by Dawn Ius
I steady my voice. “All good.”
Chelsea butts in. “Roger seriously knows nothing about teenagers. We’ll get this place fixed up in no time.”
A sly smile tugs at Roger’s lips. “Please, order . . .” He pauses. “Anything you’d like.”
Emma gasps. “Anything?”
“Of course.” Roger winks at her before leaving the room with a likely unintentional plié.
“See,” Chelsea says, nudging me with her hip. “Harmless.”
Not quite my assessment, but I need to get my bearings before I tackle that debate. “So, there’s three of you, right?”
“Yeah. Mat’s in the pool and Nick is . . .” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder and mischievous flecks of hazel twinkle in her eyes. “Nick, say hi.”
I spin around and freeze. A guy stands in the hallway wrapped only in a towel that rides low on his hips. Tattooed angel wings stretch across his broad chest and feather downward to muscular arms marked with black tribal ink. My pulse picks up speed.
He’s not the biggest guy I’ve ever seen, but his presence somehow fills the space. Commands attention. He is . . .
Dangerous.
Sirens go off in my head and I should break the stare. Something pulls me in. Makes me hold on a little longer than I should.
Hit the brakes, Jules.
His eyes are blue. Not the kind of blue that makes my knees buckle or makes me start planning our wedding, but a blue that sends vibrations of unease up my spine. A cold, ice blue that growls, Back. The fuck. Off.
Nick scrapes his teeth along the corner of his lip. Jesus. There’s a piercing.
The tension between us is so thick, it practically crackles. Instinct tells me to steer clear of this bad boy, but then I remember the promises I made to Vanessa, to Emma. I can’t screw this up.
I force nonchalance. “Hey, I’m Jules.”
A hint of laughter plays on his lips just before they twist into a bone-chilling sneer.
4
A RED FERRARI ZIPS ACROSS the giant flat-screen. Nick shifts while his thumbs easily work the knobs on a game controller. He leans left, a quick right, and then sends the car hard into the corner. It spins out of control, slamming into the virtual sidewall. A fiery explosion blows through the surround sound, rattling the bookshelves against the wall.
I flinch, but no one notices me hovering on the sidelines of the enormous games room. The place is obnoxious, like a kid’s toy box on high-grade nitrous.
The guy next to Nick throws his hands up. “Crash and burn, pendejo!”
If that’s Matias, I already like him. My Spanish might be rusty, but I’m pretty sure he’s just called Nick an asshole.
Nick tosses the controller and grunts. “Think you can do better?”
The two of them are stretched out on a leather sofa that floats in the middle of the room. An antique jukebox in the corner pumps out a Maroon 5 tune, while Chelsea hip-checks the right side of a pinball machine into submission. The overhead light flashes, sirens wail. She fist-pumps the air. “Take that!”
Matias leans forward to push the reset button on the Xbox. Need for Speed splashes onto the screen, the intro music drowning out a crooning Adam Levine.
“Check this.” Matias’s thumbs work in tandem to move a Lamborghini onto the virtual track. “Control. Vision. Determination. These are the fundamental components of a race car dri—”
Nick snorts. “Fuck you, man.”
To my left, a small stage backs up against a wall cluttered with framed photos—The Doors, Jim Morrison, a bunch of famous people I barely recognize. My eyes are drawn to an autographed picture of an actress who looks vaguely familiar. She’s stunning.
Beneath the collage, a pink karaoke machine blink-blink-blinks, like a slot machine at the Flamingo.
Ugh. I’m so not into this.
I start to back away when Chelsea traps me in one of her high beams. “Jules!”
Busted.
“Guys, Jules is here!”
Matias shifts around on the sofa and grins. Loose, dark brown curls frame his naturally bronzed skin. “Mat,” he says, raising the controller over his head in a half-wave of introduction.
Nick doesn’t bother acknowledging me, and for some reason it stings.
“Need for Speed,” I say, a weak attempt at conversation. I hate how awkward this is. “I’m more of a Grand Theft Auto girl.”
Nick mutters under his breath. “Shocker.”
