Overdrive (10 page)

A dull ache moves into my chest.

I miss it—the rhythm, the routine.

“You didn't have to do that,” I say.

“If I thought I had to, I wouldn't have.”

Emma spots Mat and starts running toward him, waving her new shoes like checkered flags.

Appropriate. Because with this unexpected gesture, Nick has lodged a solid win—with both of us.

  •  •  •  

Emma straps on a helmet and climbs into the red go-kart at Pole Position Raceway. The number two is painted on the side of the door. Her hands grip the steering wheel with steely determination, eyes ahead.

An overhead whistle blares.

She pumps the gas pedal and shoots forward, narrowly missing the car in front of her.

“Not so fast!” I yell over the music that blares through the indoor speakers.

“It's go-karts,” Chelsea says. “Hitting the other drivers is part of the fun.”

She's right, but the second Emma rounds the first corner, disappearing from sight, my nerves become elastic thin. When I finally spot her again, the air leaks from my lips like a deflated balloon.

“Kid can drive,” Chelsea says. “That's how I learned. My dad took me to the track every weekend until I decided shopping and cheerleading were way more fun than doing circles in a car that tops out at ten miles an hour.”

My voice goes quiet. “Why did you do it? I mean . . . you had everything. Why give it up?”

“Attention mostly.”

I can't help it. A tidal wave of resentment washes over me. Emma and I never had much, but we would have given it all up for a fraction of the stability Chelsea took for granted.

“That makes me sound like a brat, doesn't it?”

“Yes.” My lips press into a firm line as I struggle for composure.

“You don't know my life, Jules.” She shakes her head. “Forget it. I don't expect you to understand.”

Emma whirls around the track again, calling out my name. I look over and wave. Distracted, Emma crashes into the back end of another car and pitches forward. The seatbelt snaps her back in place.

I spot Nick and Mat weaving their way through the crowded tables, trays loaded up with burgers, fries, and milkshakes. I'm grateful for the distraction. Something tells me Chelsea and I will never see eye-to-eye.

Nick plops one of the trays in front of me. “Double cheese, no pickles, onions, or tomatoes.” He pauses. “So basically, just ketchup.”

Mat puts his hand to his forehead and scans the track. “Ems still driving?”

“Nothing's getting her away from that car,” Chelsea says.

“Not even this chocolate raspberry shake?”

I laugh. “Not even that.”

Which is probably a good thing, since we're about to start planning our first boost—the 1970 Dodge Super Bee 426 Hemi Fastback.

“Say that five times fast,” Chelsea says.

Mat searches for a picture of the car on his phone and turns the screen so Chelsea and I can take a better look. It's an aggressive beast—long body, short back end. A black stripe wraps around the tail.

Mat zooms in on the logo, a cartoon bumblebee with wheels wearing a helmet and goggles.

“Dodge only made a limited number of this model, less than one hundred,” Nick says. “The old Hemi engines weren't known for running cool or getting good mileage.”

Chelsea squints at the image with a frown. “It's ugly.”

Nick chokes on his milkshake. “Blasphemy.” He grabs Mat's phone and starts scrolling through pictures in an attempt to find the car's best angle. Finally, he gives up. “Wait until you see it up close. You'll change your mind.”

Mat pulls up a YouTube video of an idling Super Bee. Even over the buzzing background noise of the go-karts, the Dodge engine lets out a roar.

I cringe. “Holy shit, that's loud.”

That's the thing about muscle cars. They don't slide out of garages and warehouses—they charge like a bull, sputtering up a smoke show in their wake. That rumble might as well be a catcall to the cops.

Nick bites into his burger. Cheese gushes out the side and splats onto the tray. “Let's call this one Janice.”

Chelsea tilts her head. “Excuse me? We're naming the cars?”

“It's code,” I say. “That way, if we're discussing them, no one listening on the waves knows what we're talking about.”

“Okaayyy.” She still looks skeptical. “Do they need to be girl names?”

“Traditionally,” Mat says. “And these
are
muscle cars. . . .” Chelsea and I shoot him twin glares. He holds up his hand. “All right, all right.
Lo siento.
I'm cool to switch it up. Nick?”

