by Dawn Ius
“Forget it.”
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Look, I get you don’t like me but—”
Nick turns around. “I never said that.”
“Your silence speaks volumes.” I hitch the camera strap farther up my shoulder and start walking again. “But we’re stuck together—for at least the next seven weeks—and I can’t keep doing this hate-me-like-me-tolerate-me-despise-me bullshit. I’ve got enough to worry about without adding your moods to the mix.”
He shoves his hands in his pocket. “I just hate this area.”
Finally. “The Strip?”
He nods.
“Because of the gambling?”
More than two hundred thousand slot machines churn twenty-four hours a day—and it’s not enough to accommodate the forty-some million annual visitors. Just five percent of them say they come here to gamble—eighty-seven percent leave with only the shirts on their back. Probably says a lot about willpower.
Nick’s face flickers with annoyance.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Come on. Give me something here.”
He stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Fine. You want my story? It’s really short—a damn cliché. My old man lost it all on the slots—our house, the business. Even my fucking car.”
I blink. “I thought someone stole Vicki.”
The second the words are out I want to reel them back in. After weeks of waiting for him to open up, I ask about his car. Jesus. I’m an ass.
He stares at me a little too long. “Dad bought me that car for my thirteenth birthday—a ’69 Boss. Just a skeleton. Candy Apple Red.”
“Sweet car.”
Few Mustangs make my radar—there’s one on every Vegas street corner—but the Boss nets good coin on the black market. “I stole one like that before—”
He cuts me off. “Dad knew that car meant everything to me. I spent hours in the shop trying to piece her back together. Didn’t take long before I ran out of cash.”
“You started boosting for parts?”
The muscle in the side of his cheek pulses. “No. To pay off my dad’s gambling debts and take care of my little brother.”
My mouth forms a soft oh.
His hands ball into fists at his side. “Dad sold my car anyway.”
“That’s fucked up,” I whisper.
“I tried to get her back. Spent two months doing basic recon.” He chuckles without humor. “Had big plans to pick up my brother and get us both out of this shithole city.”
My stomach sinks. “And that’s when someone took her. Ouch.”
Nick grabs the back of his neck. “Funny. I have a few other choice words for the person who pulled off that boost.”
Holding a grudge takes effort—even when you don’t even know who to be mad at. No wonder Nick has a giant chip on his shoulder.
His eyes soften under the orange and yellow neon lights from the nearby hotel and gambling hall. A warm glow partially covers his face, shading in the dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired. Pained.
I reach for his arm. “Where is your brother now?”
He winces, and I can’t tell if it’s from my touch or the question. “In the system, somewhere in Nevada—somewhere far from Vegas.”
“You don’t know?”
He yanks his arm away and scowls. “Keeping together wasn’t an option for us,” he says. “First time I had a run-in with the law, my foster parents kicked me out. They agreed to keep Chase if I left quietly and didn’t turn them in to the state for collecting money for me. Chase was doing good—going to school, staying out of trouble.” He kicks at a loose pebble on the pavement. “They’d probably still be getting checks from the government if Roger hadn’t picked me up.”
My thoughts turn to Emma. “You didn’t ask Roger if Chase could move in?”
“And uproot him again? Not a chance. Roger was just supposed to be a temporary fix, anyway,” he says. “A place to stay until the heat died off.”
“You get caught midgrab?”
It’s almost eerie how parallel our stories have become and I wonder if it’s enough to finally ease the tension between us. My gut tells me there’s more to this.
“A couple of months ago I tracked Vicki down—again. Started plotting a boost.” He lowers his chin. “But I also took a couple of jobs that went bad. Really bad. Roger picked me up before social services could get involved. If they’d found out about Chase . . .”
We pause at the house next to Danvers’s and Nick glances over his shoulder. Light traffic flows back and forth. “Roger fixed it so Chase was safe, and got me away from Riley.”
“Is that your dad’s name?”
