Overdrive (11 page)

Nick rolls his eyes. “Tell it to Sugar Daddy Roger.”

She scowls at him, then hands each of us a can before wiggling back onto her seat. “I don't get what we're waiting for. Scouting or whatever. Let's just go get it.”

I crack open the Coke and take a long swig. The bubbles tickle my esophagus. “Too risky.” I wipe the corner of my lip with the heel of my hand. “We need to establish Danvers's routine—we already know he frequents the Strip. How often?”

Mat scrolls through his cell phone. “According to Twitter, three nights a week.”

“Gross,” Chelsea says.

“We also don't know if the car runs,” Nick adds.

I raise my soda in mock toast. “That too.” After a pause, I add, “Or whether it can be hot-wired.”

Chelsea swivels toward me. “Can't they all?”

“Most of the older cars, yes,” I say carefully. “Unless it's been modified or the security's upgraded. Most people who have a true appreciation for hot rods tend not to mess too much with them, though.”

On cue, Mat clicks back to the first image of the car and enlarges the frame. “Paint looks original.”

Clearly I'm not the only one who's done some research.

“Assuming the interior's the same, we're golden,” Nick says.

“A quick trip through Danvers's enlightening Instagram feed tells me he's more interested in the ladies than Jack.” Mat grins. “I'll spare you the photographic proof.”

“Why hold back now?” Nick says, winking.

I deflect a pang of misguided jealousy and blow out a breath to refocus. Lots of factors, limited time. “Flamingo Road is just off the Strip, right?”

“It's a long street.” Nick moves closer to the map. “East runs right between the Bellagio and Caesars Palace.”

I gather my hair in a ponytail and curl it up into an easy bun. The motion draws Nick's attention and suddenly I'm aware of his eyes on my exposed neck. My voice catches a little. “That explains the extra security.”

The streets on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard (famously known as the Strip) can be rough—littered with pawn shops, tattoo parlors, twenty-four-hour wedding chapels, and run-down motels. Not to mention drunks, tweakers, and drunk tweakers.

I glance over at Nick. “You up for a drive?”

He chugs the rest of his drink and shrugs into his leather jacket. “Can't think of a better way to spend a hot Tuesday night.”

  •  •  •  

Nick's motorcycle might be on its last wheels. The rear fender's bent, the chrome polish is scratched, and the body is so chipped, the black finish looks marbled under the floodlights in front of Roger's house. A small patch of oil marks the pavement beneath the engine.

He fastens his helmet and shifts forward in the seat. The leather jacket tightens across his shoulders and back.

Heat flushes up the side of my neck. “Bike needs some work,” I say, faking indifference. Truth is, I'm terrified of anything on two wheels. I don't even know the last time I rode a bicycle. Not like I'd admit that to Nick. Or anyone. In my experience, copping to any kind of vulnerability just makes you weak. “No car we can borrow?”

His expression darkens. “Someone stole mine, remember?”

Right. Vicki.

He cranks the ignition key. There's a soft tick, but the engine doesn't turn over. He tenses. Tries again. The motor sputters and then peters out.

“Maybe we could take one of Roger's?”

Nick smirks. “Sure, let's borrow the RX.”

Low blow, but the point drives home.

Nick reaches under the gas tank and tugs out a couple of wires. He twists them together in a motion that is all too familiar. This time when he turns the key, the engine
click-click-clicks
and then roars to life. “Huh. Guess we take the bike after all,” he says.

The scent of gasoline and exhaust curls under my nose. I can't help it—my stomach flutters. The sound, the smell—they're a damn turn-on, heightened by Nick's hot-guy-bad-boy vibe. Jesus. I need to give my head a shake.

His gaze flickers across my face with impatience. “You plan on running alongside, or you getting on?”

My vocal cords jam up. “On . . . ?”

“The bike.” When I hesitate, he moans. “Aw, shit. Don't tell me you're a motorcycle virgin?”

I bristle. “So what if I am?”

