Overdrive (19 page)

Below, Mat joins in on the poolside action. Emma is the hide-and-seek Jedi, but I suspect the boys will give her some competition. At the sight of them all together, the threads around my heart begin to unravel. I turn away from the window, overcome with emotion. “Can you do it?”

Roger swirls the amber liquid in his glass and takes a long swig. The scent of whiskey oozes from his pores. Is he drunk? His voice turns sharp. “If I do this favor, what do I get in return?”

I've got nothing more to offer than what I've promised. He already has my soul. “Once you have your cars, you'll have everything you want.”

His eyes gloss over and the pain in them does something strange to my heart.

“I'm afraid some things aren't so easily obtained.”

There's an awkward beat of silence as I realize that in some ways, we're not that different. Beneath that shallow exterior he tries to pass off as body armor lurks a broken man who's lost his wife, his family. I know a little something about that.

“That's true,” I say, cautious. “Which is why when something
is
easy, we should do the right thing. Don't you agree?”

Roger moves from the window to the wooden hutch, pulls an open bottle of Scotch off the shelf, and refills his glass. He gulps the whole thing back in one mouthful and then tops up the tumbler with the last of what's in the bottle.

“There's no guarantee I can find the car,” he says.

Ignoring the snap of annoyance in his tone, I wet my lips and say, “I can ask Mat to track it down.” I know without question he would.

He raises his glass in mock toast. “Then steal it yourself.”

I shake my head. “It's got to be legal.”

Otherwise, it's an empty gesture. I don't expect Roger to understand, but getting Vicki back isn't just about earning Nick's forgiveness. I don't know what's next for me. I just know it won't be . . . this.

Roger sits at the end of the dining room table, swirling his drink. Ice cubes
clink-clink-clink
against the glass.

“My wife and I built that pool for our children,” Roger says. “Of course, that was before we learned we couldn't have any. We considered adoption, but then . . .”

She died.

The air between us thickens.

“Watching Emma play outside has been good for me–to see a child using what we . . .” Roger looks away.

“I'm sorry.”

He seems surprised by the words, and I guess I don't blame him. We haven't exactly hit it off. But with Emma, we've found some common ground. Maybe I should be more worried about that than I am.

I pull up a chair beside him and lean forward, my hands interlaced on the table. “It's important. Not just to Nick, but to me as well. I need you to buy it back.”

Roger flinches as though I've touched a nerve. “And if it's not for sale?”

“It will be,” I say. “Everyone has a price.”

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

NICK PROPS HIS ARM ON
the open window and lightly taps the roof of the truck. His other hand steers. An uncharacteristic smile plays on his lips.

In the backseat of the crew cab, Mat and Chelsea flop against opposite windows, zonked out. Drool slides down the corner of Mat's mouth. I flip around to take a picture. Yep, clearly slobber.

Nick's grin widens. “Harsh.”

“Payback.” The cargo trailer hitched to the truck bounces as we hit a pothole. “I don't get how they can sleep through this racket anyway. Truck could use some shocks.”

“Keeps me awake,” he says, winking.

Well, that and the fact that he's been mainlining coffee since we left the mansion almost two hours ago. The sun's only now just about to hit the horizon. It's early. Way too fucking early. But if we're going to make a clean grab on the Cosma Ray, we need to be in Hollywood before the crowds squeeze us out.

Hollywood.

My stomach twists. A road trip should make me happy, but my nerves are frayed. We're just a few hours away from our toughest boost yet.

I fire up the iPad and pull up the blueprints of the Petersen Automotive Museum. Mat hacked the security, giving us a solid view of the exits, security cameras, and hidden corridors. The place is like a massive chrome labyrinth.

Based on the schematics, I think I've pinpointed where the travelling Barris exhibit will land–and with it, the Cosma Ray (aka George).

He's not bad on the eyes, but that's the extent of my intel. “Give me the skinny on George.”