“My dad’s a useless SOB, but he’s not dangerous. At least not to anyone other than his bank account. He’d have pawned his dentures if it wasn’t illegal,” he says. “Riley’s my old boss. Runs a ring of car thieves on the south side.”
The name twigs a vague memory.
“After each boost I kept saying, This is it, Barker, you’re going legit after this, but it’s never as simple as that.” Holy hell, can I relate. “Once you enter the land of the illegal, someone always owns you. That was Riley, for me.”
I pull the loose ends of my hair back and roll them under my fingers. “Is Riley the reason you knew about me?”
Nick flinches. “I keep in touch with a few of the guys from his crew—they heard you got pinched.” He clears his throat. “Then you strutted in with that white hair . . .”
I’m grateful it’s dark enough that he can’t see my blush. “So you’ve got something against my hair? Or my rep?”
Nick stiffens. “Much as I’ve enjoyed this walk down memory lane, we’ve got shit to do. Let’s get what we came for and get out of here.”
It should be enough that I’ve peeled away another layer of Nick’s body armor, but disappointment clouds the victory. I focus on the car, our mission.
Mat’s pictures of the Super Bee don’t do Jack justice. Chelsea may not be impressed, but I’d take him home in a heartbeat. Polished chrome, freshly waxed paint—superficial restoration, if any at all. I note the clean tires. “Doesn’t look like Danvers drives it much.”
“He wouldn’t in this heat,” Nick says. “Those old fuel pumps can’t hack these temperatures. The gas gets so hot it can boil and the car surges from fuel starvation. Not exactly a show stopper.”
“It’s amazing what your brain retains,” I say with a shy smile.
“I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”
He takes my hand, and I stare at our interlocked fingers as sweat beads between my shoulder blades. I know it’s just part of the charade—a young couple out for a walk—but my insides twist.
Nick mistakes the tremble of my hand for nerves. “Relax, doll. We’re just out taking some pictures. Nothing illegal in that.”
Yet.
I flick on my Bluetooth and with a free hand, adjust the mic. Mat’s voice crackles through the line. “Buenas noches, kiddos. What’s happening?”
“Just getting acquainted with Jack,” I say. “Dude’s got game.”
“No friends?”
He means Danvers. My eyes scan the house windows—curtains closed, lights out. Show me the titties, I remember. “Nah, Jack’s buddies dipped.”
Nick slips a small digital camera from the front pocket of his leather jacket and tucks it into his palm. The gadget looks like a regular point and shoot, but Mat says the macro lens will zoom in on the finer details Chelsea needs to figure out the locking device.
Nick drops my hand and starts snapping pics while Mat fires off a list of required angles and a few bonus shots that include random images of the property.
“There’s a sign in his front window,” I say. “Think it’s a security company.”
Mat chuckles. “It’s just for show. I hacked into their client list. The guy hasn’t paid his bill in over a year, so they cut him off.”
Excellent.
Nick slides the cam
era back into his pocket and does up the zipper. Gives me the nod, as if to say, We’re good to go.
Taking the cue, I speak into the Bluetooth. “All done here. We’ll just say bye to Jack and—”
Nick spins me into his arms. He pulls me against chest and whispers low in my ear. “Police.” His heart thumps. Or maybe it’s mine—ours. I’m so jacked up, it’s hard to tell.
Headlights creep toward us in slow motion.
One of Nick’s hands moves to my waist, the other to the back of my neck. He tilts my head up and our eyes connect. I shift my gaze to his lips.
Everything else fades into the background.
My head lifts toward his and he answers with a downward tilt toward mine. My eyes close. His breath is hot. I stand on tiptoes, closing the distance between us. Fuck it. I don’t care if it’s fake, I’m kissing him.
Our lips brush—
“Jules.”
His voice is a sharp whisper.
Shhhh. No talking.
“Jules?”
My eyes open. I blink, disoriented and confused. A flush of embarrassment crawls up my neck.
