by Dawn Ius
Easier said than done. One look at the RX in the corner and my pulse surges again.
“Is this where you threaten us?” I say, looking at Roger. Ignoring Chelsea’s sharp intake of breath, I flare my nostrils and keep going. “Tell us that unless we steal those cars for you, we’re back on the streets—or worse?”
I was joking about him being a sociopath before, but now I’m not so sure.
Chelsea taps her fingernails on the table. “Can we just listen to what he has to say before we overreact?”
“Overreact?” I say with a huff. “That’s rich.” I point at Mat. “You’re a hacker, right? That’s what you and Chelsea were talking about before with all that wind interference stuff.” At his nod, I turn to Chelsea. “And your skill? Something to do with locks . . .”
She shrugs. “I might have broken into a few warehouses.”
“Don’t be so modest,” Mat says. “You could probably win the Olympics of lock picking, chica.”
Chelsea’s eyes widen. “Wait, I could compete?”
Frustration gnaws away at me. A lock picker, a computer hacker, and a booster. Tight team, and I haven’t even gotten to Nick. I jab him in the chest. “Let me guess, you’re the muscle?”
His eyebrows arch. “Car thief,” he says. He flicks his lip piercing with his tongue and smirks. “That’s right, princess. You and I are the same. Except I don’t come with my own street name . . .”
A cold sweat breaks out along the nape of my neck. I squeeze my eyes closed to block Nick’s voice, silently begging him to shut up, to just shut the fuck up. But of course he doesn’t and before I can interject, the word Ghost oozes from his lips like a contagious disease.
Mat grins. “Spooky.”
“She’s a fucking legend,” Nick says. “What is it, Jules, forty cars?”
Again, forty-three, but who’s counting?
Mat lets out a low whistle.
“Enough,” Roger says. “Now that we’ve laid our cards on the table—”
I’m mad enough to blow a gasket. “Not all of us.”
Roger leans forward and sets his clasped hands on the table. “Further to my proposition. The Trophy Case is missing seven cars. And I need them.”
Mat shifts a little in his seat. “So buy them. It’s not like you don’t have the money.”
Roger grimaces. “Unfortunately, these vehicles are not for sale.”
Everyone’s being so nonchalant, it makes my blood curdle. Don’t they all see how fucked we are? Roger is a pillar of the community. A damn saint.
My patience snaps. “What’s in it for us?” All eyes land on me and I shrug. I’ve had enough of the veiled kindness and underlying threats. We’re just spinning our wheels here. “What? He’s obviously got a plan.”
“If you’re successful in obtaining—”
“Stealing.”
Roger glosses over it. “—all of the cars, then you may consider my home yours for as long as you wish.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Chelsea says.
I shoot her a glare. “Are you kidding me?”
“Well, it is.”
Mat silences my response with a look. “Let him finish.”
“If you choose to move out, your basic needs—housing, education, et cetera—will be taken care of. Indefinitely.” His eyes meet mine. “That includes Emma.”
My throat clogs up like I’m guzzling motor oil. No way in hell he’s dragging my sister into this.
“I know you’re frustrated,” Roger says to me.
“Try pissed.”
He spreads his thumbs wide in acknowledgment. “Fine. But if you look at it as a business transaction . . .”
Chelsea picks at a piece of lint on her shirt and flicks it onto the floor. “Why not just hire a couple of thugs?”
“I’m afraid that route didn’t pan out for me,” he says. “And each of you was selected for a particular skill set.”
Not to mention the convenient cover of housing a crew of orphans. I can’t hold back a snort of disgust. “Are we supposed to take that as a compliment?” My eyes flick back to the RX and my temper spikes. Good. Anger keeps me on my toes. I get stupid when I go soft. “News flash: Blackmailing us isn’t cool. It’s sick.”
It’s also kind of genius.
Roger scans each of our faces. “Do you all feel this way?” After a brief silence, he blows out a deep breath. “I see.” He unhooks his fingers and lays his palms flat on the table. “I’m really not a bad man. Of course, you can reject my offer—without consequence.”