“That would be the safest,” he says.

Chelsea taps her bottom lip. “This looks like a Jack to me.”

“Jack?” I open the notes application in my cell phone and type the name next to the Super Bee. “Good. How about the Mako Shark?”

“José.”

Chelsea arches an eyebrow at Mat. “Jack and José? Sounds like the start to a very good party.”

Nick lifts his milkshake and tilts the cup so the straw points at me. Pink ice cream oozes down the side. “The Camaro has to be Reggie.”

After the previous owner, of course. I type it in.

A high-pitched squeal from the track pulls my focus. Emma's hands strangle the steering wheel as it goes back and forth, trying to wriggle her way out of a cramped corner. The determination on her face is scary—and familiar.

“She's like a mini you,” Nick says.

My hackles raise. “Don't you ever fucking say that.”

The last thing I want is Emma following in
my
footsteps.

Nick's eyes go wide before it seems to sink in, and he puts his hand over my wrist. “Shit, Jules. I meant it as a compliment.”

I turn back to the list, embarrassed at my outburst. “All good,” I mumble.

“Okay then,” Chelsea says, always good at shifting moods. “Let's go with Adam for the Coronet. Sexy name for a sexy car.”

“You may want to revisit that,” Mat says. He Google searches an image and flips the screen around to show us. Chelsea scowls. “Gross.”

“Yeah, it's pretty much the ugly duckling of the muscle car world,” Nick says. “They tried to pretty it up by making it available in all kinds of colors—Sublime, Banana, Hemi-Orange . . .”

“Please, God, tell me Roger wants Banana,” Mat says.

I shake my head. “Plum Crazy Purple.”

He rolls his eyes. “Figures. The guy's nuts.”

“Moving on to the Cosma Ray,” I say, before Chelsea can ask to rename the Coronet now that she realizes it's not worthy of her rock star crush's namesake. “It's one of Barris's. How about George?”

Mat gives me a thumbs-up. “Nice one.”

“James for the Aston Martin,” Nick says. “As in James . . . Bond.”

“Someone woke up on the right side of the bed,” Chelsea says, nudging Nick's shoulder.

A heaviness settles in my chest as I stare at the last car on the list—the 1967 Shelby GT500, previously owned by Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors. Naming the car is one thing, that's the easy part—but it means nothing if we can't track it down.

“The obvious choice is Jim,” I say.

Chelsea's eyes light up. “Jack, José, Jim—talk about a few good men!”

“According to the legend, Morrison didn't even like the car,” Nick says. “It was a gift from his record label. There's a couple of versions of the story, but the gist of it is that he crashed the Shelby on the way to a gig. Instead of calling the cops, he hitched a cab ride to his show. A couple of hours later he came back for the car—gonzo. No one's seen it since.”

The reality of the situation sets in. “Guys, there's no way we can pull this off.”

Mat finishes off his shake and tosses the cup into a garbage can. “You're underestimating my mad tracking skills, Jules.”

I muster an apologetic smile but doubt lingers in the pit of my stomach. The car's been MIA for more than two decades—and we've got seven weeks to track it down. There is nothing good about those odds.

“Since that's the most important car, I vote for a female name,” Chelsea says.

Nick and I exchange knowing glances before simultaneously blurting out, “Eleanor.”

It's the name of the famous Shelby from the movie
Gone In 60 Seconds
. It shouldn't surprise me that Nick and I would be in sync, but it kind of does.

He smiles. It's a beautiful smile. The kind that burrows its way under my skin and sucker-punches me right in the chest.

Mat crumples his empty burger wrapper into a ball and fires it at the garbage can. It circles the rim and plops in.

“Luck,” Nick quips.

“Skill,
cabrón
.”

He grabs a laptop from his messenger bag and flips open the screen.

Chelsea shuffles closer to him. “Whatcha doin'?”

His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Research. This place is close enough to the Strip that I can log into the public Wi-Fi. It's one of the few spots around with a fiber connection that gives me enough gigabyte speed to . . .”

He glances up, notices that we're staring at him with confusion, and chuckles. “Forget it. All you need to know is that I'm tracking down our first target.”