My stomach clenches.
Chelsea waves her hand in dismissal. “Ignore Mr. Grumpy Pants over there. He doesn’t like to lose.” After an exaggerated eye roll that suggests boys-will-be-boys, she motions to the pinball machines spaced evenly against the wall. “Wanna play? We’ve got the classics—like Pac-Man, baby—and a few newer games.” She clucks her tongue with mock cockiness. “Currently, I’m kicking the crap out of Lara Croft. This Tomb Raider chick’s got nothing on me.”
“You probably rigged the machine,” Mat calls out over his shoulder.
“That’s more your style,” Chelsea quips.
I wet my lips, hesitating. “Think I’ll just go to bed. I’m kind of beat.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Nick says.
Anger shoots through me. “What’s your fucking problem?”
I spin around to glare at him, but his eyes are glued to the TV, stony profile unwavering. The Lamborghini crashes and explodes in a ball of flame. Mat tosses the controller aside with disgust.
Nick retrieves it and grins. “So much for waxing my ass, pendejo,” he says, with an emphasis on the slang. God, what a dick.
A handful of popcorn kernels fall from Mat’s lap when he stands. He slaps Nick on the back. “You win this time, pajero.”
I cup my hand over my mouth. “Did you just call him a masturbator?”
Nick freezes, looks back, and scowls. “Up yours, bro.”
The two launch into a friendly push and shove war, punctuated by insults and laughter. I deflect a pang of jealousy with the acceptance that I’ll probably never fit in with these guys. Clearly I’m not gaining any mileage with Nick. Not that it should matter.
Chelsea comes closer. “Emma fall asleep okay?”
“Zonked as soon as her head hit the pillow.”
“Roger went all out on that room,” she says.
There’s a wink in her voice but I don’t like the implication. Emma’s room is more than simple decor math—it practically breathes with her essence. Something about it doesn’t feel right.
“So what’s his angle?”
Chelsea frowns. “Skeptical much?”
When I don’t answer, she keeps talking. Her eyebrows knit with annoyance. “I get it. Roger can come off a bit . . .”
“Scattered,” Mat fills in.
“He’s definitely not firing on all pistons,” I add, a little under my breath.
Nick huffs. “Harsh.”
My face goes hot.
Chelsea shrugs. “It’ll just take time, you know?” At my hesitant nod, she brightens. “Forget it for now. How about a dance-off?” Her arms and legs twist into some fucked-up side-shift-lunge move. “Bet you could kick my butt.”
“I’m not much of a dancer.” The lie gets caught in my throat.
Nick ejects Need for Speed and slips another disc into the Xbox. Blood whooshes to my head when the Grand Theft Auto logo pops onto the screen. Fuck. Me and my big mouth.
He holds out a controller. “Come on, hotshot. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
The edge in his voice is as sharp as steel. I take a step back, bumping into the wall. A hanging African-style mask tilts sideways. I note the plaque beneath it—another movie prop—and adjust the mask, stalling. “No, I couldn’t . . .”
Nick slumps back against the sofa cushions. “Shoulda known you’re all talk.”
My skin suddenly feels too tight on my body. I snag the controller and flop down next to him. Our thighs touch. The couch practically shakes as his
muscles tense. Good. I want him on edge. “You asked for this.”
Chelsea pulls a stool up alongside the sofa and winds her finger through a lock of red hair. “Well. This just got interesting.”
While the game scene sets up, Mat and Chelsea make fun of the characters that flicker across the screen. I try to focus on deciphering Mat’s words, but I’m hyperaware of Nick. The way he slouches on the sofa, the smirk in the corner of his lip. Maybe it’s me that’s on edge.
Gunfire spits through the speakers and the next thing I know, I’m in the midst of a virtual shoot-out.
Chelsea leans forward on her stool. Her voice raises a full octave. “Get out of there!”
“Grab the cash first,” Nick says, a little under his breath.
I scrunch up my face. “I’m not a moron.”