He grabs the spare helmet hanging off the handlebar, wedges it onto my head, and fastens the chin strap. A smile plays on his lips. The second his skin touches mine, the fuel intake to my brain burns real low. His scent is a musky mix of engine oil and exhaust. I take in an illicit breath.

“Get on,” he says.

The bike rides double but there's no backrest, so I climb on and snake my arms under his jacket and around his waist. I slide back as far as I can, but my thighs still rub against the back of his. The bike purrs beneath us.

“Listen up,” he says, all serious. “When I lean, you lean with me. That's important.” A fist of fear punches me in the gut. “Riding is a balancing act, so you need to move
with
the bike.”

Which sucks, because all of a sudden I've developed a serious case of mock rigor mortis.

Nick knocks the kickstand out with his foot. The bike jolts. I hang on with the force of a vise-grip.

“Relax,” he says. “I won't bite—this time.”

I gnash my teeth and hang on, terrified.

He twists the throttle. The bike lurches forward. I collide into him and nervous sweat fills my palms.
Breathe.

I've street-raced in the back alleys, speed-shifted from second to fourth, and cornered thirty miles an hour over the posted limit. I once gunned down the highway at a '78 Firebird's ungoverned top speed. But this? This scares the shit out of me.

Nick pulls onto the freeway. Wind whips through my hair as the sprawling mansions alongside the road pass in a blur. Adrenaline hammers my bloodstream, morphing anxiety into thrill.

Nick zips through traffic and we lean left. Right. Our movements are synchronized like ballet dancers who've partnered their whole lives. My limbs turn lucid, the grip around his waist slack. The situation hovers between dangerous and deadly, but somehow I feel
safe
. Even as the dotted lines on the hot asphalt become one continuous streak of white.

In the distance, the tall hotels glimmer and thousands of neon lights line the Strip. Nick takes a sharp corner and the bike wobbles. He gets back control, but not before I scream.

He chuckles so hard his body shakes.

At the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Road, Nick takes a right and throttles down. My thighs tremble, pulsing with the vibrations from the bike's steady hum. He pulls up to a curb and cuts the engine.

My heart races like we're still going fast.

I'm desperate for Nick to say something, to tell me I did good, or that he's impressed. Anything. Instead, he nudges his chin toward a house across the street. “That's Danvers's place. Time to get to work.”

  •  •  •  

I zoom up on the front of the bungalow, adjusting the telephoto lens on the camera for maximum range. Then close in on Jack.

The Vegas nightlife clamors in the background, punctuated by the throaty growl of a few passing motorcycles and muscle cars. That bodes well. If we can get through the security gate, the Super Bee's “bumble rumble” will just . . . blend in.

“The zoom isn't much good in this light,” I say. “We need to get closer.”

Dusk settles over Sin City, darkening the sky. The towering pillar of the eleven-hundred-foot-tall Stratosphere hotel peers over the horizon. On the other end of the Strip, the Luxor pyramid light beam extends into the brilliant sunset.

We slide off the bike in silence, gather our things. Nick tucks his hands into his pockets and looks left, right, left again. I half-run to catch up to his long stride as he crosses the street. The designer camera bag slaps against my hip. He moves with purpose, tension. I can't hold back. “Is this your gearing-up-for-a-boost face or are you just in another mood?”

“Forget it.”

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Look, I get you don't like me but—”

Nick turns around. “I never said that.”

“Your silence speaks volumes.” I hitch the camera strap farther up my shoulder and start walking again. “But we're stuck together—for at least the next seven weeks—and I can't keep doing this hate-me-like-me-tolerate-me-despise-me bullshit. I've got enough to worry about without adding your moods to the mix.”

He shoves his hands in his pocket. “I just hate this area.”

Finally. “The Strip?”

He nods.

“Because of the gambling?”

More than two hundred thousand slot machines churn twenty-four hours a day—and it's not enough to accommodate the forty-some million annual visitors. Just five percent of them say they come here to gamble—eighty-seven percent leave with only the shirts on their back. Probably says a lot about willpower.

Nick's face flickers with annoyance.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Come on. Give me something here.”

