Overdrive

by Dawn Ius

• • •

  I’m too wired to relax.

  I pass by Emma’s room and peer inside. She’s down at the pool, but something about being in her space gives me comfort. The ballet slippers Nick bought for her at the costume shop rest on the bed. I can’t stop staring at them.

  As I sit on the edge of the mattress, I pick up one of the shoes. Emma’s feet are small for her age, a size three or something. The satin brushes against my fingertips, drawing out the memories I’ve struggled to forget.

  Tchaikovsky flutes, violins, and triangles ding in my subconscious. I used to be good. Better than good. Talented enough to be Clara in The Nutcracker.

  My heart picks up speed as I remember blistered toes and crippling tendinitis, fighting through the pain because I knew the practice, the determination, would culminate in one magical performance that would make my parents proud.

  Emotion chokes me.

  I can almost see them sitting in the front row. Proudly occupying those same two seats at every performance. Tears sting my eyes. Dad used to bring me roses–white to match the color of my hair–with a fiery red carnation in the center. The heart of the passion, he called it.

  Mom never brought flowers after he left.

  And eventually, she just stopped coming entirely.

  I swipe at my tears with the back of my hand. Jesus, when did everything get so fucked up?

  My chest fills with sadness, and still, this nostalgia leads me downstairs to the ballet barre in the basement. I pause at the games room to watch Nick work out his aggression with a loud round of Need for Speed. I consider joining him, but it’s not the physical release I crave.

  I flick on the lights in the fitness room. Open the door to my secret ballet studio. My heart pounds with indecision. It’s been years since I’ve touched the barre.

  The soft theater lights glow, like a beacon drawing me home.

  I touch the smooth surface of the barre with tentative fingers. Kick off my shoes and remove my socks. My reluctance begins to fade, replaced with the anticipation and adrenaline rush I’ve come to associate with boosting cars.

  My leg swings up onto the barre. I point my toe, bending into a deep stretch. Muscle memory kicks in and fire erupts along my calf. I flex in. Out. Point long and lean. I extend one arm outward and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. There’s almost nothing of the former dancer left.

  Fresh tears brim in the corners of my eyes. The destruction didn’t happen at once. I transformed slowly, my legs and limbs growing heavier, moving from light and airy to something . . .

  Dark and dangerous.

  The dance steps once meant to impress an audience–my parents–became the foundation for a new set of skills. Stealth. Agility. Focus. Fundamental components of dance now adapted for something far less noble.

  I switch legs, lengthening my spine and twisting my hips outward. The knots in my muscles begin to unwind. You’ve got this. I unzip my hoodie and toss it on the floor a few feet away. My pale arms look like sticks in the mirror. I’ve lost so much definition.

  Moving away from the barre, I take hesitant steps across the floor, mimicking an old routine I’d once practiced until the veins in my arms swelled and my toes jammed. I jump lightly, performing the simple chase, then bravely take the transitional step, drawing one leg up, toes pointed to touch the back of my knee. The French names of the moves float into my mind, Ms. Griffin’s voice calling out each move: passé, retiré, pas de bourrée . . . Julia, point your toes more, chest up, arms back. I pretend I’m light as air, but it’s obvious I’m out of practice. My movements are clunky, out of sync.

  A song plays in my subconscious. I hum the melody from memory, forcing my body to keep rhythm. My feet glide across the floor and I plant myself in fifth position before spinning into an awkward pirouette. I’m wobbly at best. My eyes lock on a spot against the wall and I try again, turning once, twice, a third time before I lose balance.

  Fear seeps out of me with my sweat.

  I spin faster, one turn after another, over and over until I forget where I am, forget that I’m not a real dancer anymore. I imagine myself onstage with glitter-dusted cheeks and the heavy scent of hairspray lingering in an atmosphere ripe with nervous energy. My limbs loosen up, my feet become stronger, lighter, less awkward.

  I bend my arms and focus on the wall, finding my center–as long as I have my focal point, I won’t become disoriented.

  Jesus. If only life worked like that.

  I move from fifth to fourth position, slide into the turn. My legs ache but I keep pushing, forcing one pirouette after another. I spin so fast everything goes blurry and dark.

