by Dawn Ius
Still sounds like a bad idea. “Then convince me we need to do both in one night.”
“I could use the extra time.” All eyes land on Mat. He spreads his hands wide, palms up. “I might have a lead on the Aston Martin, but Eleanor? She’s like a damn ghost.” He shoots me a wry grin and my cheeks go hot. “If we can pull off a twofer, it would buy me an extra week.”
I can’t completely shake my sinking feeling about it, but Mat’s logic is something I can get behind. “What kind of security are we looking at, Chelsea?”
She tosses her tablet onto the bed and calls up an album of photographs. I lean over the chair to get a better view. “This is where we’ll find José. The garage door has a five-digit PIN which Mat has decoded using a simple–”
“Phishing scheme,” he says. His mouth curls into a crooked smile. “Turns out José’s daddy enjoys playing online poker. I hacked into his profile and sent him a couple of”–he uses his fingers to make air quotes–“important e-mails to draw out the information I need. From there, I logged into his mail server. Found out the guy won almost ten grand on a full house not too long ago–nines and aces.”
“He’s also a volunteer firefighter,” Chelsea says. “Mat figured nine-one-one would be part of the PIN.”
Mat clucks his tongue. “Nine-nine-nine-one-one, to be exact.” He holds up a rectangular device. “This is a remote PIN pad, which I’ve already precoded. Nick and I skipped out this morning and tested my theory. The garage opened. There’s a gate, but the lock is fairly standard.”
Okay, so I’m impressed. “Cameras?”
Mat winks at me. “I hacked the server and downloaded twenty seconds of footage from last Wednesday. I’ll disable the feed and set the canned film to loop.”
“Looks like you’re off the hook on this one, Chelsea,” I tease.
“Don’t worry, I’ll earn my keep at Reggie’s house.” She points to a second set of images. “If Mat cuts the alarm, I can pick the lock at the first gate here.” Her piercing knocks against her teeth. “But that’s only the first line of defense. It’s a hike up the driveway–which is lined with cameras and two roving spotlights–to a second gate. That lock has a Chubb detector on it.”
Nick snorts. “I doubt that means what I think.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Easy, perv. It’s a type of level tumbler lock with an integral security feature. The second it detects tampering, it relocks itself.”
My neck muscles tighten.
“I’ll just have to figure out how to avoid triggering the automatic jamming mechanism,” she adds quickly.
I turn to Nick. “You’re sure we can hot-wire these?”
He folds his arms across his chest and leans against my dresser. “Not the Mako Shark,” he says. “Even though the car proved unstable at high speeds–the nose is too low, the fenders too high–Chevy installed a sophisticated anti-theft system that we can’t bypass. Not in this time frame.”
“Quit trying to impress her and tell her what we found.”
Nick flushes. “We zoomed in on the garage with Mat’s binoculars . . . and the key for the ’Vette is hanging on a pegboard.”
I cough. “So José’s almost in the bag. Tell me more about Reggie.”
He runs his hand over his face. “If Chelsea can get us in there, we should have no problem hot-wiring the Camaro. The trick will be getting it down the driveway without waking the owner. It’s a long downhill, and this thing sounds like a jet plane taking off.”
“Didn’t you say this Camaro was the fastest and most collectible muscle car ever made?”
“All things being equal.”
I grunt. “Guess we’ll find out what she can do on a quarter mile.”
“How far’s a quarter mile?”
The sound of Emma’s voice startles me. I slap my hand against my chest. “You’ve got to quit scaring me like that.”
Emma smirks. “Maybe if you invited me I wouldn’t have to sneak up on you.”
Nick reaches down and rubs the top of her head. “We’re having adult talk.”
I bite my lip to stop from laughing. That tactic so isn’t going to work on my sister. Her eyes narrow into thin slits. “Legal age in Vegas is twenty-one. Besides, I know you’re talking about race cars. I like racing.”
Nick makes a face. “I’ve seen you drive.”