I scoff. “Funny how you give us the illusion of choice.”
The look on his face tells me I’m right. My skin prickles.
“True. If you refuse my proposal, I will simply kill you all and start over.”
Roger starts laughing before I can get the gasp out. He slaps his palm against his chest, and chuckles. “I’m sorry. That was in poor taste.” He wipes his eyes. “Of course no harm will come to any of you, regardless of your decision.”
“But we’ll be of no use to you,” Mat says.
“When you turn eighteen, you’ll be expected to move out, as per normal foster care arrangements.”
Right. Except that none of this is normal.
“Once you’ve considered all of the factors, I’m sure you’ll find my proposition intriguing,” he says.
“What cars are on the list?” Nick says.
A sly smile tugs on the ends of Roger’s mustache. “I’m afraid that’s classified information until you’ve agreed to the terms.” He fixes his gaze on me. “I’m truly looking out for your best interests. Even Emma’s. None of us would want anything to happen to little Ems. It’s such a cruel world.”
My temperature spikes. I lunge forward, fist clenched. “You hurt her and I swear . . .”
Nick grabs my wrist, spins me around. My body slams into his chest. I punch him once, twice, over and over. I can’t stop. He wraps his arms tighter around me until my awkward struggle ends in a whimper of defeat.
There’s no turning back from this—Roger has dead-ended us.
Nick runs his hand over the back of my head. I bury into him, soaking up the warmth, desperate for a split second of normalcy. Even in this terrifying moment of clarity, there’s something about the way Nick holds me that feels so . . . right. I’m not ready to let go.
“We won’t let anything happen to Ems.”
“Dear God, no.” Roger feigns shock. “My apologies if I gave you that impression.”
The depth of Roger’s scheming astonishes me. I shouldn’t be surprised—I knew there was something off about him. But this level of maliciousness? I had no idea. I unwind from Nick’s hold and wipe my eyes before turning around. The smug expression on Roger’s face makes me want to vomit.
He stands, tucks his chair back under the table, and adjusts his fedora, his vest, straightens his glasses. “Such a delightful little girl.”
“So, how would this work?” Chelsea says. “I mean, if we decide to do this, what happens next?”
Roger smiles. “Once you’ve all made a decision, I’ll provide you with the necessary details and tools.”
Mat leans back in his chair. “And if not all of us are in?”
“That’s not ideal, but I suppose we could come to some sort of arrangement,” Roger says. “However, I’d advise each of you to consider my offer carefully—and quickly. I’m not a patient man.”
7
IT’S SQUID. MAYBE OCTOPUS. HELL if I can tell. Either way, it’s not going in my mouth. If the stench alone doesn’t make me gag, the texture will finish the job.
Nick’s lips twist. “It doesn’t bite.”
I give him the evil side-eye and I push my plate forward. “Yeah, well, me either.”
He shoves a forkful of the shit between his lips and makes a scene out of chewing. Up-crunch-down-slurp-up. Gag. A ball of vomit inches its way up my esophagus. Beside me, Emma pokes at her appetizer with a fork. I form a crooked smile of sympat
hy. “Not your thing either, huh?”
A flush of red creeps up the side of her neck. She drops her voice. “What is it?”
“Octopus,” Roger says. He sits upright and slices off a piece of the meat for himself. My vomit ball swells, almost choking me now. “I would like for you to at least try it, please.” My sister screws up her face with disgust. Roger isn’t fazed. “It’s a delicacy, Emma. Some people say it tastes just like chicken.”
Sure, if chicken’s made of rubber.
She leans forward and sniffs. “It smells funny.”
Which is part of the reason I won’t touch it. Fish, the odd shrimp—only if I’m desperate. I draw the line at tentacles. My taste buds are so far from adventurous, they’re basically prudes.
Across from me, Chelsea dips a piece of octopus in a cream-colored sauce and stuffs it into her mouth. My breath tastes like bile. She chews-chews-chews for an eternity, swallows, and then opens wide to reveal a black beaded tongue piercing.