Mat slides a stool next to Chelsea and cracks open a can of soda. I toggle through a series of hallways until I find the bank vault. Collect the money. Outrun a security guard. Meet up with—
Seriously?
“Uh, she’s . . . interesting,” Chelsea says.
Mat whistles low. “Whoa, get a load of those chichis.”
Ignoring their commentary, I gun my way through an obstacle course of police cruisers and cops, while bikini girl runs behind me screaming like a damn banshee. “God, someone ought to just put her out of her misery.”
Chelsea points wildly at the screen. “Oh! Oh! Go left!”
One of my thumbs slips off the controller, spinning my character in a one-eighty.
“Your other left,” Nick mumbles.
Screw you.
I regain control and my character starts outrunning a couple of cops on foot—as if this entire scenario wasn’t already giving me epic déjà vu vibes. My heart thumps as I search for a set of wheels.
Mat hoots with laughter. “My abuela is faster.”
“I doubt your grandma is hot-wiring cars,” I say, smirking.
Nick’s voice drops to a low growl. “Everyone’s got their secrets.”
I duck my head so that my hair covers my blush. Maybe it wasn’t personal, but the dig burns a little hole inside me. What? Roger told them all I’m a car thief so I’m a household pariah? Fuck this.
Mat grabs Chelsea’s water and chugs. “Things are really heating up now.” He wipes the back of his mouth and hands back the bottle.
“Didn’t you just open a soda?” I say.
Mat shrugs. “Chelsea’s bottle looked better.”
“Gross,” she says. “Now I’ve got Mat germs.”
Their laughter cuts through the thick tension that’s settled on the couch. I try not to think about it as I guide my character through a series of rapid lunges, kicks, and sprints, then dart into a dark back alley.
Mat points at a lone Mustang under a virtual spotlight. “There’s an easy boost.”
Not always. “Nah, I need something with more guts.”
Nick shoots me a dark glare. “It’s not what’s under the hood that matters.”
Experience tells me that most new Mustangs run a stock engine—enough torque to stoke male pride, but not much in the way of a serious getaway car. Launching into this discussion with Nick feels like social suicide, though, so I ignore the bait.
I spot a Camaro tucked behind a garbage Dumpster and toggle my character forward. My adrenaline surges. Seconds later, I’ve virtual hot-wired the car, and bikini girl and I are set to ride into the smog-filled horizon.
Mat reaches across Chelsea to give me a high five. “Impressive.”
I slough off the compliment with a half-assed shrug.
“No really, you totally knew what you were doing—in and done. Practically invisible or something. . . .”
Nick snorts. “Or something . . .”
My breath catches, but Chelsea doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ve obviously done this before.”
I set the controller on the coffee table, so not liking where this conversation’s headed, grab a handful of Chelsea’s popcorn, and stuff my mouth to stop from blurting out something I don’t mean.
“Thief!” she shouts with a laugh.
The word lands hard. Over the thundering roar of my heartbeat, I swear I hear Nick snicker.
I stand on shaky legs. “I’m heading to bed.”
Chelsea’s pink-frosted lips form a pout. “Oh, hey, hope I didn’t hit a nerve there. You know I was just joking around, right?” Two worry lines knot above her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Like Nick says, we’ve all got a rough past.”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Nick cuts in.
Jesus. Just how far is that joystick stuck up his ass?
I’m itching to continue a conversation with Chelsea, but one look at Nick’s scowl and my curiosity shrivels like an overripe grape. And of course I’m so flustered and pissed off, I trip on the edge of a throw rug and pitch myself into the hall.
Right into Roger.
Like things could get any worse.
He tilts his head. “Somehow I thought you’d be more graceful than that.”
I bite down on my lip hard enough to draw blood. Tears brim in my eyes and that sucks because I’m already tired of crying. Tired of trying to understand Nick, this place, Roger, all of it.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
His apology draws out a strangled sob.
“Oh dear,” he says. “I’m sure this is all quite overwhelming.”
His tone is soft, comforting, like a Toyota Supra after a fresh tune-up. I’m not buying it.
“Give it some time,” he goes on. “You’ll feel at home before long.”