She crosses her arms. “Do you forget I beat you?” She spins around and points to me. “And you. Of course, you two were so busy trying to show each other up that my win was overshadowed.”
My voice cracks. “Emma!”
Nick doesn’t flinch. “Are you saying I owe you a victory lap?”
“I’ll take a ten-second car.”
My jaw drops. “Oh my God. You’ve been watching too many Fast and the Furious movies.”
“There’s no such thing,” she says.
Chelsea pumps the heel of her hand upward. “Hell yeah, sister. That Vin Diesel . . .”
I shoot her a look. “Okay, okay. Now that we’re all impressed with your racing skills, what’s up, Ems?”
She lowers her eyes. “Can you spot me on the barre?”
My first instinct is to blow her off, until I realize how long it’s been since we’ve spent time together. I’ve been so wrapped up in planning these boosts, I’ve almost forgotten the whole reason I took on the gig. One look at the ballet slippers dangling from her fingertips and a fresh wave of guilt floods through me.
“Just what this house needs, another diva,” Mat says. His dimples widen with his grin.
Emma’s face brightens. “Someday, I hope.”
I stand and brush off my jeans, my thoughts conflicted. I’m happy Emma still wants to dance, that she’s not too old to chase the dream. But being in that room–my reflection bouncing off the wall of mirrors–is a stark reminder of everything I’ve lost. The life I can’t have.
For Emma’s sake, I shake it off. “I think you were born a diva,” I tease. At the door, I turn back to the others. “I’ll be back after I teach this kid how to pirouette.”
• • •
Emma bends into a perfect plié. Straight lines, impressive balance. I admit, I’m surprised. “Whoa, Ems, you’ve been practicing hard.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Trying to.” She turns her head toward the wall of mirrors. “I know Roger built this room for you. . . .”
I shrug off discomfort, trying not to let her words affect me. “I don’t mind sharing.”
“Especially since you’re never here.”
There’s an edge to her voice that makes me wary. No way she could know the real reason I haven’t been at the mansion as much, but I don’t like her guessing, either. Emma’s insecurities always threaten to rise to the surface when she’s in the dark.
Emma lifts her leg onto the barre and stretches. “Why don’t you take me with you?” She bends forward, hand on her calf. “Like when you and Mat went to the library–you could have asked me to come too.”
The accusation threads into my bloodstream and quickens my pulse. “You put a tracker on me or something?”
“I hear stuff,” she says, and refocuses on her stretch.
“Because you eavesdrop.” Our eyes meet and I’m startled to see tears. A knot forms in my stomach. “That wasn’t nice. . . .”
She shakes her head. “It’s the truth.”
“You know you can ask me anything, right?”
I’m struck by how healthy she looks–thin but strong, her once gangly arms filling out with the kind of tone that will help her with dance. She pulls her leg down and shrugs.
The motion stings. Even with seven years between us, she’s always been my best friend, the one person I could count on and trust. I thought she felt the same.
“Why don’t you like Roger?”
I sigh. “He’s just different.” The right words jumble around in my mouth like marbles. I can’t lie to her–Ems and I don’t do that, at least not outright. But telling her the truth isn’t an option either. �
��I need more time to get to know him.”
Emma looks thoughtful. “He’s good to me.”
That should be enough. Could have been if I didn’t know there was more to the story.
“And sometimes I feel special. Important. Like royalty.”
I laugh. “That’s good, right?”
“Yeah, but I want you to feel taken care of.”
I snort. “Don’t need to be cared for.” Though a tiny part of me wonders if I do.
Why does it have to be so hard?
I reach forward and take her into my arms, run my fingers through her hair. It’s been years since she let me touch her like this; lately she’s been in that awkward preteen stage where too much affection isn’t cool.
“I miss Mom,” she whispers.
Tears gather in the corners of my eyes as I fight to control the emotions. I want to tell her that our mother’s not worth missing, that I’m doing the best that I can, that we don’t need our parents, or anyone but each other. But I can’t get the words out, because the truth of it is, I miss her too.
