Overdrive

by Dawn Ius

  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.”

  “Scholarship?” Mat says gently.

  Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Please. My grades have been on a downward spiral since my parents kicked me out. Even if I nailed senior year, most scholarships don’t apply for kids who move out. The only way I’m getting into an Ivy League school is if someone influential buys me in.”

  “Why would Roger have any say at Harvard?”

  Her eyes search my face. “You know nothing about him, do you?” My hackles raise, but before I can eke out a response she shakes her head. “Roger donates a crap ton of money to Harvard every year.”

  “So if he gets you in, you’ll do it?”

  Chelsea nods.

  Great, but she’s only one quarter of the puzzle. “How about you, Mat?”

  He shakes his head. “I think I’m out. Now that we’ve had a look at these cars . . . too much risk, not enough payoff.”

  My pulse quickens. “We can’t do this without you.”

  Fuck, I’m not even convinced we can with him.

  He gives me an apologetic half smile. “Someday I’ll track down my parents and when I do, I’ve got to be better than a thug.”

  “Mat was adopted,” Chelsea cuts in. “He’s been looking for his biological family ever since he left the jerk that raised him—I’d want answers too.”

  I can tell by Mat’s strained expression that this is important to him. It’s a cheap bargaining chip, but I’m borderline desperate. “What if Roger could help?”

  Hope creeps across his face. “I’m listening.”

  “He’s got connections. Money. Unlimited resources.” The words spill out with increasing speed. “With all of that at your fingertips, you’d be set. Right?”

  A tiny spark ignites in his eyes. “Getting into adoption records is tougher than cracking the FBI database. Maybe with Roger’s help . . . Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

  Relief drains from every muscle. Two down—one hard-ass left.

  “If we’re going after a unicorn, Roger has to make it worth my while,” Nick says. “I want him to cough up some cash.”

  “How much?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars.”

  I blow out a breath. “Steep.”

  Nick snarls. “For a guy like Roger? That’s nothing.”

  “Agreed,” Mat says. “I’ve tapped enough DMV databases to recognize these are pretty high-end boosts. I can’t even wrap my head around how we’ll get our hands on Morrison’s ride.”

  “No way Roger will go for this,” Chelsea says. “It’s too complicated.”

  Maybe. But Roger isn’t a simple man. My gut says he’ll agree to our terms—because beneath the veiled threats and tough-guy bravado, there’s an undercurrent of something else.

  Desperation.

  And if there’s one thing I know a little about, it’s that.

  • • •

  I find Roger in the dining room snacking on oysters and cheese. I don’t know what’s more disgusting, the smell or watching him stuff one of those slimy things in his mouth. I gag a little out loud.

  He cocks his head and motions for me to sit. Jesus, there’s even a piece of seafood caught in his mustache. I think I’m about to be sick.

  “How do you eat that shit?” I find a chair far enough away that the oyster smell doesn’t ignite my gag reflex. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. We’d like to further negotiate the terms.”

  Roger runs his tongue over the top of his teeth. They shimmer like they’re coated in oyster oil. Nausea coils in my stomach.

  “I wasn’t aware I’d left an opening for further negotiations.” He cups his hands on the table, fingers interlaced. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the thin gold band around his skeletal ring finger. “However, you have my attention. Continue.”

  Cocky SOB.

  I quickly outline the terms. The money stuff doesn’t bother him, but he hesitates when I get to Mat’s request. He dabs his lips with a napkin. A red letter M is monogrammed into the linen. “And for yourself?”

  “The deal for my sister’s lifetime support stands. She wants to dance, so that’s got to be a part of it too.”

  “Done.”

  My shoulders sag with relief.

  “I’m still waiting to hear your terms. What do you want.”

  Good question, and I’ve run out of stall tactics. I think about ballet and dance and going back to the hot lights and the stage. My toes curl into the floor until they cramp. “I’m too old for—” Roger’s face lights up with interest. I pull back. “Same deal as Nick. I want a hundred grand for the Shelby.”

