Overdrive (18 page)

I work hard on pulling my lips into a smile. “Mr. Harris is expecting me.”

He looks me up and down, clearly judging. “Follow me, please.”

We weave to the back of the room, to a small cluster of candlelit tables tucked away from the busiest part of the restaurant. It's as if someone's flicked a dimmer switch and ordered insta-romance.

I recognize Dom immediately. His bald head shines under the overhead chandelier. His dark blazer covers a crisp white shirt, the first two buttons undone far enough to suggest confidence. At least I look the part.

He looks up from the menu and smiles.

My creeper radar is either busted or there's sincerity behind those kind brown eyes. He stands and holds out his hand. I almost relax.

“You must be Cherry.”

Fuck. Do I look like a Cherry?

“And you're Dominic.”

He comes around the table to pull out my chair. The last guy that did anything chivalrous was my dad, and that was long before I started dating. I sit, even though my knees tremble.

Dominic is huge–tall, muscular. He obviously works out.

“I don't understand why you won't post a profile picture.” He leans in and whispers, “You're stunning.”

Heat burns my cheeks. That's the second time tonight someone's used that word to describe me. It doesn't fit at all.

He settles into his seat and unfolds a napkin. The tables on either side of us are empty, and we're tucked behind a marble pillar that's wrapped in vines and large silk flowers. Enough privacy for two people to have an awkward conversation.

Except I realize there's literally
nothing
for us to talk about.

“I hope you like champagne,” he says.

An open bottle of it sits in the middle of the table, and there's an empty flute in front of me. I wring my hands together under the table. “That would be lovely.”

Lovely?
Good Lord.

He pours each of us a glass. The bubbles trapped within the crystal flute mesmerize me. I marvel at how they fight to get to the surface, only to explode. My nerves float to the base of my throat. This was a such a stupid idea. I can't pull it off.

“Did you have trouble finding parking?”

The question catches me off guard. “The valet service here is quite good.” I take a sip of the champagne.

Dominic leans back into his chair. “I can tell you're nervous. Don't be.” He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a wallet. “Maybe we should just get this out of the way. Then we can both enjoy the evening.”

I pause midsip, too stunned to speak. I'm so not that girl–I don't even think I can pretend to be
that
girl, a girl who can be bought–and I'm working up the courage to say something when he fishes out his license and hands it over.

“Dominic Harris,” he says, and gives me a goofy grin. “Forty-three, just like I said.”

The tension swooshes from my chest like a deflating tire. “Nice mug shot.”

“I never understood why they don't let us smile in these pictures.” He shrugs out of his suit jacket, stands, and drapes it over the edge of his chair. The white edge of his valet ticket pokes out from the breast pocket. “Instead, they make us pose like we're Jeffrey Dahmer or something.”

His cheeks turn red.

“Smooth, Dom,” he says. “First rule of dating? Don't talk about serial killers.”

I actually laugh. “I don't think I have anything to worry about.”

“Appreciate that.” He lifts his glass and tilts it toward me. “Your turn.”

I blink, trying to process, and then realize he's waiting for me to confirm my identity. Obviously I can't give him my ID. I'm terrible at flirting and just the idea of it makes me sick. “It's not polite to ask a lady her age.”

He mock salutes. “Touché.” We clink flutes and he adds, “To mystery, then.”

Ugh. If only he knew.

“So, tell me about yourself.” He unfolds the linen napkin and sets it on his lap. I do the same. “Something I haven't read in your profile.”

Right, my profile.

I recall some of the things Cherry has told Dominic about herself–she's a school librarian and loves to garden. Oh, and she has cats. I know nothing of those things.

I tilt my head like I'm trying to be coy, but actually I'm scoping out the room for Chelsea. A blond waitress passes us on her way to deliver food to another couple. The tangy scent of pasta sauce trickles by. “You first,” I say.

His jaw jerks and I think he might be annoyed. His recovery is smooth. “Well, you already know I love cars. . . .”

Bingo. I pounce. “Collector?”