Nick leans forward to dial down Jim Morrison's voice. The radio's busted, there's no iPod hookup, and this CD is the only thing I could find in the glove box. We're kicking it old school.

“Typical Stingray body,” Nick says. “Think Mako Shark, but with modifications.”

I scrunch up my nose. The thing I remember most about that boost is the unfortunate run-in with my ex. I call up a couple of images of the Barris car on the tablet. Sharp peaked nose. Retractable headlights.

“Corvettes do nothing for me.”

Nick chuckles. “Yeah, they're more of a midlife crisis car.” He nudges his chin toward the iPad. “Unless it's a Barris. The paint job alone on that car ate up more than two hundred man hours.”

I enlarge the picture. “Dude, it's, like, two-tone orange.”

He swerves to avoid another pothole and the back end of the trailer slides out. I grip the armrest until the truck evens out.

“Peach, actually. Apricot pearl, platinum, and tangerine metalflake, blended over a white underbase.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

Nick's cheeks go pink. “George was built to be shown off, not driven.”

A common theme with most of the vehicles in Barris's traveling road show. I don't get it. Sure, they're nice to look at, but without that rumble of the motor or the sweet scent of gasoline flowing through the fuel pipe, what's the point?

“The Cosma Ray is some of Barris's best work,” Nick says. “It won a bunch of awards, including the Grand National Sweepstakes.”

I cup my hand over my mouth in mock surprise. “No!”

A flash of annoyance flickers across his face. “Barris is the reason I even got into cars. I modeled Vicki's modifications after work I'd seen him do on a Mustang.”

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip, weighing the pros and cons of continuing this discussion. I don't trust myself not to tell him about the conversation I had with Roger. “Is Vicki an old girlfriend?”

“Jealous?”

Like hell I'd admit it. “Isn't that how most guys name their cars? That or after their–”

“Mother.” There's a subtle shift in his tone that lets me know he's uncomfortable. “Victoria was my mom.”

“Can I ask?”

“Lung cancer,” Nick says. “She was stage four before we even knew she was sick.”

“Shit.”

He glances over and raises his eyebrow.

“I didn't mean to be insensitive, it's just . . .” My throat closes. “That's got to be hard.”

“I didn't have much time to think about it back then.” He swerves to avoid a random garbage bag in the middle of the highway. “I figure she knew for a while and tried to get things in order for me and Chase. Didn't quite work out that way. When she died, it hit Chase hard. My father too.”

“That when he started gambling?”

I'm no expert on addiction, but I know loss makes people do stupid things. Mom turned to booze when Dad left, then numbed her pain with drugs. Things escalated fast.

“My father was a lying piece of shit before Mom got sick. Her dying just made him . . . shittier.” He lifts his fingers off the steering wheel, flexes, tightens his grip. “In the beginning, I almost didn't mind when he hit up the casinos, because every once in a while, he'd strike it lucky. Win enough to put food in the fridge and pay for Chase's school.”

He strums the steering wheel with his thumb, like a nervous twitch. “His luck ran out. I hooked up with Riley to pick up the slack. But the more I made, the more Dad gambled away. Eventually, we lost the garage, the house.”

“Your dad was a mechanic?”

“One of the best, back in the day. Learned a lot from him about restoration work. A lot about Barris, too.”

I twirl a strand of hair between my fingertips. “Is that what you'll do with the money Roger gives you? Become a mechanic?”

A hint of a smile ghosts his lips. “A hundred Gs won't get me back the garage, but yeah, it's a start.”

We lapse into silence.

“Get some rest, Jules,” he says. “We've got a long day ahead.”

He turns up the stereo to another Doors classic. Something about the lyrics rings with sincerity:
The time to hesitate is through.

With the chorus of “Light My Fire” echoing in the background, my eyelids grow heavy.

  •  •  •  

The
thunk
of the truck door slamming jolts me awake. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, sit up, and scope out the surroundings. A lineup of vehicles stretches in front and as far back as I can see.