  Maybe I don’t know how I’ll spend it, but it’s enough to get me and Ems out of here. Start over. Settle down. Tears prick my eyes and I bat them away before Roger can further prey on my vulnerability.

  He folds his napkin into a perfect square and sets it on the table. I hold my breath with anticipation. He pushes his chair back, stands, and extends a hand. “I accept these terms.”

  My entire body hums and a fuzzy sensation floods my head, making it hard to focus. I should be celebrating my win, but the truth is, I have a sinking feeling I’ve just sold my soul to the devil.

  10

  I COVER MY MOUTH TO trap the snort of laughter. “What is on your lip?”

  “Pour quoi?” Nick twirls one end of his fake mustache. “Does it not give me ze illusion of sophistication?”

  I roll my eyes at his botched French accent. “Yeah, porn stars are super sophisticated. Jesus. That thing doesn’t even look real.”

  To be honest, I’m making a bigger joke out of it than necessary, probably to cover up the mash-up of emotions that have been churning my guts since we agreed to take Roger’s deal. Maybe it’s how Nick copes too. Because after playing dress-up in this costume store for more than an hour, all I’ve found is a pair of gloves—and Nick’s surprising sense of humor. Now that we’ve stopped sniping at each other, I’m stunned by how smoothly his laugh slides under my skin.

  Across the store, Chelsea and my sister use their overflowing shopping carts as bumper cars, and last I checked, Mat was in the suit aisle working his Latino charm on a blond salesgirl.

  Being left alone with Nick should put me on edge, but it’s like something has shifted between us. He’s different. Softer. Like he gets we’re all in this together. Or maybe I’m imagining a difference to quell my rising panic. Seven cars. Seven weeks.

  We must be fucking nuts.

  I try on an absurd pair of heels while Nick thumbs through a rack behind me. The aisles at the back of the store are packed tighter together, making me hyper aware of our closeness. We both turn and end up face-to-face.

  Like that’s not awkward.

  Nick waggles his eyebrows and the left side of his mustache breaks loose, snagging on his lip piercing.

  A ridiculous grin splits my face. “Oh my God. I can’t even . . .” I stand on tiptoes to adjust the mustache. My balance shifts and I teeter forward, almost falling into Nick. He grabs my elbows to steady me. We’re close. Too close. The heat from his breath pulses across my neck.

  Suddenly I feel exposed.

  “Um . . .”

  We both shift a little to the left, which only wedges us closer. I’ve got nowhere to go but into his chest. His solid. Muscular. Chest. The tips of winged tattoos show through the tight T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.

  “Mustache can’t look that bad.” Startled by his voice, I look up and he winks. “You fell for it—literally.”

  “Dream on.”


  I try to push away, but my knees buckle a little. His eyes sweep across my neck, my chest, settle on my lips. My pulse goes from zero to sixty. I swallow hard as he closes the gap between us, the scent of his peppermint breath drawing me in.

  “Jules?”

  His voice is smooth, like a fine-tuned Camaro. I drink it up. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  Jesus, YES! My brain protests with the force of an air raid siren that I should back the hell up. Our lives are too complicated, too unstable. Nick doesn’t even like me. But the glint in his eye tells me something different.

  A strangled groan escapes my lips. I’m an idiot to think I could be immune to this.

  “So, yes to the mustache, then?”

  I blink so hard my eyes hurt. “You were asking for an opinion about the fucking mustache?” I punch him in the shoulder and take a step back.

  His eyes twinkle with mischief. “What did you think I meant?”

  My stomach bottoms out. Fuck. I really am an idiot.

  “Guys, is this not the best ha . . . ?” Chelsea’s voice trails off. “Oh crap.”

  I spin around so that Nick won’t see the disappointment and confusion on my face, and work up a smile for Chelsea. A newsboy cap sits askew atop her red curls. She looks freaking amazing.

  “Now that’s how you pull off a costume accessory,” I say, directing the comment at Nick without turning around. There’s an edge to my voice that borders on pissed and I know I’m mad at myself for letting my guard down, even a little.

