Overdrive (8 page)

“And computers.” He pumps his eyebrows. “Two good ones for sure. Maybe three.”

Chelsea sits upright on the edge of the bed, setting the magazine on her lap. I crane my neck to look at her as she pulls a pillow to her chest. “So we make a shopping list.”

Irritation leaks into my voice. “Not everything gets solved with a Gold Card.”

She doesn't take the bait. “I can think of some sweet lock-picking doodads that would come in handy—bump or specially cut keys, a torsion wrench, a few picks—standard tools. Roger will spring for the good stuff.” She winks at Nick. “Bet you and Jules could think of some things that would help you bring your A game.”

Nick scowls. “I'm never off it.” He rubs his hand behind his neck, causing his biceps to inadvertently flex. His muscles tighten and he acts all tough, but there's a hint of resignation in his sigh. “I could probably come up with a few things.”

He glances my way for confirmation, but I'm tongue-tied with indecision. I can't believe we're even considering this.

“I'm obviously in the wrong room.”

My head snaps to the bedroom door at the sound of Emma's voice. My guts twist. I scramble to my feet. “You're supposed to be asleep. Are we too loud?”

She groans. “Definitely not. It's too
quiet
here.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Chelsea says.

Doubtful. Emma is used to drifting off to the sounds of screaming, bickering, and the constant drone of police sirens.

“Music?” Mat says.

“I don't have any songs on my iPod yet,” Emma says.

Nick holds up a finger. “Hang tight.”

Seconds later, he returns with an iPod and a set of new headphones. He hands them to Emma with a sheepish grin. “Can't guarantee there's anything you'll like on there, but it will cut the silence.”

My stomach flips. “Uh . . .”

“No worries, Jules,” he says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “It's all age appropriate.”

  •  •  •  

Actually, it's jazz.

I pull out the earbud and hand it to Ems. She snuggles into the blankets and pulls a stuffed bear close to her chest. “Happy, Mommy?”

Embarrassed, I duck my head. “It's my job to check for curses and stuff.”

It shouldn't be, but it's the role I've held for the past four years, and I take it seriously.

“You think I've never heard swearing before?”

Of course she has—and not just from our parents and foster parents and probably even me. That doesn't make it right. We're supposed to be taking steps forward, but so far, being at Roger's is like jumping into a time machine. Backward.

She plugs in one earbud and hands me the other. “Listen.”

I shift closer. A soulful saxophone solo cuts through the melody of piano and trombone while a sultry female sings about a boy. Her voice tugs on my heartstrings. It's not at all what I'd expect from Nick, but I guess even he can surprise me.

Music soothes the savage beast.

“Bet you could do a solo to this,” Ems whispers.

I yank out the earbud. “I'm done with ballet.”

Her expression softens. “I meant for me.”

The longing in her voice tears me up inside. Without Roger's help—his money—I can't afford to send her to dance lessons. “So much pressure,” I murmur, thinking back to aching muscles and swollen feet.

“You did it.”

“I quit.”

Emma sighs. “Because you had to. I know you loved it.”

Loved. Past tense. Dance is tainted now, part of the past I'm desperate to forget. Uncomfortable with the way the mood's shifted, I try to lighten things up. “You don't want to copy me, anyway.”

“I want to be you.”

Tears spring to my eyes and I swat them away with enough force to cause a bruise. Jesus. I'm an emotional basket case. “Tell me you like it here.”

She scrunches up her nose. “I already told you I did. You're not planning something, are you? Because it kind of looked like you guys were planning something.”

There's a hint of panic in her tone, a sign I should back off. But I'm about to make one of the biggest decisions of my life. I need to be sure before I cross that line. “Are you sure Roger doesn't scare you?”

Mischief dances in the hazel flecks of her eyes. “Come to think of it, that vest is kind of terrifying.” She shakes her head. “I'm kidding. He's a bit . . . awkward, that's all.”

Conniving
is a better word choice.

Emma puts her hand on my cheek. “I know it's hard for you to trust. But we can't change the past, Jules. This is the closest we've had to . . . normal.”