A smile plays in the corner of Nick’s mouth. He jerks his head back. “They’re gone. Let’s roll.”
12
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
CHELSEA’S VIOLET WIG GLOWS LAVENDER under the dim streetlight. She tugs her hoodie up and pulls three small metal objects from the back pocket of her severely baggy jeans. For the first time since we met, I see a bit of the street kid behind the glamour–even if it’s just a front.
She hands me something that looks like an Allen key, and clenches another item between her lips as her hands wrap around the lock.
“Where’d you learn how to do this?”
“I’m self-taught.” Chelsea taps the side of her head. “It’s just problem solving. I look at a lock the way you probably look at a car–you study it, assess it, figure out how to beat it.”
“Or you Google search it,” I quip. “Seriously though–you’re good.”
She grins. “But not great. I still got caught.” Her fingers work on the lock. “Check this: There I am, a pick between my teeth and a nail file in my hand, and suddenly . . . cops everywhere. You’d think I was pulling an Oceans Eleven the way they swarmed on that warehouse.”
“Must have been some decent shit inside.”
“Beats me. I never got that far.” She snorts. “But, girl, the lock system was suhweet. I was so hyped up, I didn’t think about things like security cameras.” Her cheeks flush. “Rookie move, I know.”
“No judgment here,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Questionable judgment landed me in cuffs too.”
“It’s for the best,” she mumbles.
My skin bristles. “How can you say that? I get that your parents weren’t perfect, but don’t you miss them?” Ems and I struck out with ours, and my heart sometimes aches with the loss of what should have been. “Unless I’m missing something, they didn’t beat or abandon you. You’d rather live in foster care?”
“Maybe the system isn’t so bad.”
I huff with disbelief. “We’ve clearly not hung out in the same foster circles.”
She looks sheepish and I get the sense there’s more to her story than she’s letting on, but I’m too riled up to ask.
“Fourth and counting,” I say, holding up a hand. “First up, the Joneses–we couldn’t keep up with them, or their stupid rules. Round two, old Mrs. Potts and her creepy Hansel and Gretel cabin. The Millers were the worst though.”
She runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “We’re not as different as you think.”
“You can’t think we’re the same?”
She shrugs. “I’m just saying, we’ve all given up a lot. We do what we have to, to survive.”
The simplicity of her words sets me on edge. Ems and I didn’t leave our parents. They left us. We didn’t have a choice. But Chelsea wouldn’t get that–technically, she’s not a throwaway. “If you want to walk a mile in my shoes, you’ll need to lose those pretentious heels.”
Her eyes spark and I can tell she’s pissed. Okay, maybe I’m acting out, but I can’t help it. This hits too close to home.
“Keep an eye out,” she says.
I press my back against the fence so I’ve got a clear view of the street. It’s two in the morning and Danvers has been home for three hours. At one, he peered out his front window, flicked off the lights. That’s the last we’ve seen of him.
“Fuck.” Chelsea spits the small tool into her palm and shakes her head. “Stupid piece of shit–”
I blink in shock. She went from supermodel to truck driver in less than two seconds. Maybe she’s madder than I realized.
“Wrong equipment?” I cut in, nervous.
She tilts her head back. “Please.” Then gets back to work. “I broke a fucking nail.”
The tension between us lightens. “Aw, Muffin.”
Her middle finger shoots up, giving me a close-up of her torn nail. It’s painted blue and black, the same color as the Super Bee.
After a series of soft clinks and a string of muttered curses, the lock disengages with a loud clunk. Chelsea freezes. My eyes flit from the street to the house to the yard and back. At my all clear, she lifts the lock off the gate and tucks it into the front pocket of her hoodie.
“You’re up.”
And like an eclipse, Chelsea slips into the shadows as Nick appears under the light. I’m jittery and the pressure on my chest is torturous, but he puts a steadying hand on my shoulder and my nerves settle. “Ready?”