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Fine. You want my story? It's really short—a damn cliché. My old man lost it all on the slots—our house, the business. Even my fucking car.”

I blink. “I thought someone stole Vicki.”

The second the words are out I want to reel them back in. After weeks of waiting for him to open up, I ask about his car. Jesus. I'm an ass.

He stares at me a little too long. “Dad bought me that car for my thirteenth birthday—a '69 Boss. Just a skeleton. Candy Apple Red.”

“Sweet car.”

Few Mustangs make my radar—there's one on every Vegas street corner—but the Boss nets good coin on the black market. “I stole one like that before—”

He cuts me off. “Dad knew that car meant everything to me. I spent hours in the shop trying to piece her back together. Didn't take long before I ran out of cash.”

“You started boosting for parts?”

The muscle in the side of his cheek pulses. “No. To pay off my dad's gambling debts and take care of my little brother.”

My mouth forms a soft
oh
.

His hands ball into fists at his side. “Dad sold my car anyway.”

“That's fucked up,” I whisper.

“I tried to get her back. Spent two months doing basic recon.” He chuckles without humor. “Had big plans to pick up my brother and get us both out of this shithole city.”

My stomach sinks. “And that's when someone took her. Ouch.”

Nick grabs the back of his neck. “Funny. I have a few other choice words for the person who pulled off that boost.”

Holding a grudge takes effort—even when you don't even know who to be mad at. No wonder Nick has a giant chip on his shoulder.

His eyes soften under the orange and yellow neon lights from the nearby hotel and gambling hall. A warm glow partially covers his face, shading in the dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired. Pained.

I reach for his arm. “Where is your brother now?”

He winces, and I can't tell if it's from my touch or the question. “In the system, somewhere in Nevada—somewhere far from Vegas.”

“You don't know?”

He yanks his arm away and scowls. “Keeping together wasn't an option for us,” he says. “First time I had a run-in with the law, my foster parents kicked me out. They agreed to keep Chase if I left quietly and didn't turn them in to the state for collecting money for me. Chase was doing good—going to school, staying out of trouble.” He kicks at a loose pebble on the pavement. “They'd probably still be getting checks from the government if Roger hadn't picked me up.”

My thoughts turn to Emma. “You didn't ask Roger if Chase could move in?”

“And uproot him again? Not a chance. Roger was just supposed to be a temporary fix, anyway,” he says. “A place to stay until the heat died off.”

“You get caught midgrab?”

It's almost eerie how parallel our stories have become and I wonder if it's enough to finally ease the tension between us. My gut tells me there's more to this.

“A couple of months ago I tracked Vicki down—again. Started plotting a boost.” He lowers his chin. “But I also took a couple of jobs that went bad. Really bad. Roger picked me up before social services could get involved. If they'd found out about Chase . . .”

We pause at the house next to Danvers's and Nick glances over his shoulder. Light traffic flows back and forth. “Roger fixed it so Chase was safe, and got me away from Riley.”

“Is that your dad's name?”

“My dad's a useless SOB, but he's not dangerous. At least not to anyone other than his bank account. He'd have pawned his dentures if it wasn't illegal,” he says. “Riley's my old boss. Runs a ring of car thieves on the south side.”

The name twigs a vague memory.

“After each boost I kept saying,
This is it, Barker, you're going legit after this
, but it's never as simple as that.” Holy hell, can I relate. “Once you enter the land of the illegal, someone always owns you. That was Riley, for me.”

I pull the loose ends of my hair back and roll them under my fingers. “Is Riley the reason you knew about me?”

Nick flinches. “I keep in touch with a few of the guys from his crew—they heard you got pinched.” He clears his throat. “Then you strutted in with that white hair . . .”

I'm grateful it's dark enough that he can't see my blush. “So you've got something against my hair? Or my rep?”

Nick stiffens. “Much as I've enjoyed this walk down memory lane, we've got shit to do. Let's get what we came for and get out of here.”

It should be enough that I've peeled away another layer of Nick's body armor, but disappointment clouds the victory. I focus on the car, our mission.