Home.
My chest fills with air so fast I think it might explode. “I just need to blow off some steam.”
Roger’s mustache lifts with a fake smile. “I have the perfect solution. Come.”
The animated chatter in the games room fades as I respond to Roger’s command. I scope out the rooms down the hall—a cherrywood desk fills an office, a hot tub in the spa overlooks Mount Charleston, and a life-size knight in polished armor guards another room with a stocked bar and two pool tables. Something about the statue looks familiar.
“What’s with all the movie props?”
Roger doesn’t answer.
“Right, you collect things. But half this stuff looks out of place.”
“They belong right where they are,” he says.
I must have struck a nerve.
Roger pushes open a door at the end of the hall and motions me forward.
A blast of cool air blows my hair back. I blink at the bank of overhead fluorescents, until my eyes adjust to the light. The first thing I see is a row of treadmills and elliptical machines. Behind it, manual equipment and several rows of free weights.
“Little late for cardio, Rog.”
“You mentioned blowing off steam—I thought this would suit.”
Not quite, but I can’t exactly tell him what I really want is to boost the Chevelle in his driveway, kick it into gear, and tear up the Strip on the way to the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop. I’d bet my last buck the Pawn Stars guys would take it.
Something inside me snaps. “Guess you don’t know me after all.”
His eyes go glassy. “Oh, I think you’re wrong about that.”
He pulls out a tiny remote control from his vest pocket and pushes a button. At the far end of the gym, a wall slides left to reveal a “secret” room. Blood pounds through my veins, and my heart is a drum beating a war chant of protest. It can’t be—
But of course it is.
Soft light shimmers off the shiny polish of a long ballet barre.
Roger clears his throat. “I had this installed for you yesterday.”
His words turn to white noise and tangle inside my head, like a tape recording played back at slow speed. Snippets of conversation cut through the muddle.
“. . . gave up dance to support your sister . . .”
“. . . inspire you . . .”
“. . . join ballet again.”
Emotion bubbles up inside me as I allow the dreams to unfurl. My toes itch to point. The muscles in my legs begin to unwind. I squeeze my eyes shut to block the images of the past, forcing myself not to wish, not to dream. This can’t be real. None of this is.
I swat at tears gathering in the corner of my eyes and suck in a deep breath. Clear away the nostalgia that’s sure to cloud my focus. My face grows hot with anger.
What a fucking joke.
Does Roger think I’m an idiot? Obviously the barre is nothing more than a smoke screen for Roger’s true ruse—there’s no other explanation.
I spin around to face him, my teeth clenched. “I see right through you.”
At his shocked expression, I keep going, renewed conviction fueling my words. How stupid to have let my guard down, even a little. “Cut the crap, Roger. What are we really doing here?”
5
RESTLESS ENERGY THRUMS THROUGH MY system.
Trouble is, I can’t tell if it’s because Nick’s thigh pressed up against mine is doing something to my equilibrium, or I’m scared shitless.
Instead of answering my question, Roger asked the butler to stay with Emma and ordered the rest of us to get into his Town Car. I’m stuffed between Nick and Chelsea in the backseat, where the tension’s so thick you couldn’t four-by-four through it with a Hummer.
I angle my body away from Nick, which only wedges my ass into his hip. There’s room for him to move closer to the window, but he doesn’t. He’s a damn brick wall. Except warmer. Heat radiates through two layers of denim.
Mat shifts in the front seat. “Where we headin’, Rog?”
No response.
The gravel road bends and curves. In the limited range of the headlights, I can tell the side ditches are nothing more than desert sand and sagebrush, silvery under the glow of moonlight. Behind us, the pulsing Vegas Strip fades to a dull throb.
The rhythm of my heartbeat clashes with Roger’s music. It’s classical. Ominous. I almost expect some dude in a hockey mask to jump in front of the car and go all chee-chee-ha-ha on us. Which is kind of ridiculous.
“Let’s play twenty questions,” Chelsea says. She presses her face up against the glass. “I’ll go first. Are we—”