Emma's voice carries over the racetrack. “Jules! Nick! Come race with me.”

“Not a chance,” I call back.

“Afraid you'll lose?” Nick taunts. His eyes get that mischievous glint that causes my stomach to flutter.

“Whoa,” Chelsea says, joining in on the teasing. “You're not going to take that, are you?”

“Jesus, Jules, you look scared,” Mat adds. “You're as white as a gh—”

“For fuck's sake, you guys.” I'm trying hard not to laugh. “Enough with the stupid ghost cracks.”

Nick shrugs. “Sorry, Jules. You're just so . . . transparent.”

I shove my tray of untouched food aside and stand. “You prepared to put a wager on this challenge, hotshot?”

“Race you to the starting line.” Nick grins, then darts away.

I take off after him, pushing my way through the crowd of people gathered around the entrance. People file out from their go-karts. I catch sight of Emma and wave her over.

Her face is flushed.

“Is Nick coming too?”

I glance over to find him already strapped into the number three car. Emma reclaims the two. Across the track, I find the empty number one and jump inside. Fasten the helmet.

A jolt from behind nudges the car forward.

“You're too late, Barker,” I say, without even looking back at Nick. An unfamiliar warmth unfurls inside me, and a smile creeps into the corners of my mouth—I'm surprised at how easy, how comfortable this all is. “See the number on this car? Read it and weep, my friend.”

He idles up next to me and winks. “Hey, Ghost . . . watch me disappear.”

A GIANT FLAT-SCREEN LOWERS FROM
the ceiling in the games room. Nick hits the lights while an oversize picture of a blue and black Super Bee rocks into focus. I refer to the list on my phone: This is Jack.

Chelsea screws up her face. No question she'd be happier stealing Rolls Royces and Audis—which is just another reminder she's out of her element. All the gadgets in the world can't net us those high-end rides.

Mat grabs a cue from the rack next to the pool table and uses it like a pointer stick, tapping the screen. “Ladies, meet Jack.” Using a remote clicker, he flicks through a series of photographs while providing voice-over commentary in a low, game-show-host tone. “True, he's not the most handsome guy on the lot, but he makes up for it in power and speed.”

Nick clears his throat. “Not compared to today's hot rods, but he can still push zero to sixty in just over five seconds—with the right driver.”

Our eyes lock in silent challenge.

“It's a four speed,” I say. “Manual transmission.” Nick lifts an eyebrow and I shrug, feigning nonchalance. Truth is, I've done some of my own research. “I know how to work a stick.”

Mat shakes his hand. “Aychiwawa.” Turning back to the screen, he points to the front of the car. “This beauty right here is called a looped bumper—often referred to as the car's bumble bee wings.”

“Aw, now you're just showing off,” Chelsea says. Mat ducks to avoid a piece of popcorn she lobs at him. “Okay, I'm sold on Jack's profile pic. Tell me how to get this stud muffin home.”

My neck tightens and I roll it from side to side.

Mat clicks through to the next picture. “Well, you're in luck because your guy is here”—he nudges his chin toward an enlarged image of a modest clay house with a well-manicured front yard—“at the home of Grant Danvers, an entrepreneur by day, showgirl ogler by night.”

Chelsea's mouth gapes. “You found that out by logging into the DMV?”

“This is the age of social media,
chica
,” he says. “Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter—Danvers is fully connected.”

To emphasize the point, he forwards to a screenshot of a Facebook profile and a recent status update.

“‘Show me the titties,'” I read aloud. “Classy.”

Chelsea grunts. “God. He's not even good-looking.”

“Where's this loser live?” Nick says.

“East Flamingo Road.” Mat splits the screen—a map of Vegas on one side, the Danvers house on the other. “He keeps the car in the driveway—which, as you can see, is surrounded by some serious fencing.”

Thick, yes, but not impenetrable.

“Unfortunately,” Mat says, side-eyeing Chelsea, “I couldn't zoom in close enough to figure out the lock system on the gate.”

I chew on my lower lip. “Nick and I can focus on that when we scout the car.”

Chelsea hops off her stool and stoops to grab a six-pack of Coke from the mini-fridge. “Can we talk about getting diet soda down here?”