.”

My concern blooms into anger. Guys like Riley don't fall for BS like that.

Riley cranes his neck to get a better view. “That your friend?”

The dude on the Harley gives me thumbs-up as he passes, the
rumble-spit-rumble
of his engine drowning out Nick's response. Tension steams like an overheating radiator.

Riley takes another drag, then flicks the cigar onto the pavement and stomps out the glowing end with the heel of his shoe. “I'd hate to think you were back to boosting, Nicky–for someone else.”

Oh man. We are so screwed.

Nick shoves his hands in his pockets. “Just some small-time shit here and there.” He kicks at the pavement and a pebble pings off the Mako Shark's hubcap. “You still running the same crew?”

“Your spot's vacant.” Riley gives Nick a Cheshire Cat grin. “Yeah, I know, you're out. It's okay to keep your options open though–you wouldn't be the first to come back.”

As if on cue, the passenger window of the sedan rolls down and a hand reaches out to wave. My stomach flips end-over-end like it's catching air. There's something eerily familiar about it–the oversize ring on the index finger, the black sleeve of a weathered leather coat . . .

My heart jams on the brakes.

No. It can't be . . .

Nick's face splits into a grin. “Shit. How's it going, Kev?”

Fuck me, it is.

My smarmy ex climbs out of the car and right back into my life. Sunken eyes, scraggly hair. I choke on a gag and slink lower in the seat. He locks arms with Nick in a far-too-brotherly handshake.

Realization guts me–Kevin and Nick
know
each other.

Boosted cars together.

Heat circles my neck like a noose. I gather my hair into a ponytail and tuck it under my hoodie. Sink farther down in the seat.

Not subtle enough. Kevin spots me.

He sticks his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans and ducks low, peering through the Corvette's front window. One heel lifts off the ground. His beady eyes zero in on me while his lips curl into a sneer of disbelief.

“Well, holy shit.” He swaggers toward me and revulsion pools on the tip of my tongue. I can't believe I ever had sex with this loser. He touches his lips, acts coy. “I never thought I'd see you again.”

“I'm not that lucky.”

He laughs like I'm joking. “Seriously, girlfriend, I heard you got pinched.”

“No thanks to you, dickhead.”

Nick tilts his head with confusion. “You two know each other?”

“Jules and I go way back.”

My face goes hot with embarrassment.

“She's with me now,” Nick says. He sounds so sincere I almost believe it.

“All good, bro.” Kevin double-thumps the 'Vette's hood with his palms. “I'm done with her anyway. Gotta admit, I'm surprised to see you together. You know who she is, right?”

Nick's hands ball into fists by his sides. His jaw jerks. “It was good seeing you again, Kev.”

From the corner of my eye, I notice Riley. He cocks his head to the side, another cigar pressed between his lips. Locks his hard stare on me. Smoke floats across his face. I'm rooted to the passenger seat, my hand on the door handle, prepared to bolt. Riley stares me down like a panther ready to pounce. He tips his cigar at me and takes another puff.

“You're like King of Holding Grudges,” Kevin says. He raises a bushy eyebrow. “And I know how much that car meant to you.”

“Like I said, we should be going.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Kevin says with a wide grin that shows off the gaps in his teeth.

A shiver runs up my spine. Air should start flowing again, but it's like the world is closing in around me. Why would Kevin think Nick had a grudge against me? What car?

Kevin backs away from the Corvette, hands up in mock surrender.

Nick climbs into the car and turns over the ignition.

“What the fuck, Nick? Why did you pull over?”

“You think he wouldn't have chased us down?” he says out of the corner of his mouth. “Riley's not the kind of guy you want to dick around with.”

“We could have outrun him.”

“That would have been subtle.”

I fold my arms across my chest. He's right, but I'm still pissed.

Nick puts the car in gear and drives up alongside the sedan. Kevin rolls down the window and gives us the two-finger salute. I think about flipping him off, but Nick's caution raises my own red flags. I'm in no position to instigate a fight I can't finish.

“Maybe we'll see you around sometime,” Nick says.

God, I hope not. But like I said, I'm never that lucky.

Kevin winks. “Count on it. Oh hey, Jules . . . say hi to your little sister for me, will ya? Cute kid. Hate to see anything happen to her.”

Blood rushes through my veins so fast I'm sure one of them will pop. “You stay the fuck away–”

Nick rolls up my window before I can get the rest of the threat out. He peels out of the parking lot, leaving a rooster tail of black smoke in his wake.

I smack my hands on the dash. “Asshole!”

“It's over,” Nick says. “We won't ever see them again.”

“How can you be so sure?” My fear boils over into anger. “He
threatened
Emma.”

Nick flinches. “It's just talk.”

“If that were true, you wouldn't have pulled over.”

Nick avoids my gaze and I know I'm right. I slump back in the seat and close my eyes. It's too much to process. “Shit. What are the chances?”

“It's a small city,” Nick says. “Not a lot of major players. You two were bound to meet sometime.”

It's not what I meant, but my explanation is cut off by Chelsea's panic-stricken voice in the Bluetooth. “Guys? Where the hell are you?”

“We hit a bit of trouble,” I say, side-eying Nick. “We're clear now.”

“Don't be so sure,” Chelsea says.

My stomach flinches with unease. “We're a few blocks out. Be there in eight, maybe ten minutes.”

“Good,” Chelsea says. “Because we've got a serious fucking problem.”

The List

Jack–1970 Dodge Super Bee 426

José–1965 Corvette Mako Shark II

Reggie–1968 Chevy ZL1 Camaro

Adam–1970 Dodge Hemi Coronet R/T

George–1968 Corvette Cosma Ray

James– 1964 Aston Martin DBS

Eleanor–1967 Mustang Shelby GT500

JOSÉ MAY BE A LONER
, but Reggie likes to party.

The prize Camaro is hidden in a garage next to a sprawling bungalow tucked between a cluster of tall trees that barely muffle the sound of music thumping from outdoor speakers. An occasional squeal followed by raucous laughter punctuates the heavy beat.

More than a dozen vehicles line the edge of a long, gravel driveway.

Chelsea chews on her bottom lip. “We got good news and bad news.”

The bad's a no-brainer. Even if we get to the garage undetected, we run the risk of being seen. It's like trying to sprint a marathon in high heels.

“Someone want to tell me how this isn't
all
bad?” Nick says.

Mat adjusts his Red Sox ball cap so the visor rides lower on his forehead. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I ran a scanning program and it looks like the security grid is shut down.”

“Okay . . .” Nick says.

“So the complicated lock Chelsea hasn't figured out yet won't be a problem.”

My mouth goes dry. “Well, that's a relief.”

“But there's a bigger issue,” Chelsea says. “A couple of the cars are parked–”

“In front of the garage,” I finish.

Shit.

“At least two,” Mat says.

The ground vibrates as the music from the party shifts to rap. At least the Camaro's engine noise won't be a concern. “What kinds of cars?”

Chelsea pulls out a camera and focuses on the front of the house. “We figured you'd ask, so we took a peek. Zoomed in on these.”

The Toyota Camry is the fourth most boosted car in the U.S. I can hot-wire that one with my eyes closed. But the second vehicle is newer. Fancier. Some kind of BMW. Which is impossible to steal without a special key fob.

“Maybe we should pull the plug on this,” I say. “Cops might already be looking for José. We should get him home.”

Mat taps the side of his head. “I've been listening to the scanners. Lots of boosts going down tonight, but nothing about the 'Vette yet.”

Nick studies the photo. “Depending on where Reggie is in the garage, I might be able to squeeze him out, but we definitely need to move the Camry.”