  Chelsea offers a lopsided grin. “Found one for you too.”

  “Please, no.”

  She reaches for my hand. “Come on.”

  I let her lead me away, grateful for the out. We find Emma at the front of the store, twirling in front of a mirror with both hands pressed against a hat far too big for her head.

  Chelsea leans in. “Sorry if I interrupted something back there.”

  Just me being stupid.

  I shake my head fast. Too fast. And I’m careful not to meet her eyes. “All good.”

  Emma waves at me in the reflection. “Isn’t this hat purrrrfect?”

  Fitting question, since it looks like it’s made of cat fur. I wrinkle my nose. “Looks hairy.”

  We’ve explained away this whole excursion under the guise of foster sibling bonding, each taking turns to hang out with Emma while the others power shop for accessories that will help build our alter egos. The disguises will only mask so much. A heist of this magnitude will take more than fancy gadgets and stick-on facial hair.

  “Well, I think it’s gorgeous,” Chelsea drawls. She sidles up next to Emma to model a new wig. She’s speed-shifted from fiery redhead to ditzy blonde and the result is a bit jarring.

  “Not you at all.”

  She clucks her tongue into the side of her cheek. “And that is why it’s perfect. The whole point of dressing up is so you don’t look like yourself, right?”

  Mat peeks around the corner wearing a pair of oversize white sunglasses, a black hoodie, and baggy jeans. “Buenas tardes, chicas.”

  Good afternoon, indeed.

  Emma claps her hand over her mouth. “You look ridiculous.”

  He lowers the glasses and winks, sending her into a fit of childlike giggles. Moments like this are heady reminders of what’s at stake.

  Chelsea shoves me into a dressing room. “You need to start trying stuff on, STAT. If anyone needs a disguise, Ghost, it’s you.”

  My expression must register shock, because Chelsea laughs as she pulls the door closed. “I’ll be right outside. Holler if you need sizing.”

  Costume pieces fill the room—fancy dresses and short skirts that would barely cover my ass, feather boas, pseudo-designer purses, and heels so high my feet scream in protest at the sight of them. Chelsea must think we’re boosting cars at a drag show or something, because this certainly isn’t standard car theft attire.

  “I don’t hear movement,” she singsongs. “I’ll dress you myself if I have to.”

  Suddenly motivated, I lift one of the boas and wrap it around my neck. Pretend to strike a pose. My pale face glows in the reflection, almost disappearing under the overhead lights. I shift position. “Can’t I just throw my hoodie over my head?”

  I get that Chelsea wants to do the whole bling-bling thing, but dressing up is for the stage. I gave up the spotlight when I left dance. Now I’m more old school—black sweatshirt, dark jeans, and a reliable pair of shoes with sturdy heels that won’t snap if I trip over a damn pothole. I like to call it Hoodlum Chic.

  “Relax, Jules.” Chelsea tosses another item over the dressing room door. “Try this sexy number on next.”

  Twenty hot and sweaty minutes later, I end up with a couple of wigs, sunglasses, a pair of heels I’m more likely to use as a weapon, and a black cocktail dress with a V-neck that swoops almost to my belly button. Twice on the way to the cash register I try to put it back, but Chelsea won’t let me. “A girl can never have too many little black dresses.”

  “And yet, I’ve managed to survive all these years without one.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’ll thank me someday.”

  I wouldn’t bet on it.

  We meet up with Nick and Emma at the front register. He hands the teller fifty bucks and she gives him a small bag. Emma’s eyes grow huge when he hands the bag to her.

  My eyes bounce between them. Casually I say, “Whatcha got there, Ems?”

  She reaches in and pulls out a pair of pink satin slippers. They’re not official ballet, but the sentiment couldn’t be more real. My insides explode and the ice palace around my heart suffers a warning crack.

  “Wow, that’s”—my throat constricts—“really thoughtful.”

  Ems beams. “Right? He’s totally a keeper.”