Emma is mesmerized.
Yeah, I get it, Chelsea is way cooler than me.
It bugs me, even though Emma’s impression of her new foster sister should be the least of my concerns right now. We’ve got twenty-four hours to consider Roger’s proposal and, after spending the day weighing the pros and cons, I’m no closer to a decision.
Roger tsks at Chelsea, then points his fork at my sister. “There is nothing wrong with widening your palette, young lady.”
Ems and I gave up widening our palettes long before we hit the foster system. Even when Mom gave a shit, she was hardly a gourmet. Back then I was ballerina-waiflike thin. Agile and liftable, but pretty much a preteen walking dead. Guess it’s not so hard to see how I transformed from ballerina into Ghost, though, since I was basically a skeleton.
Roger stops eating, sets his knife and fork on either side of his plate, and stares at Ems. Waiting. Her eyes flit nervously toward me, then back to the rubbery blob on her plate. Small hives dot behind her ear. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Roger says. The softness of his tone masks expectation and underlying annoyance. “It is considered rude not to at least try what our chef has prepared.”
Screw it.
I’d rather suffer Roger’s wrath than watch my sister go into a full-on anxiety attack.
“Ems, you do not have to eat that,” I say firmly.
“Course she doesn’t,” Mat says.
He shoves a piece of octopus in his mouth and my stomach lurches. His cheeks puff out and his eyes grow wide and bulgy with an exaggerated expression of mock disgust that sends Ems into a fit of giggles. By the time he swallows—his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat—there’s a piece of the shit on the end of Emma’s fork, hovering in front of her lips.
“You can do it, homegirl,” he says, encouraging.
Emma glows under the attention. She pinches the bridge of her nose, opens her mouth, and sinks her teeth into a speck of meat about the size of an ant. Even still, my stomach roils.
Emma swallows fast and shudders, her entire body vibrating with disgust. “It does not taste like chicken.” She sticks out her tongue and waves her hand back and forth with exaggeration. Her theatrics are met with a muted chorus of chuckles.
I hand her a glass of water. “Dramatic much?”
Truth is, it’s nice to see her be a little kid again. I know it’s partly my fault she’s had to grow up so quickly.
“Drama must run in the family,” Nick says.
I whip my head around to glare at him. I thought we’d made headway last night at the Trophy Case, but clearly Nick’s reverted back to being an asshole. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“We do not swear at the table,” Roger says.
My face explodes with heat. The air is thick, claustrophobic. I’m a volcano set to erupt, but I can’t decide which way to shoot the lava—at Roger for pretending he’s suddenly Dad of the Year, or Nick for rocketing straight back to the top of the dick-o-meter.
I toss my napkin onto the table and shove my chair back. My stomach rumbles like a turbocharged Mustang, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
Nick raises one eyebrow. They’re too bushy for his face and I’m almost pissed enough to say so.
“Little worked up over octopus, aren’t you?” He flashes a wolfish grin before his teeth disappear into another piece of the grayish rubber. I’m tongue-tied with disgust.
“I don’t appreciate being bullied into trying something I know I won’t like,” I say, fending off a tidal wave of nausea. Damn, the stuff stinks.
“So you haven’t tried it?” Nick says. He tugs on his lip ring with his top teeth while I pretend the motion isn’t sexy as hell. It’s more than the piercing. There’s something about the way he challenges me that really revs my engine. Jesus. I probably need a full team of therapists to analyze that shit. “Seems to me you’re just passing random judgment.”
Smoke billows from my ears like my brain’s spun a burn-out. He can’t be serious. “That’s a little like the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”
Nick smirks. “Don’t you mean white?’
“Uh, maybe we should change the subject,” Chelsea says.
“Perfect,” I say, shoving away my plate of octopus. “Just. Perfect.”
The serving staff files in loaded up with trays of food. I’m sure I’ll never get used to it, fancy dinners with real china and a personal waitstaff that tops up my water glass and passes the salt. But as one of them sets a plate of steaming roast beef in front of me, my veins fill with liquid relief. Fuck Nick and his pretention. I’m starving.