I'm shocked at how old she sounds as she spits back the words I've heard echoed by our social worker. This should be me comforting her, not the other way around. I pull her hand away and hold it in mine. Her palms fill with sweat.

She yawns. “Thanks for tucking me in, Mom.”

A dull ache spreads across my chest and I wonder if when she teases me, it reminds her of the parents she doesn't have. As her eyes close and her breathing slows, I realize she's right—we can't go back.

Emma's future depends on me and I know exactly how to get her everything her heart wants.

  •  •  •  

Hushed whispers float down the hall. I can make out enough words to know the conversation has shifted from
should we?
to creating a list of the tools we'll need to pull off the job.

Seven cars.

It's one hell of a heist.

Everyone stares at me when I enter the room, as though I've somehow leveraged myself into a leadership position. I'm uncomfortable in the role.

“I'm in,” Chelsea says.

Mat gives me a thumbs-up.

I swallow hard and turn to Nick. “You?”

“We're backed into a corner,” he says, jaw tense. “We could go to the cops but . . .”

No one would believe us.

I tilt my head back and close my eyes. Swallow the lump of indecision that's stuck at the base of my throat. “I'll do it,” I say. There's a murmur of relief. “With conditions.” If there's one thing botching my last boost taught me, it's to never go in blind. “First, we need a list of nonnegotiable supplies.”

Chelsea tears out a page from the magazine. “Done.” She's written our list of “demands” in blue ink next to images of complex technogadgets. “What other conditions?”

I blow out a breath. “Before I commit, we're going to need to see the list of those cars.”

  •  •  •  

“We're in.”

Roger looks up from his magazine. “Wonderful.”

Disgust ripples down my spine. “If you agree to the conditions. . . .” I wait a beat before continuing. “For starters, we've listed some tools we'll need.”

Mat hands over Chelsea's scribbles.

Roger scans the paper, his eyebrow lifting as he nears the end. “You have expensive taste.”

“Pocket change for you,” Nick says.

Roger doesn't bother acknowledging the comment. “Will there be anything else?”

I hold out my hand. “Yeah, the list of cars.”

THE LIST IS RIDICULOUS. “WHAT
the hell is a Mako Shark?” I ask.

“It's a concept Corvette,” Nick says. “Only two were actually made—sweet as the car looked, it didn't quite meet Chevy's expectations.”

“Well, it's a dumb name,” I mutter.

Nick's face hovers over my shoulder. “You've got to be shitting me.” He points to the third car down—a 1968 ZL1 Camaro. “That's one of the fastest and most collectible muscle cars ever made. We'd never find it in Vegas.”

Roger adjusts his glasses. “Reggie Jackson sold the car at an auction for $290,000. The buyer was local.”

“Can't be that collectible, then,” I say.

Nick's cheek muscle twitches. “Or, the buyer got a steal.”

“Jackson's a baseball legend,” Mat says. “So it's not like he needed the cash. Might not have known what he had.”

“He knew,” Nick says. He flicks a finger at the fourth car on the list. “Hardtop or convertible?”

Roger purses his lips. “Convertible.”

Nick laughs. “Impossible. They only made two hundred and ninety-six convertible Coronet R/Ts. That's a seriously collectible car.”

I raise an eyebrow. “More so than the Camaro?”

Ignoring the question, Nick runs his thumb over another of the cars, a '68 Cosma Ray Corvette. “Jesus, Roger. This is a Barris.” He rubs the back of his neck. “
George Barris
worked on this.”

“I'm aware.”

I nudge a little closer to Nick. “Now I'm impressed.”

A goofy look crosses his face. “You know who he is? Man, he did some of the best restoration work in the business.” His voice lifts. “He worked on the original Batmobile.”

That's one fact I actually knew, but mainly because my former foster dad used to watch Barris's TV show. And okay, I've been known to geek out from time to time.

The thing is, I get cars. The sound. The vibration. There's something about the roar of an engine dropping into gear that makes me feel . . . free. No responsibilities. No guilt. Just me and the machine, whether I'm racing, stealing, or gawking from the sidelines.

