Overdrive (12 page)

Mat's pictures of the Super Bee don't do Jack justice. Chelsea may not be impressed, but I'd take him home in a heartbeat. Polished chrome, freshly waxed paint—superficial restoration, if any at all. I note the clean tires. “Doesn't look like Danvers drives it much.”

“He wouldn't in this heat,” Nick says. “Those old fuel pumps can't hack these temperatures. The gas gets so hot it can boil and the car surges from fuel starvation. Not exactly a show stopper.”

“It's amazing what your brain retains,” I say with a shy smile.

“I'm more than just a pretty face, you know.”

He takes my hand, and I stare at our interlocked fingers as sweat beads between my shoulder blades. I know it's just part of the charade—a young couple out for a walk—but my insides twist.

Nick mistakes the tremble of my hand for nerves. “Relax, doll. We're just out taking some pictures. Nothing illegal in that.”

Yet.

I flick on my Bluetooth and with a free hand, adjust the mic. Mat's voice crackles through the line. “
Buenas noches
, kiddos. What's happening?”

“Just getting acquainted with Jack,” I say. “Dude's got game.”

“No friends?”

He means Danvers. My eyes scan the house windows—curtains closed, lights out.
Show me the titties,
I remember. “Nah, Jack's buddies dipped.”

Nick slips a small digital camera from the front pocket of his leather jacket and tucks it into his palm. The gadget looks like a regular point and shoot, but Mat says the macro lens will zoom in on the finer details Chelsea needs to figure out the locking device.

Nick drops my hand and starts snapping pics while Mat fires off a list of required angles and a few bonus shots that include random images of the property.

“There's a sign in his front window,” I say. “Think it's a security company.”

Mat chuckles. “It's just for show. I hacked into their client list. The guy hasn't paid his bill in over a year, so they cut him off.”

Excellent.

Nick slides the camera back into his pocket and does up the zipper. Gives me the nod, as if to say,
We're good to go.

Taking the cue, I speak into the Bluetooth. “All done here. We'll just say bye to Jack and—”

Nick spins me into his arms. He pulls me against chest and whispers low in my ear. “Police.” His heart thumps. Or maybe it's mine—ours. I'm so jacked up, it's hard to tell.

Headlights creep toward us in slow motion.

One of Nick's hands moves to my waist, the other to the back of my neck. He tilts my head up and our eyes connect. I shift my gaze to his lips.

Everything else fades into the background.

My head lifts toward his and he answers with a downward tilt toward mine. My eyes close. His breath is hot. I stand on tiptoes, closing the distance between us. Fuck it. I don't care if it's fake, I'm kissing him.

Our lips brush—

“Jules.”

His voice is a sharp whisper.

Shhhh. No talking.

“Jules?”

My eyes open. I blink, disoriented and confused. A flush of embarrassment crawls up my neck.

A smile plays in the corner of Nick's mouth. He jerks his head back. “They're gone. Let's roll.”

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

CHELSEA'S VIOLET WIG GLOWS LAVENDER
under the dim streetlight. She tugs her hoodie up and pulls three small metal objects from the back pocket of her severely baggy jeans. For the first time since we met, I see a bit of the street kid behind the glamour–even if it's just a front.

She hands me something that looks like an Allen key, and clenches another item between her lips as her hands wrap around the lock.

“Where'd you learn how to do this?”

“I'm self-taught.” Chelsea taps the side of her head. “It's just problem solving. I look at a lock the way you probably look at a car–you study it, assess it, figure out how to beat it.”

“Or you Google search it,” I quip. “Seriously though–you're good.”

She grins. “But not great. I still got caught.” Her fingers work on the lock. “Check this: There I am, a pick between my teeth and a nail file in my hand, and suddenly . . . cops everywhere. You'd think I was pulling an
Oceans Eleven
the way they swarmed on that warehouse.”

“Must have been some decent shit inside.”

“Beats me. I never got that far.” She snorts. “But, girl, the lock system was
suhweet
. I was so hyped up, I didn't think about things like security cameras.” Her cheeks flush. “Rookie move, I know.”