Roger tucks a linen napkin into the front of his button-up and lifts his fork and knife. “Did you find some new clothes at the mall, Emma?”
I freeze. The mall?
My sister stabs into a mountain of mashed potatoes that erupt with butter and stuffs her face. “Sort of. Mr. Grasdal wasn’t much help.”
Roger takes a sip of red wine. “We don’t talk with our mouths full at the table, young lady.”
Dinner etiquette. This should be entertaining.
Ems swallows.
“You took the butler to the mall?” Chelsea sounds incredulous. “Next time, I’ll go with you.”
Emma brightens. “Can we still go in the limousine?”
“I’d rather take that sweet Camaro in the driveway,” Mat says.
Roger’s spine stiffens.
“It’s a Chevelle,” I say. “Nineteen-seventy.”
“Seventy-one,” Nick counters.
I turn my head to look at him. “Close enough. They’re basically identical.”
“Not quite. The grille’s different on the seventy-one.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Car Expert.”
A smile plays on his lips. “Just think, I haven’t even gotten into the changes under the hood. The improved fuel consumption, faster speed—”
“Go on. I’m mesmerized.”
I’m mostly joking, but there is something hot about the way Nick knows cars. Not in a douchey way like Kevin. Scratch that, Kevin faked it. Nick may be a jerk, but he’s not trying to be someone he’s not. I can respect that.
“All right, cool it you two,” Chelsea says. “I don’t know what you’re both getting worked up over. It’s just a car.”
“A sweet car,” Mat says under his breath. “How come it’s in the driveway and not at—”
Roger cuts him off with a sharp look of warning. “It was my wife’s, a gift on our twentieth wedding anniversary.”
I trace the gold rim of my fancy dinner plate. “A car like that should be in the garage, at least. Want me to park it for you?”
Roger leans back in his chair. “The garage is off-limits.” He pins me with a look that says he knows what I’m thinking. Interesting. I’m always up for a challenge. “It’s my one rule. Break it, and there will be consequences.”
Tough talk. Too bad I’m immune to Roger’s thinly veiled threats.
> • • •
I fold the thick duvet around my sister’s body and pat it until she’s tucked into a cotton cocoon. She wriggles free and bats away the strands of hair stuck to her forehead. “Jules, you’re suffocating me.”
“I’m protecting you from the monsters under the bed.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not six.”
No, my little sister is growing up fast. Too fast. I inch my way to the edge of the bed and study her face. Her skin is clear of the hives that alert me to when she’s scared or on the verge of an anxiety attack.
“You’re feeling okay?”
“I like it here,” she says.
The simplicity of her words dig deep. Emma has suffered anxiety since our parents abandoned us. None of our fosters took it seriously, even though they were part of the problem.
Stability.
The doctors tell me that’s the cure.
I tap the tip of her button nose. “You just have a crush on Mat.”
Her eyes widen. “I do not!” But then her dimples become craters as a slow smile creeps across her face. Something about that grin makes my heart hurt—it’s when she most looks like our mother. I hate that her happiness brings out a memory of someone I despise so much.
“Okay,” she concedes, “he is cute.”
“And old.”
She burrows deeper under the covers. “Not too old for you.”
“I definitely do not have a crush on Mat.”
“Because you like Nick.”
My breath hitches. “Emma!”
She’s obviously off base. Nick is obnoxious and pompous and completely unpredictable. A total dick. His attitude toward me changes so fast I could get whiplash if I let myself dwell on it. Which, of course, I don’t.
“He’s totally not my type.”
She smirks. “You’ve made questionable choices before.”
I want to believe she’s only talking about my ex-boyfriends, but there’s an edge to her voice that warns of something else. I look away.
Discarded clothes cover her floor like mini landmines. The towels are bunched into the corner next to an empty laundry hamper. I count three empty soda cans and two bags of chips. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe this is a normal family environment.