  I can’t stop. I turn and turn and–

  My legs give out. I crumble fast, slamming my ass onto the hard floor.

  “Christ, Jules, are you okay?”

  Embarrassment flushes up the side of my neck at the sound of Nick’s voice. He hovers over me, his chiseled jaw set with worry. I ignore his outstretched hand and push myself into a sitting position to massage the cramped muscle in my calf, alternating pointing my toes to stretch them out. “Just a little out of practice.”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “I’d forgotten you were a dancer.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not.”

  There’s an extended beat of silence while I try to figure out how to stand without making more of an ass of myself. “What are you doing here?”

  He arches an eyebrow. I try to pretend it’s not sexy as hell, but the soft expression on his face is almost my undoing. I hate that he pities me. “Watching.” His expression softens. “That was . . . beautiful.”

  The word hits hard. I deflect the compliment, not knowing where to stuff it, and look away. “Creeper.”

  “Worth every minute.” He reaches out his hand again, a smile playing on his lips. “Chelsea called. They’ve got a line on the car.” He pauses as I struggle to get up. “For Christ’s sake, would you let me help you?”

  “Fine.”

  His fingers curl around my wrist to pull me upright. I vault upward and, unable to keep my balance, topple into him. My chest smashes against his, sending vibrations along my skin. I’m sure he can feel my pulse through the thin material of our shirts.

  My breath hitches.

  His hands press against my lower back, steadying me.

  I try to break free, but he holds me in place. “It’s okay to be vulnerable,” he says.

  “You mean weak?”

  “Powerful,” he says.

  I duck my chin, but there’s a blanket of hair to mask my burning cheeks.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he says. My eyes drop to his lips, like if I don’t watch them moving, none of what he says is real.

  I shrug away discomfort. “I’m out of practice.”

  “Easy to know where Emma gets her love of dance,” he says. “She wants to be you.”

  “I was just messing around,” I say, suddenly desperate to change the topic. Now that I’m finished, my muscles have begun to tense up. I’ve already forgotten the sense of freedom ballet used to bring. Standing here with Nick, his hands still holding my wrists, I am trapped.

  Everything about this place cages me in. I pull away from Nick and start gathering my things off the floor. Slide into my hoodie. “The car . . .”

  Nick blinks at the change of topic, but recovers quickly. “You should go get ready. Looks like you’ve got a date.”

  My stomach bottoms out. “With?”

  “Dominic Harris,” he says. “The owner of the Coronet. Mat intercepted an e-mail exchange–tonight, your name is Cherry.” His eyes glint with mischief. “And Chelsea says to wear the black dress.”

  My throat constricts.

  “She said you’d know which one.”

  • • •

  I hate makeup–the texture, the smell, the way it feels on my face. Unfortunately, it loves the girl in the mirror. Her eyes are striking, her hair almost silver under the muted light.

  A fli
cker of unease dances across her pupils, and that’s when it hits home. The girl is me. An unfamiliar emotion crops up, and I blink to stop from crying. It took twenty minutes to apply this eyeliner. I’m not smudging it.

  “You look so pretty,” Emma says.

  She sits next to me at the dressing table, thumbing through makeup I’ve barely used–shimmering eye shadows in metal golds and coppers, ruby lipsticks, and smoky eyeliner. Some of the containers haven’t even been opened.

  “Almost as pretty as Chelsea?”

  She tilts her head with way too much awareness and my stomach knots, knowing I’ve played my insecurity card.

  “Prettier,” she says, and it doesn’t even matter that she’s kind of mocking me. The words strike all the right chords. “Nick will love it.”

  I pause mid–lipstick application. “It’s not a date.”

  She folds her arms across her chest. “Whatever you say.”

  “We’re just all going out together.”

  She reaches across the dressing table to grab me a Kleenex, which I use to dab my lips. “Then why can’t I come with you?”

  I don’t have a valid answer, and with each question, my guilt continues to mount. Emma and I don’t keep secrets. Not from each other.

  Nick knocks on the bedroom door. “Jules? You ready? We have to get going.”

  “One sec,” I call back, and then to Emma. “The Strip isn’t the place for a little girl.”