He flushes. “I'm afraid my collection is fairly lacking. The Coronet in my profile is the only semi-rare vehicle in my garage–the rest are expensive, but fairly common.”

I zero in on Adam. “Forgive me, but that's a Dodge, correct?”

He beams, clearly pleased. “Yes. I'm afraid it's not much of a looker though, when compared to other muscle cars of its era. Dodge did try and give it a makeover in the seventies.”

Five optional high-end impact colors.

“Mine is Plum Crazy Purple.”

I cover my mouth. “No!”

He shakes his head, laughing. “It is. I can show you later–I brought it tonight.” Dominic tops up my champagne and I force myself not to take a sip. I need to stay focused, on point.

“Four-speed?”

Again, he looks impressed. “You know how to drive a stick?” He leans across the table. “Only twenty percent of drivers can.”

“I can a little.” The lie jams up under my tongue. I wash it down with champagne. “Perhaps you could teach me?”

“My Coronet's a little tricky,” he says.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chelsea weaving her way toward us. Relief fills my entire body. I don't know how much longer I can keep up this charade.

“You have to speed-shift from first to third because second gear sticks,” he goes on. “Makes the car stall, which, as you can imagine, is a little embarrassing. If the engine cuts out–”

“She can be hard to start again,” I finish.
Shit.
I've got to get this information to Nick.

Chelsea approaches the table. “Water?”

“Please,” Dominic says. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.

The observation affects me. I get what's at stake here, but I like Dom. He's kind and down to earth, and utterly oblivious to what's going on. My heart trips over guilt. I've morphed from simple car thief to master manipulator and it doesn't sit right, especially now that my sister knows. Has always known.

Chelsea pours me some water and then pivots toward Dom. The movement is so slight, I almost miss it. She reaches for his glass, fills it, and shifts the container to her right hand. Her left slides into his pocket to retrieve the valet stub. She tucks it into her pants before we can even thank her for the water.

“We're ready for our waitress,” Dominic says. And to me, “Would you find it imposing if I ordered for you?”

“Please do–just no seafood.”

Dom grins. “Did you know that more than sixty thousand pounds of shrimp are consumed daily in Las Vegas?”

I screw up my face. “That's disgusting.” But then I laugh, realizing I might have come off too harshly. I have to get out of there before nerves give me away. “Would you excuse me? I need to use the restroom.”

We stand in unison. There's an awkward split second as I realize I'm actually saying good-bye and a part of me is kind of sad. “Thank you.”

He tilts his head in question. “For?”

I force a smile. “I'm already having a nice evening.”

Without waiting for his reply, I turn and walk to the front of the restaurant, my eyes straight ahead, focusing on not tripping, on not falling.

On not crying.

Outside the door, I slip off my heels and sprint, barefoot, toward the lobby, shoes dangling in my right hand. I fumble in my purse with the other and grab my phone, dial Nick's number. He doesn't answer. I try Chelsea.

She answers on the first ring. “You did it!”

“I need you to get a hold of Nick.”

“He's getting the car.”

My heart sinks. “Adam has a sticky second gear. If Nick doesn't know that, he could stall . . . flood the gas.”

“The valet is bringing the car out now,” she says, a little breathless. “I'll let Nick know. He'll meet you on the north side of the hotel–Flamingo Road.”

I hang up and walk quickly to the doors. The Vegas heat blasts me as I step out of the air-conditioning and slip on my heels. I snake through the crowd of people watching the dancing water show at the front of the hotel. Turn left.

A gold-covered mime watches me pass. Some guy in a poorly fitted Spider-Man suit tries to cajole me into getting my picture taken with him. I keep my head down, careful not to make eye contact. I can't stop thinking about Dom.

Hundreds of flyers featuring naked women litter the pavement. The air stinks like stale beer, overpriced hot dogs, and weed. At the corner of Flamingo Road, “Darth Vader” quips, “Hey, babe, who's
your
daddy?”

Nick pulls up in the Coronet and taps the horn.

A homeless guy with a sign begging for cash gives me the thumbs-up. “Rad car, man.”