“No judgment here,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Questionable judgment landed me in cuffs too.”

“It's for the best,” she mumbles.

My skin bristles. “How can you say that? I get that your parents weren't perfect, but don't you miss them?” Ems and I struck out with ours, and my heart sometimes aches with the loss of what should have been. “Unless I'm missing something, they didn't beat or abandon you. You'd rather live in foster care?”

“Maybe the system isn't so bad.”

I huff with disbelief. “We've clearly not hung out in the same foster circles.”

She looks sheepish and I get the sense there's more to her story than she's letting on, but I'm too riled up to ask.

“Fourth and counting,” I say, holding up a hand. “First up, the Joneses–we couldn't keep up with them, or their stupid rules. Round two, old Mrs. Potts and her creepy Hansel and Gretel cabin. The Millers were the worst though.”

She runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “We're not as different as you think.”

“You can't think we're the same?”

She shrugs. “I'm just saying, we've all given up a lot. We do what we have to, to survive.”

The simplicity of her words sets me on edge. Ems and I didn't leave our parents. They left us. We didn't have a choice. But Chelsea wouldn't get that–technically, she's not a throwaway. “If you want to walk a mile in my shoes, you'll need to lose those pretentious heels.”

Her eyes spark and I can tell she's pissed. Okay, maybe I'm acting out, but I can't help it. This hits too close to home.

“Keep an eye out,” she says.

I press my back against the fence so I've got a clear view of the street. It's two in the morning and Danvers has been home for three hours. At one, he peered out his front window, flicked off the lights. That's the last we've seen of him.

“Fuck.” Chelsea spits the small tool into her palm and shakes her head. “Stupid piece of shit–”

I blink in shock. She went from supermodel to truck driver in less than two seconds. Maybe she's madder than I realized.

“Wrong equipment?” I cut in, nervous.

She tilts her head back. “Please.” Then gets back to work. “I broke a fucking nail.”

The tension between us lightens. “Aw, Muffin.”

Her middle finger shoots up, giving me a close-up of her torn nail. It's painted blue and black, the same color as the Super Bee.

After a series of soft clinks and a string of muttered curses, the lock disengages with a loud
clunk
. Chelsea freezes. My eyes flit from the street to the house to the yard and back. At my all clear, she lifts the lock off the gate and tucks it into the front pocket of her hoodie.

“You're up.”

And like an eclipse, Chelsea slips into the shadows as Nick appears under the light. I'm jittery and the pressure on my chest is torturous, but he puts a steadying hand on my shoulder and my nerves settle. “Ready?”

I shake my hands, bounce a little on my feet to loosen up. My arms stretch upward. I twist my hips. Unfurl my fingers. Lean deep.

Nick flicks his tongue across his lip piercing. “Interesting ritual.”

“What? You don't have some kind of routine?”

He winks. “Sure. I just like a little privacy.”

Shit. I can't believe he just made me blush.

The gate creaks under the weight of our hands. We pause, listen. Keep moving forward. It's not just Danvers I'm worried about. He lives on a corner lot, and even though the surrounding homes are dark and still, my senses are on high alert. I don't like surprises.

Surprise!–the neighbor dog needs to take a piss.

Surprise!–nosy Nettie next door has insomnia.

Mat's voice crackles through the Bluetooth. “Clear on our end.”

“Copy that,” I say.

We stoop low and slink toward the Super Bee. Nick caresses the front bumper as I dip beside the driver's-side door. A countdown begins in the back of my head.
Sixty seconds.
That's how long it should take to pull off this boost.

I pull on the handle and the car door clicks open. Nick and I stare at each other through the windows in surprise. Holy shit, it's not even locked.

I wedge the door open and slide onto the bench seat. The vinyl is cool against my thighs. Nick pops open the passenger door and stands guard. I clench a small flashlight between my teeth and duck my head under the steering wheel, looking for the wires.

Forty-one, Mississippi.

