Overdrive

by Dawn Ius

  I cringe. “Holy shit, that’s loud.”

  That’s the thing about muscle cars. They don’t slide out of garages and warehouses—they charge like a bull, sputtering up a smoke show in their wake. That rumble might as well be a catcall to the cops.

  Nick bites into his burger. Cheese gushes out the side and splats onto the tray. “Let’s call this one Janice.”

  Chelsea tilts her head. “Excuse me? We’re naming the cars?”

  “It’s code,” I say. “That way, if we’re discussing them, no one listening on the waves knows what we’re talking about.”

  “Okaayyy.” She still looks skeptical. “Do they need to be girl names?”

  “Traditionally,” Mat says. “And these are muscle cars. . . .” Chelsea and I shoot him twin glares. He holds up his hand. “All right, all right. Lo siento. I’m cool to switch it up. Nick?”

  “That would be the safest,” he says.

  Chelsea taps her bottom lip. “This looks like a Jack to me.”

  “Jack?” I open the notes application in my cell phone and type the name next to the Super Bee. “Good. How about the Mako Shark?”

  “José.”

  Chelsea arches an eyebrow at Mat. “Jack and José? Sounds like the start to a very good party.”

  Nick lifts his milkshake and tilts the cup so the straw points at me. Pink ice cream oozes down the side. “The Camaro has to be Reggie.”

  After the previous owner, of course. I type it in.

  A high-pitched squeal from the track pulls my focus. Emma’s hands strangle the steering wheel as it goes back and forth, trying to wriggle her way out of a cramped corner. The determination on her face is scary—and familiar.

  “She’s like a mini you,” Nick says.

  My hackles raise. “Don’t you ever fucking say that.”

  The last thing I want is Emma following in my footsteps.

  Nick’s eyes go wide before it seems to sink in, and he puts his hand over my wrist. “Shit, Jules. I meant it as a compliment.”

  I turn back to the list, embarrassed at my outburst. “All good,” I mumble.

  “Okay then,” Chelsea says, always good at shifting moods. “Let’s go with Adam for the Coronet. Sexy name for a sexy car.”

  “You may want to revisit that,” Mat says. He Google searches an image and flips the screen around to show us. Chelsea scowls. “Gross.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much the ugly duckling of the muscle car world,” Nick says. “They tried to pretty it up by making it available in all kinds of colors—Sublime, Banana, Hemi-Orange . . .”

  “Please, God, tell me Roger wants Banana,” Mat says.

  I shake my head. “Plum Crazy Purple.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Figures. The guy’s nuts.”

  “Moving on to the Cosma Ray,” I say, before Chelsea can ask to rename the Coronet now that she realizes it’s not worthy of her rock star crush’s namesake. “It’s one of Barris’s. How about George?”

  Mat gives me a thumbs-up. “Nice one.”

  “James for the Aston Martin,” Nick says. “As in James . . . Bond.”

  “Someone woke up on the right side of the bed,” Chelsea says, nudging Nick’s shoulder.

  A heaviness settles in my chest as I stare at the last car on the list—the 1967 Shelby GT500, previously owned by Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors. Naming the car is one thing, that’s the easy part—but it means nothing if we can’t track it down.

  “The obvious choice is Jim,” I say.

  Chelsea’s eyes light up. “Jack, José, Jim—talk about a few good men!”

  “According to the legend, Morrison didn’t even like the car,” Nick says. “It was a gift from his record label. There’s a couple of versions of the story, but the gist of it is that he crashed the Shelby on the way to a gig. Instead of calling the cops, he hitched a cab ride to his show. A couple of hours later he came back for the car—gonzo. No one’s seen it since.”

  The reality of the situation sets in. “Guys, there’s no way we can pull this off.”

  Mat finishes off his shake and tosses the cup into a garbage can. “You’re underestimating my mad tracking skills, Jules.”

  I muster an apologetic smile but doubt lingers in the pit of my stomach. The car’s been MIA for more than two decades—and we’ve got seven weeks to track it down. There is nothing good about those odds.

  “Since that’s the most important car, I vote for a female name,” Chelsea says.

  Nick and I exchange knowing glances before simultaneously blurting out, “Eleanor.”