It's either a traffic jam or . . .

My stomach clenches.

Roadblock?

“What's happening?” Mat's voice is groggy with sleep.

I curl my feet under my butt for added height. The domed metal top of the Petersen Automotive Museum shines like a grounded UFO in the distance. We're so close.

Chelsea sits up. “Where's Nick?” She rubs her eyes and smooths out a few wayward strands of hair. “Wow. That's quite a look I'm rocking.”

“Lucky for you we're not going to a fashion show,” Mat teases.

Chelsea punches him in the arm.

“Nick can't have gone too far.” I bite off a piece of hangnail from my thumb, drawing blood. “It's pretty backed-up, though. Think it's cops?”

Mat yawns. “Maybe, but it won't be about us. Even if the Nevada police have started piecing things together, we're in California now. No jurisdiction.”

Chelsea leans forward. “That's probably the lineup to get into the place. Didn't it just reopen?”

The truck door swings wide and Nick hops in. “Welcome to the land of the living,” he says, all smiles. “Got tired of talking to myself.”

“So you conjured up a few strangers to shoot the shit with?”

Nick flashes me a grin. “What's wrong? Miss me?”

My cheeks go hot. “You wish.”

Chelsea sticks her finger down her throat and fake gags.

“The bad news is that we're stuck in this line for a bit–crowd control.” Nick puts the truck in gear. “By the time we get inside the building, we're looking at late afternoon.”

Mat groans. “Got any good news?”

Nick's whole face lights up and it does something funny to my stomach. “Barris's team brought the Batmobile!”

  •  •  •  

I curl my fingers into fists, dying to rip the wig off my head. It's itchy as hell.

But the museum is rigged with more than four hundred security cameras–there are eyes everywhere. Last thing we need is for someone to catch my ghost locks on film. So instead, I'm an insta-blonde, Chelsea's rocking the brunette, and Mat has contained his wild curls under a Seahawks baseball cap. He's full-on geek.

I catch another look at Nick in my peripheral and almost burst into laughs. A fake mustache presses up against his upper lip. As good-looking as Nick is, not even he can pull that thing off.

He drapes an arm around my shoulder. “You still hate ze mustache?”

“Creeper.” My pulse quickens at his touch. “It doesn't even match that stubble on your chin. What is that anyway? Some kind of messed-up superstition? Like athletes that don't shave until after the play-offs?”

He leans in close. “Admit it, it's hot.”

Okay, he's not all wrong. Wall-to-wall body heat has rendered the AC in the museum useless. Everything sticks to me–my T-shirt, my hair. Real and the fake. It's gross.

I shift to avoid the eyes on a roving security camera, and scratch just under the wig with one finger. Instant relief.

Nick points to a black and gold convertible that rotates on a pedestal. “That's a 1913 Mercer Type 35J Raceabout,” he says, voice low. “Pretty much the Superman of the car industry.”

“And yet, no cape.”

“Doesn't need one. With the flick of a lever, this thing could drop its fenders, running boards, and lighting equipment in a matter of minutes, and be ready to fly around the track.”

I squint to read the spec sheet. “But at a top speed of seventy miles an hour, not
quite
faster than a speeding bullet.”

“You have no appreciation for the classics.” He puffs out his chest like a superhero. “I'm just going to leap over this crowd for a picture.”

“Don't mind me. I'll just stand around and keep watch.”

Or rather, assess who is watching us. There are three cameras in this section of the museum alone. Alarmed fences surround most of the cars, and
DO NOT TOUCH
signs warn of strict consequences for delinquents. Something tells me we're not the only rule breakers in the joint.

I slide over to the corner of the room and engage my Bluetooth. “Dude, the security in this place is insane.”

“
Sí.
I've got seven in the exotic cars showroom. Chelsea is currently taking selfies with a Ferrari.”

“Of course she is. Have you found the Barris exhibit yet?”

“Other side of the Mustang showroom,” Mat says. “Meet you there?”