My fingers find the opening under the dash and fumble around. Something grazes my thumb, but it's not what I'm looking for.
Thirty, Mississippi.
The fluttering in my stomach picks up speed.

Focus.

Nick leans down and pops his head through the passenger door. I'm sure the same countdown is running through his mind. “You got this?”

My hands shake. The flashlight beam hovers over the ignition.

Twenty, Mississippi.

There's not enough time to hot-wire this car. I dig around in the front of my hoodie and pull out a screwdriver. Nick and I exchange a look before he nods. It's our only option. I jam the Phillips into the ignition and twist.

The car sputters to life. I pump the gas.

Adrenaline surges through me.

Nick slides into the car and pulls the door closed, his face flush. “Keep the fuel going,” he says. “More gas.”

In the rearview, a plume of smoke floats out the back end. I scan the dash–half a tank, less than twenty thousand miles on the tack. Jesus, this car's hardly been driven.

Ten, Mississippi.

We're almost home free.

Mat's voice blasts into the Bluetooth. “Lights on, far end of the house. I repeat, lights on.”

I turn to Nick, wild-eyed. “Danvers is awake.”

“Let's go.”

I slam the car into reverse and step on the gas. Jack jerks, sputters, and threatens to stall out. Fuck. I throw it into neutral.

Nick's voice rises a full octave. “You have to engage the clutch!”

No shit.
His words jumble around in my brain. I try again, but the gear sticks. I can't get it into reverse. My head pounds as I'm reeled back in time. Kevin. The RX-8. No . . .

I manhandle the gearshift.

Hit the gas.

The car lurches forward and my heart rams into my rib cage. Nick's head slams into the dash.

“Fuck, Jules, I thought you knew how to drive a stick.”

I'm scared, but more than that I'm pissed. My voice trembles. “Lay off. I'm not used to the clutch.”
This
clutch. The car's vintage, and every stick is different. Nick knows that.

He slides closer. “I'll drive.”

I look up and see headlights in my rearview just as Chelsea's panic-stricken voice blasts through my earpiece. “Cops, you guys. Cops!”

I'm paralyzed, drowning in déjà vu.

Nick smacks the top of the dashboard and I jolt hard enough to make my neck snap. “Make a decision, Jules.”

The smart thing would be to let Nick drive, but my pride overpowers logic. I square my shoulders, ram the gearshift back, and stomp on the gas. The engine roars. Tires spin. A cloud of exhaust billows out the back end and the scent of burned rubber fills the air.

Nick slaps the dashboard again, once, twice. “Reverse!” he shouts.

The ghost of Kevin mocks me.

Fuck him.

Fuck Nick.

I dig my heel into the clutch, quick-shift down, up, and to the left. The gear pops into place.

A siren wails in the distance.

Nick loses his shit. “The gas, Jules!”

The car bolts backward. I crank the wheel and hit the break, spinning us into a one-eighty so I'm facing forward. Nick grips the door handle so tight the hair on his knuckles stands at attention. “Go, Jules! Go!”

My foot hits the gas pedal like it's weighted down with bricks, and the car bucks through the gate and onto the road so fast I'm sure we'll catch air. I yank the steering wheel left. The tires squeal against the asphalt. In the rearview, I catch sight of Danvers in his boxers running from his front door. His fists shake like some kind of cartoon character.

I shift to third and take a hard right. Sirens grow louder, but I can't tell from where. Nick twists around in his seat.

“Two cars.” His teeth gnash against his lip piercing. “Maybe three blocks back, gaining fast.”

My stomach sinks when I realize I'm leading us into another high-speed chase. A series of shimmering faces move across the windshield–Vanessa, her mouth turned down in disappointment; my sister, her eyes brimming with confusion and tears; Kevin, his lips curled up in an I-told-you-so smirk.

Nick pulls out his cell and puts it on speaker. “Mat, we need a route out of here. Fast.”

“Cutting the street cams and pulling GPS now.”

“I won't blame you if you want to jump,” I say to Nick. It's my fault the cops are on us. I lost track of the count, couldn't get the car into reverse.