  It’s the name of the famous Shelby from the movie Gone In 60 Seconds. It shouldn’t surprise me that Nick and I would be in sync, but it kind of does.

  He smiles. It’s a beautiful smile. The kind that burrows its way under my skin and sucker-punches me right in the chest.

  Mat crumples his empty burger wrapper into a ball and fires it at the garbage can. It circles the rim and plops in.

  “Luck,” Nick quips.

  “Skill, cabrón.”

  He grabs a laptop from his messenger bag and flips open the screen.

  Chelsea shuffles closer to him. “Whatcha doin’?”

  His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Research. This place is close enough to the Strip that I can log into the public Wi-Fi. It’s one of the few spots around with a fiber connection that gives me enough gigabyte speed to . . .”

  He glances up, notices that we’re staring at him with confusion, and chuckles. “Forget it. All you need to know is that I’m tracking down our first target.”

  Emma’s voice carries over the racetrack. “Jules! Nick! Come race with me.”

  “Not a chance,” I call back.

  “Afraid you’ll lose?” Nick taunts. His eyes get that mischievous glint that causes my stomach to flutter.

  “Whoa,” Chelsea says, joining in on the teasing. “You’re not going to take that, are you?”

  “Jesus, Jules, you look scared,” Mat adds. “You’re as white as a gh—”

  “For fuck’s sake, you guys.” I’m trying hard not to laugh. “Enough with the stupid ghost cracks.”

  Nick shrugs. “Sorry, Jules. You’re just so . . . transparent.”

  I shove my tray of untouched food aside and stand. “You prepared to put a wager on this challenge, hotshot?”

  “Race you to the starting line.” Nick grins, then darts away.

  I take off after him, pushing my way through the crowd of people gathered around the entrance. People file out from their go-karts. I catch sight of Emma and wave her over.

  Her face is flushed.

  “Is Nick coming too?”

  I glance over to find him already strapped into the number three car. Emma reclaims the two. Across the track, I find the empty number one and jump inside. Fasten the helmet.

  A jolt from behind nudges the car forward.

  “You’re too late, Barker,” I say, without even looking back at Nick. An unfamiliar warmth unfurls inside me, and a smile creeps into the corners of my mouth—I’m surprised at how easy, how comfortable this all is. “See the number on this car? Read it and weep, my friend.”

  He idles up next to me and winks. “Hey, Ghost . . . watch me disappear.”

  11

  A GIANT FLAT-SCREEN LOWERS FROM the ceiling in the games room. Nick hits the lights while an oversize picture of a blue and black Super Bee rocks into focus. I refer to the list on my phone: This is Jack.

  Chelsea screws up her face. No question she’d be happier stealing Rolls Royces and Audis—which is just another reminder she’s out of her element. All the gadgets in the world can’t net us those high-end rides.

  Mat grabs a cue from the rack next to the pool table and uses it like a pointer stick, tapping the screen. “Ladies, meet Jack.” Using a remote clicker, he flicks through a series of photographs while providing voice-over commentary in a low, game-show-host tone. “True, he’s not the most handsome guy on the lot, but he makes up for it i
n power and speed.”

  Nick clears his throat. “Not compared to today’s hot rods, but he can still push zero to sixty in just over five seconds—with the right driver.”

  Our eyes lock in silent challenge.

  “It’s a four speed,” I say. “Manual transmission.” Nick lifts an eyebrow and I shrug, feigning nonchalance. Truth is, I’ve done some of my own research. “I know how to work a stick.”

  Mat shakes his hand. “Aychiwawa.” Turning back to the screen, he points to the front of the car. “This beauty right here is called a looped bumper—often referred to as the car’s bumble bee wings.”

  “Aw, now you’re just showing off,” Chelsea says. Mat ducks to avoid a piece of popcorn she lobs at him. “Okay, I’m sold on Jack’s profile pic. Tell me how to get this stud muffin home.”

  My neck tightens and I roll it from side to side.

  Mat clicks through to the next picture. “Well, you’re in luck because your guy is here”—he nudges his chin toward an enlarged image of a modest clay house with a well-manicured front yard—“at the home of Grant Danvers, an entrepreneur by day, showgirl ogler by night.”