  My insides blush. Nick quickly glances away and rubs the top of my sister’s head with obvious affection. I’m stunned by how fast my pulse picks up speed.

  “She kind of hinted about being a dancer,” he says, looking a bit sheepish. “And then she picked up those slipper things. Squealed loud enough to wake the dead.” He shrugs. “Seemed important to her.”

  To me, too. Seeing those pers in Emma’s hand takes me back to when I started ballet. I was all gangly arms and legs, clumsy as hell. Ms. Griffin guided and molded me through hours of strict discipline and tough love.

  My toes inadvertently flex and my calves stretch.

  A dull ache moves into my chest.

  I miss it—the rhythm, the routine.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

  “If I thought I had to, I wouldn’t have.”

  Emma spots Mat and starts running toward him, waving her new shoes like checkered flags.

  Appropriate. Because with this unexpected gesture, Nick has lodged a solid win—with both of us.

  • • •

  Emma straps on a helmet and climbs into the red go-kart at Pole Position Raceway. The number two is painted on the side of the door. Her hands grip the steering wheel with steely determination, eyes ahead.

  An overhead whistle blares.

  She pumps the gas pedal and shoots forward, narrowly missing the car in front of her.

  “Not so fast!” I yell over the music that blares through the indoor speakers.

  “It’s go-karts,” Chelsea says. “Hitting the other drivers is part of the fun.”

  She’s right, but the second Emma rounds the first corner, disappearing from sight, my nerves become elastic thin. When I finally spot her again, the air leaks from my lips like a deflated balloon.

  “Kid can drive,” Chelsea says. “That’s how I learned. My dad took me to the track every weekend until I decided shopping and cheerleading were way more fun than doing circles in a car that tops out at ten miles an hour.”

  My voice goes quiet. “Why did you do it? I mean . . . you had everything. Why give it up?”

  “Attention mostly.”

  I can’t help it. A tidal wave
of resentment washes over me. Emma and I never had much, but we would have given it all up for a fraction of the stability Chelsea took for granted.

  “That makes me sound like a brat, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.” My lips press into a firm line as I struggle for composure.

  “You don’t know my life, Jules.” She shakes her head. “Forget it. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Emma whirls around the track again, calling out my name. I look over and wave. Distracted, Emma crashes into the back end of another car and pitches forward. The seatbelt snaps her back in place.

  I spot Nick and Mat weaving their way through the crowded tables, trays loaded up with burgers, fries, and milkshakes. I’m grateful for the distraction. Something tells me Chelsea and I will never see eye-to-eye.

  Nick plops one of the trays in front of me. “Double cheese, no pickles, onions, or tomatoes.” He pauses. “So basically, just ketchup.”

  Mat puts his hand to his forehead and scans the track. “Ems still driving?”

  “Nothing’s getting her away from that car,” Chelsea says.

  “Not even this chocolate raspberry shake?”

  I laugh. “Not even that.”

  Which is probably a good thing, since we’re about to start planning our first boost—the 1970 Dodge Super Bee 426 Hemi Fastback.

  “Say that five times fast,” Chelsea says.

  Mat searches for a picture of the car on his phone and turns the screen so Chelsea and I can take a better look. It’s an aggressive beast—long body, short back end. A black stripe wraps around the tail.

  Mat zooms in on the logo, a cartoon bumblebee with wheels wearing a helmet and goggles.

  “Dodge only made a limited number of this model, less than one hundred,” Nick says. “The old Hemi engines weren’t known for running cool or getting good mileage.”

  Chelsea squints at the image with a frown. “It’s ugly.”

  Nick chokes on his milkshake. “Blasphemy.” He grabs Mat’s phone and starts scrolling through pictures in an attempt to find the car’s best angle. Finally, he gives up. “Wait until you see it up close. You’ll change your mind.”

  Mat pulls up a YouTube video of an idling Super Bee. Even over the buzzing background noise of the go-karts, the Dodge engine lets out a roar.