Emma breaks away and stands on her tiptoes to smooth away the tears running down my face. She kisses my forehead, like I used to do when she was upset. How did our roles get so reversed? “Everything’s going to be okay, Julia. . . .”
I can’t help but wonder if she believed me then any more than I do her now.
• • •
Chelsea’s frustration fires through my Bluetooth earpiece like a series of short shotgun blasts. “Shit. Piss. Fuck.”
I’m not quite used to her alter ego, the rough and tough lock picker with a mouth like a truck driver jacked up on adrenaline. No wonder I don’t trust people–is anyone who they seem anymore?
“This lock is being a real bitch.”
“And José was supposed to be an easy date,” I mutter.
I watch Chelsea and Nick from across the street, keeping an eye on the windows in the house for any sign of movement. We’re already thirty seconds into this boost and not even through the first gate.
“Should we be worried?”
Mat slouches down farther in the passenger seat of the Civic, another of Roger’s loaner cars. His laptop rests on his knees.
Annoyance chips away at me. “Hey. I’m serious.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “She’ll get it.”
His laptop pings. I peer over the front seat for a closer look. Even dimmed, the screen’s too bright and I squint to make out what the trawling program has dredged up. “James?”
“I wish.”
Movement across the street catches my attention.
“See,” he says. “Told you she’d get it.”
Chelsea swings open the gate. Nick sprints to the front of the garage. A motion sensor light freezes him midstep.
“Shit. Forgot to disable that.” Mat clicks on his Bluetooth. “You’re good, Nick. There’s no alarm. I’m looping the security footage now.” Under his breath, he mutters, “I hope.”
“You can’t mess with me like that.”
Mat raises an eyebrow before entering the code into the remote PIN pad. The garage door slides open and Nick slips inside. My eyes flit from the front door to the garage, back to the house.
Sixty seconds.
Chelsea jogs across the street and hops into the driver’s seat. She slams her head against the backrest. “Holy crap, I totally thought I was going to blow that.” She fist-bumps Mat and then twists around to me. “You good to go?”
“We’ve got this.”
I wish I felt more confident, or knew how Nick was doing. He should be done by now.
His voice cuts through the tension. “The key’s not here. It was right fuc–” He breathes out a sigh. “Never mind. Got it. Jules, be ready.”
On cue, I pop open the door. “See you at Reggie’s house.”
“Drive slow,” Chelsea says. “Don’t draw attention to yourselves.”
I’m learning that Chelsea’s panic sometimes turns her into a bit of a know-it-all. “Got it.”
I hit the street just as Nick backs out of the garage. The winged Corvette door lifts with a soft hiss. The car’s distinct coloring stands out under the streetlight–deep blue body paint that fades to gray. Easy to see how it was inspired by the sleek mako shark.
“Much nicer up close,” I say, hopping into the seat. The door lowers and I buckle up. My eyes land on the shifter and I realize the Mako’s an automatic. “Or not,” I say. “What good is a sports car if you can’t shift it into gear?”
Nick pulls out onto the street and makes a slow left turn. “That’s not my only problem with this thing.”
I roll down the window to listen to the engine noise. Obviously the car’s a collectible, but I guess I understand why it’s not always recognized as a muscle car. It’s missing that earthy rumble, that angry growl that tells everyone to back off. Without it, my pulse is steady. Like we haven’t just stolen an expensive concept car, but are cruising urban Las Vegas in a Pontiac Sunfire.
“Chelsea wanted to remind us not to attract any attention.”
He snorts. “This car’s a gawker magnet.”
The point is driven home at the first set of lights. We pull up next to a black sedan. The driver rolls down his tinted window. Heavy bass thumps into the street. “Nice car.”
I pretend not to notice.
The music fades. “Hey, I said . . . nice wheels.”
I muster a weak smile and look over. Jesus. It’s like the guy stepped straight out of the downtown Mob Museum. Gray and white pinstripe suit, tilted gangster hat, cigar hanging from his lips–he’s a wannabe Al Capone. My creeper radar shifts into overdrive.