  Chelsea’s mouth gapes. “You found that out by logging into the DMV?”

  “This is the age of social media, chica,” he says. “Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter—Danvers is fully connected.”

  To emphasize the point, he forwards to a screenshot of a Facebook profile and a recent status update.

  “‘Show me the titties,’” I read aloud. “Classy.”

  Chelsea grunts. “God. He’s not even good-looking.”

  “Where’s this loser live?” Nick says.

  “East Flamingo Road.” Mat splits the screen—a map of Vegas on one side, the Danvers house on the other. “He keeps the car in the driveway—which, as you can see, is surrounded by some serious fencing.”

  Thick, yes, but not impenetrable.

  “Unfortunately,” Mat says, side-eyeing Chelsea, “I couldn’t zoom in close enough to figure out the lock system on the gate.”

  I chew on my lower lip. “Nick and I can focus on that when we scout the car.”

  Chelsea hops off her stool and stoops to grab a six-pack of Coke from the mini-fridge. “Can we talk about getting diet soda down here?”

  Nick rolls his eyes. “Tell it to Sugar Daddy Roger.”

  She scowls at him, then hands each of us a can before wiggling back onto her seat. “I don’t get what we’re waiting for. Scouting or whatever. Let’s just go get it.”

  I crack open the Coke and take a long swig. The bubbles tickle my esophagus. “Too risky.” I wipe the corner of my lip with the heel of my hand. “We need to establish Danvers’s routine—we already know he frequents the Strip. How often?”

  Mat scrolls through his cell phone. “According to Twitter, three nights a week.”

  “Gross,” Chelsea says.

  “We also don’t know if the car runs,” Nick adds.

  I raise my soda in mock toast. “That too.” After a pause, I add, “Or whether it can be hot-wired.”

  Chelsea swivels toward me. “Can’t they all?”

  “Most of the older cars, yes,” I say carefully. “Unless it’s been modified or the security’s upgraded. Most people who have a true appreciation for hot rods tend not to mess too much with them, though.”

  On cue, Mat clicks back to the first image of the car and enlarges the frame. “Paint looks original.”

  Clearly I’m not the only one who’s done some research.

  “Assuming the interior’s the same, we’re golden,” Nick says.

  “A quick trip through Danvers’s enlightening Instagram feed tells me he’s more interested in the ladies than Jack.” Mat grins. “I’ll spare you the photographic proof.”

  “Why hold back now?” Nick says, winking.

  I deflect a pang of misguided jealousy and blow out a breath to refocus. Lots of factors, limited time. “Flamingo Road is just off the Strip, right?”

  “It’s a long street.” Nick moves closer to the map. “East runs right between the Bellagio and Caesars Palace.”

  I gather my hair in a ponytail and curl it up into an easy bun. The motion draws Nick’s attention and suddenly I’m aware of his eyes on my exposed neck. My voice catches a little. “That explains the extra security.”

  The streets on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard (famously known as the Strip) can be rough—littered with pawn shops, tattoo parlors, twenty-four-hour wedding chapels, and run-down motels. Not to mention drunks, tweakers, and drunk tweakers.

  I glance over at Nick. “You up for a drive?”

  He chugs the rest of his drink and shrugs into his leather jacket. “Can’t think of a better way to spend a hot Tuesday night.”

  • • •

  Nick’s motorcycle might be on its last wheels. The rear fender’s bent, the chrome polish is scratched, and the body is so chipped, the black finish looks marbled under the floodlights in front of Roger’s house. A small patch of oil marks the pavement beneath the engine.

  He fastens his helmet and shifts forward in the seat. The leather jacket tightens across his shoulders and back.

  Heat flushes up the side of my neck. “Bike needs some work,” I say, faking indifference. Truth is, I’m terrified of anything on two wheels. I don’t even know the last time I rode a bicycle. Not like I’d admit that to Nick. Or anyone. In my experience, copping to any kind of vulnerability just makes you weak. “No car we can borrow?”

  His expression darkens. “Someone stole mine, remember?”

  Right. Vicki.

  He cranks the ignition key. There’s a soft tick, but the engine doesn’t turn over. He tenses. Tries again. The motor sputters and then peters out.

  “Maybe we could take one of Roger’s?”