Nick pushes open the door and I jump in. I exhale a breath I'm sure I've been holding since I left the restaurant. He turns left onto Las Vegas Boulevard, trapped behind a tourist bus and a Lamborghini.

“Thanks for the heads-up about second gear.”

“No problems?”

“Nah, my Mustang had a tricky second gear too. Just needed to jiggle the–”

“Gearshift to the left,” I finish.

He goes silent and everything starts clicking into place. I can't believe I've missed all the clues–Nick's animosity toward me, Kevin's vague comments. Red Mustang. Tricky second gear. Fuck me.
I
stole Vicki. It's
me
he's holding a grudge against, the reason for the chip on his shoulder.

A cavern opens inside my chest and fills with guilt.

“Nick, I–”

“Bad traffic,” he cuts in.

My mouth drops open, but one look at his expression and I know the conversation is closed. We've worked so hard to tear down some of the walls between us. If I push now, will I force them back up again? I slump against the seat. Maybe now's not the right time, but this isn't the last of this; I'll find some way to make it right.

Music hums through the street. People walk arm-in-arm holding giant mixed drinks or tall beer cans, a drunken walk from casino to casino. The massive billboards are alive with pulsing lights.

“We'll head left on Sahara,” Nick says, nudging his chin toward the upcoming Circus Circus hotel. I shiver at the giant image of a clown, lit up by more than fifteen thousand bulbs. I can't even imagine the electricity bill. “Chelsea and Mat will meet us at the Trophy Case.”

Another reality sinks in.

We've got four and a half weeks to boost the remaining three cars on Roger's list. Maybe it's the champagne, or the magic of the Strip, but for the first time, I actually feel like we might pull it off.

If only my relief didn't take a backseat to a much more dominant emotion–remorse.

  •  •  •  

A strange sound gurgles from the back of Roger's throat.

Mat raises his eyebrows with amusement. I get it. I've always said our foster dad wasn't firing on all cylinders. This is a whole new level of creepy.

Roger rubs his hands together. “Perfect. Yes, yes. Just perfect.”

Nick backs the Coronet into its designated slot, gets out of the car, and flips Roger the keys. Roger's too slow to catch them and they hit the pavement with a clatter. He bends to pick them up, beady eyes trained on Nick. “Do
not
do that again.”

Mat mutters under his breath, “Creep.”

This time that word hits the mark. Roger has begun petting the Coronet. His hand slides along the hood, along the doors. He leans in so close I expect him to lick the paint.

“I can't even watch this,” Chelsea whispers.

Me either. My eyes land on the last stall in the row of Corvettes. Reserved for Barris's Cosma Ray. My insides twist into knots. Compared to this next boost, everything before it has been a piece of cake.

But it's time to step up to our A game–Mat has found George, and in just under two weeks, shit's about to get real.

I STAND NEXT TO ROGER
at the dining room window that overlooks the pool. Rope lighting pulses in an alternating pattern of red, white, and blue, projecting star shapes onto the patio below.

In the distance, Las Vegas Boulevard flickers with neon signs and an endless blur of streaming traffic. Something about the juxtaposition makes my skin prickle. The illusion of safety is just another of Roger's tricked-out mirages.

“Further negotiation?” His upper lip curls. “You're beginning to try my patience, Julia.”

I don't have a choice.

In the scene below, my sister emerges from behind a cluster of bushes beside the pool. Her sparkling gold bathing suit flashes as she half runs, half walks across the deck. A quick glance over her shoulder. Wide eyes. She cups her hand over her mouth.

That's when I see Nick poke his head out from behind a rosebush. His swim trunks ride low on his hips, broad chest puffed out as he monster-walks with fake menace looking for my sister. My stomach flutters. The fact that he's down there playing with her when I know he has issues with me only strengthens my resolve to make things right between us.

“I need you to get Nick's car back–the Mustang.”

It's not just to assuage my guilt about stealing Vicki. Things changed last night. Boosting cars–I get why I'm doing that–but what we did to Dominic . . . I don't like the person I'm becoming. Have become.