I shake my hands, bounce a little on my feet to loosen up. My arms stretch upward. I twist my hips. Unfurl my fingers. Lean deep.
Nick flicks his tongue across his lip piercing. “Interesting ritual.”
“What? You don’t have some kind of routine?”
He winks. “Sure. I just like a little privacy.”
Shit. I can’t believe he just made me blush.
The gate creaks under the weight of our hands. We pause, listen. Keep moving forward. It’s not just Danvers I’m worried about. He lives on a corner lot, and even though the surrounding homes are dark and still, my senses are on high alert. I don’t like surprises.
Surprise!–the neighbor dog needs to take a piss.
Surprise!–nosy Nettie next door has insomnia.
Mat’s voice crackles through the Bluetooth. “Clear on our end.”
“Copy that,” I say.
We stoop low and slink toward the Super Bee. Nick caresses the front bumper as I dip beside the driver’s-side door. A countdown begins in the back of my head. Sixty seconds. That’s how long it should take to pull off this boost.
I pull on the handle and the car door clicks open. Nick and I stare at each other through the windows in surprise. Holy shit, it’s not even locked.
I wedge the door open and slide onto the bench seat. The vinyl is cool against my thighs. Nick pops open the passenger door and stands guard. I clench a small flashlight between my teeth and duck my head under the steering wheel, looking for the wires.
Forty-one, Mississippi.
My fingers find the opening under the dash and fumble around. Something grazes my thumb, but it’s not what I’m looking for. Thirty, Mississippi. The fluttering in my stomach picks up speed.
Focus.
Nick leans down and pops his head through the passenger door. I’m sure the same countdown is running through his mind. “You got this?”
My hands shake. The flashlight beam hovers over the ignition.
Twenty, Mississippi.
There’s not enough time to hot-wire this car. I dig around in the front of my hoodie and pull
out a screwdriver. Nick and I exchange a look before he nods. It’s our only option. I jam the Phillips into the ignition and twist.
The car sputters to life. I pump the gas.
Adrenaline surges through me.
Nick slides into the car and pulls the door closed, his face flush. “Keep the fuel going,” he says. “More gas.”
In the rearview, a plume of smoke floats out the back end. I scan the dash–half a tank, less than twenty thousand miles on the tack. Jesus, this car’s hardly been driven.
Ten, Mississippi.
We’re almost home free.
Mat’s voice blasts into the Bluetooth. “Lights on, far end of the house. I repeat, lights on.”
I turn to Nick, wild-eyed. “Danvers is awake.”
“Let’s go.”
I slam the car into reverse and step on the gas. Jack jerks, sputters, and threatens to stall out. Fuck. I throw it into neutral.
Nick’s voice rises a full octave. “You have to engage the clutch!”
No shit. His words jumble around in my brain. I try again, but the gear sticks. I can’t get it into reverse. My head pounds as I’m reeled back in time. Kevin. The RX-8. No . . .
I manhandle the gearshift.
Hit the gas.
The car lurches forward and my heart rams into my rib cage. Nick’s head slams into the dash.
“Fuck, Jules, I thought you knew how to drive a stick.”
I’m scared, but more than that I’m pissed. My voice trembles. “Lay off. I’m not used to the clutch.” This clutch. The car’s vintage, and every stick is different. Nick knows that.
He slides closer. “I’ll drive.”
I look up and see headlights in my rearview just as Chelsea’s panic-stricken voice blasts through my earpiece. “Cops, you guys. Cops!”
I’m paralyzed, drowning in déjà vu.
Nick smacks the top of the dashboard and I jolt hard enough to make my neck snap. “Make a decision, Jules.”
The smart thing would be to let Nick drive, but my pride overpowers logic. I square my shoulders, ram the gearshift back, and stomp on the gas. The engine roars. Tires spin. A cloud of exhaust billows out the back end and the scent of burned rubber fills the air.