  Nick smirks. “Sure, let’s borrow the RX.”

  Low blow, but the point drives home.

  Nick reaches under the gas tank and tugs out a couple of wires. He twists them together in a motion that is all too familiar. This time when he turns the key, the engine click-click-clicks and then roars to life. “Huh. Guess we take the bike after all,” he says.

  The scent of gasoline and exhaust curls under my nose. I can’t help it—my stomach flutters. The sound, the smell—they’re a damn turn-on, heightened by Nick’s hot-guy-bad-boy vibe. Jesus. I need to give my head a shake.

  His gaze flickers across my face with impatience. “You plan on running alongside, or you getting on?”

  My vocal cords jam up. “On . . . ?”

  “The bike.” When I hesitate, he moans. “Aw, shit. Don’t tell me you’re a motorcycle virgin?”

  I bristle. “So what if I am?”

  He grabs the spare helmet hanging off the handlebar, wedges it onto my head, and fastens the chin strap. A smile plays on his lips. The second his skin touches mine, the fuel intake to my brain burns real low. His scent is a musky mix of engine oil and exhaust. I take in an illicit breath.

  “Get on,” he says.

  The bike rides double but there’s no backrest, so I climb on and snake my arms under his jacket and around his waist. I slide back as far as I can, but my thighs still rub against the back of his. The bike purrs beneath us.

  “Listen up,” he says, all serious. “When I lean, you lean with me. That’s important.” A fist of fear punches me in the gut. “Riding is a balancing act, so you need to move with the bike.”

  Which sucks, because all of a sudden I’ve developed a serious case of mock rigor mortis.

  Nick knocks the kickstand out with his foot. The bike jolts. I hang on with the force of a vise-grip.

  “Relax,” he says. “I won’t bite—this time.”

  I gnash my teeth and hang on, terrified.

  He twists the throttle. The bike lurches forward. I collide into him and nervous sweat fills my palms. Breathe.

  I’ve street-raced in the back alleys, speed-shifted from second to fourth, and cornered thirty miles an hour over the posted limit.
I once gunned down the highway at a ’78 Firebird’s ungoverned top speed. But this? This scares the shit out of me.

  Nick pulls onto the freeway. Wind whips through my hair as the sprawling mansions alongside the road pass in a blur. Adrenaline hammers my bloodstream, morphing anxiety into thrill.

  Nick zips through traffic and we lean left. Right. Our movements are synchronized like ballet dancers who’ve partnered their whole lives. My limbs turn lucid, the grip around his waist slack. The situation hovers between dangerous and deadly, but somehow I feel safe. Even as the dotted lines on the hot asphalt become one continuous streak of white.

  In the distance, the tall hotels glimmer and thousands of neon lights line the Strip. Nick takes a sharp corner and the bike wobbles. He gets back control, but not before I scream.

  He chuckles so hard his body shakes.

  At the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Road, Nick takes a right and throttles down. My thighs tremble, pulsing with the vibrations from the bike’s steady hum. He pulls up to a curb and cuts the engine.

  My heart races like we’re still going fast.

  I’m desperate for Nick to say something, to tell me I did good, or that he’s impressed. Anything. Instead, he nudges his chin toward a house across the street. “That’s Danvers’s place. Time to get to work.”

  • • •

  I zoom up on the front of the bungalow, adjusting the telephoto lens on the camera for maximum range. Then close in on Jack.

  The Vegas nightlife clamors in the background, punctuated by the throaty growl of a few passing motorcycles and muscle cars. That bodes well. If we can get through the security gate, the Super Bee’s “bumble rumble” will just . . . blend in.

  “The zoom isn’t much good in this light,” I say. “We need to get closer.”

  Dusk settles over Sin City, darkening the sky. The towering pillar of the eleven-hundred-foot-tall Stratosphere hotel peers over the horizon. On the other end of the Strip, the Luxor pyramid light beam extends into the brilliant sunset.

  We slide off the bike in silence, gather our things. Nick tucks his hands into his pockets and looks left, right, left again. I half-run to catch up to his long stride as he crosses the street. The designer camera bag slaps against my hip. He moves with purpose, tension. I can’t hold back. “Is this your gearing-up-for-a-boost face or are you just in another mood?”