“Thanks,” I say loudly, nodding with enthusiasm. My smile is as fake as his toupee. To Nick I say, “We have a fan.”
I press my back into the seat and Nick leans forward. His jaw tightens. “Shit.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “You know this guy?”
“Something like that.”
The light turns green. I expect Nick to hit the gas and get us out of here, but he pulls in behind the sedan instead. His pained expression tells me we’re not hitting up the 7-Eleven for a Slurpee.
15
MY LUNGS FILL WITH AIR. “what’s going on?”
Nick grips the steering wheel so tight his biceps flex. He stares ahead, his jaw like chiseled stone. “I’ll handle it.”
What does that mean? Handle what?
He pulls into a parking lot and cuts the engine, leaving the keys dangling in the ignition. The Al Capone guy gets out of the sedan and leans up against the door, lights a cigar. White smoke drifts into the streetlight. It’s all so damned cliché.
I’m struck with realization. “That’s Riley, isn’t it?”
Nick stretches across me and locks the passenger door. His hand brushes against my hip, stays there a little too long. “Roll up the window and stay here,” he says under his breath. “Keep your eyes open.”
Right. Eyes open.
What the hell am I looking for?
Across the parking lot, a drunken bride and her tattooed groom spill out of the small wedding chapel that’s wedged between a pawnshop and a twenty-four-hour liquor store. A burly guy on a Harley raises an oversize beer can and gives me a toothless grin.
Nick gets out of the car.
He’s not even gone two seconds when my heartbeat picks up speed. I drop open the glove box looking for something–anything–I could use as a weapon, but all I find is a busted pair of Ray-Bans and a couple of poker chips.
The two fist-bump like old friends.
“Shit, Riley, thought you were never getting out,” Nick says.
The seconds tick by with agonizing slowness. The longer we loiter in public view, the stronger our chances of getting caught. I should slide over into the driver’s side, fire up the engine, and peel out of the parking lot. Nick’s a big boy–he can handle himself.
I rub my hands over my face to rebalance my equilibriu
m. As if I could leave him behind.
A high-pitched squeal pulls my focus left. The bride now lies on the pavement with her wedding gown up around her thighs. Her groom hovers over her, hand outstretched like he wants to help, but they’re both doubled over in laughter.
Probably drunk.
Riley’s low chuckle reverberates through the window and sinks into my gut. “Fuckers let me out.” He blows out a puff of smoke and nudges his head toward the car. “Yours?”
Nick rubs the back of his neck. His T-shirt slides up enough to reveal the taut V where his stomach and pelvis meet. I can’t help it–my eyes are drawn there. A bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades.
He glances over at the ’Vette likes it’s no big deal. “Just a junker I’m working on for a friend.”
My concern blooms into anger. Guys like Riley don’t fall for BS like that.
Riley cranes his neck to get a better view. “That your friend?”
The dude on the Harley gives me thumbs-up as he passes, the rumble-spit-rumble of his engine drowning out Nick’s response. Tension steams like an overheating radiator.
Riley takes another drag, then flicks the cigar onto the pavement and stomps out the glowing end with the heel of his shoe. “I’d hate to think you were back to boosting, Nicky–for someone else.”
Oh man. We are so screwed.
Nick shoves his hands in his pockets. “Just some small-time shit here and there.” He kicks at the pavement and a pebble pings off the Mako Shark’s hubcap. “You still running the same crew?”
“Your spot’s vacant.” Riley gives Nick a Cheshire Cat grin. “Yeah, I know, you’re out. It’s okay to keep your options open though–you wouldn’t be the first to come back.”
As if on cue, the passenger window of the sedan rolls down and a hand reaches out to wave. My stomach flips end-over-end like it’s catching air. There’s something eerily familiar about it–the oversize ring on the index finger, the black sleeve of a weathered leather coat . . .
My heart jams on the brakes.
No. It can’t be . . .
Nick’s face splits into a grin. “Shit. How’s it going, Kev?”