My gut tells me Nick can relate.

He sucks in a breath. “These last two are impossible.”

An Aston Martin DBS—formerly driven by James Bond—and a 1967 Shelby GT500. In parentheses, Roger has written: “(previously owned by Jim Morrison).” Guess that explains the Doors poster in the games room.

Chelsea nibbles on her fingernail. “Why are they more difficult?”

Solid question. Sin City car theft may be steadily on the rise, but the vehicles on Roger's list are a far cry from Civics and Silverados. None of them are sitting ducks.

Nick runs his hand through his hair. A strand falls over his left eye and I resist the knee-jerk urge to brush it away. “They've both been missing for years,” he says.

My mouth goes dry. “And you expect us to find them?”

Roger looks up from his magazine, and my skin prickles. “I'm confident you'll figure it out.”

At least someone is.

“You've got at least four Shelbys in the warehouse,” Nick says.

“This one's different.”

“The Aston Martin doesn't fit,” I say, a little rattled by the finality of Roger's tone. “The other six are muscle cars—”

Nick shakes his head. “Almost. Corvettes aren't considered real muscle.”

A continuing debate among car enthusiasts.

“Still . . .” I turn to Roger. “The Bondmobile isn't really your type.”

“Your opinion isn't necessary.”

Nick fidgets. “It would take us
years
to boost the muscle on this list, and that's assuming we can find them all.” He snags the paper from my fingers and thrusts it at Mat. “Think you can track them down?”

Mat studies the list. “Given some serious time . . . ?”

Roger snaps the magazine shut and stands, empty tumbler in hand. “You've got seven weeks.”

My heart flutters. I'm not sure if I want to faint or laugh. He's got to be joking.

Chelsea's eyes widen. “Seven cars in seven weeks. Is that even—doable? I'd need a lot longer to crack the security systems.” She glances at Nick for confirmation. “I mean, they'd have sophisticated locks, right?”

A cold sweat breaks out along the nape of my neck. “You're asking the impossible.”

“I certainly hope not. You've agreed to the terms.”

My instincts flare. “Why the rush?”

“Because I can.”

A dangerous anger curls up my spine. The answer's too simple, too calculated. Roger's hiding something. “You're arrogant. And that's a cop-out.”

“Perhaps.”

With a stiff nod, Roger leaves the room. My mouth hangs open in shock.

“Asshole,” Nick mutters.

Another thing we agree on. “Epic understatement.”

I slide next to Mat and reread Roger's list. Maybe we can handle the Super Bee, the Camaro, at least one of the Corvettes. The Coronet is possible with the right tools. But the Aston Martin and the Shelby? Those cars aren't rare—they're mythical.

Mat flops down in Roger's chair and kicks his legs up onto the coffee table. “Guys, we're not seriously considering this, right?” When no one replies, his jaw drops. “You're all
loco
.”

Nick grunts.

I lean against the fireplace and tuck my hands behind my back. The stone is warm, somehow soothing. I know what the right thing to do here is—pack our bags, turn Roger in, suffer the consequences.

“There's got to be more to this.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Maybe we can find some kind of leverage.”

Chelsea raises one perfectly plucked brow. “He's already offered eternal life support—what more do we want?”

“Money.”

All eyes land on me.

“Look, nothing is guaranteed. Paperwork means squat. Even if we can boost these cars, Roger might still send us out on our asses. And then what?” I revert back to familiar logic, my basic needs. “Cash would provide some stability.”

“I don't think that means what you think it means,” Mat says.

Chelsea leans forward. “How much are we talking?”

I hadn't gotten there yet. “Ten grand?”

“Not enough.” She leans back and folds her arms across her chest. “I need a paid pass into Harvard.”

My head spins so fast I get whiplash. “Come again?”

I don't mean to sound skeptical, but I can tell by Chelsea's expression it's too late. She's pissed. “When I left, my parents took everything away from me—my trust fund, my inheritance. I graduate next year with no hope of affording college.”