  A flash of annoyance crosses her face. “I’m not a kid, Jules. I’m ten and a half.” I laugh, but one look at her expression and it’s clear she doesn’t find it funny. “I know a lot more than you think. . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She crosses her arms again. “Like, that there’s more to your date tonight than you’ll admit.” I open my mouth to protest and she shushes me with a wag of her finger. “And I’m not talking about Nick.”

  The choker around my neck feels like it’s closing in. “What has Roger said to you?”

  “Nothing!” Her eyes gloss over like she’s about to burst into tears. “I’m not stupid. I know it’s your fault we keep getting kicked out of foster homes. You think I don’t know you almost went to jail?”

  I feel the color drain from my face and my stomach flips end over end. “How could you–?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Emma puts her hand on my arm and rubs the inside of my wrist, her small fingers tracing the outline of the tattoo bearing her name. “I know you’d do anything for me. But you don’t have to do . . . that . . . anymore. We have everything we need.”

  My world feels like it’s crumbling in, Emma’s words demolishing the facade I’ve carefully crafted. I press my hand against my chest, positive my heart has stopped beating all together.

  Emma’s cheeks flush with something not quite anger, not embarrassment. . . .

  Disappointment.

  Pain crawls across my chest. I did this. Knocked myself off the pedestal Emma had me on. I knew I couldn’t stay there, but I didn’t expect the fall to hurt so much.

  Nick knocks with more insistence. “I told Chelsea an hour, Jules. Let’s go.”

  I press my lips against the top of Emma’s head. I’ve justified my actions for so long, pretending Emma would never find out, that her image of me would never shatter. Her confession tonight changes everything. “This conversation isn’t over.”

  “You need to go,” she says softly.

  We stand together at the mirror and she wraps her arms around the side of my waist. The black dress clings to my hips, and the plunging neckline forms a sharp V of cleavage.

  My cheeks flush with panic.

  I should change into something else. Something less revealing, something more . . . me. How can I possibly go out like this?

  “I was wrong,” Emma says. “You don’t look pretty–you’re gorgeous.”

  I’m rendered speechless.

  Nick thumps again and Ems rolls her eyes. “All right, all right. She’s coming.” She flings open the door and pokes him in the chest. “You. Take care of my sister.”

  I slip into my heels and hobble my way across the carpet. My feet already hurt and we haven’t even left the house. As I go to grab my purse, I catch Nick leaning down to whisper something in my sister’s ear. She swats his arm and runs away.

  Nick shakes his head. “What the hell was that all ab–?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Jesus.”

  I scrape the top layer of red lipstick off my bottom lip with my teeth.

  “I . . .”

  His words trail off again.

  I could help him out, change the tone of the moment, make him laugh, but I kind of love that he’s tongue-tied.

  He rubs his hand across his stubbled jaw and mutters something under his breath. “Come on.”

  He grabs my hand and I almost trip with the force of him yanking me out the door. Once steady, I blow out a deep breath. “Go slow,” I say. “I need to get used to these heels.”

  His eyes go from soft to hard, and he looks like he might devour me in one bite. “Fuck going slow. If we don’t get out of here fast, I can’t guarantee I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

  18

  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

  THE FOUR OF US SIT in the Bellagio lobby, hashing out the plan. The place is distracting, dazzling, all polished marble and gold trim. Truth is, I stick out like a homeless person at the ballet–except this time the satin slipper is on the other foot.

  I feel everyone’s eyes on me–most of all Nick’s. He sits so close I’m practically on his lap, and he tenses every time some guy gives me elevator eyes on his way to the casino.

  “A very cute valet just parked Dominic’s car,” Chelsea says, grinning. Her plain black dress pants and white blouse are ideal for blending in with the rest of the waitstaff at the hotel restaurant.

  “The parking garage is a vault,” Mat says. “You either need your ticket or an employee key card to get inside.”

  My stomach drops like a busted tranny. “That explains why I’m dressed like a prostitute.”

  Nick whispers in my ear. “Don’t say that. You’re stunning.”

  The compliment sucker-punches me. There’s nowhere to look, so I stare at the ceiling. Hundreds of blown-glass flowers hover overhead. In a city known for gaudy neon lights and sparkles, the Bellagio is still one of the classiest hotels.

  Not the most expensive on the Strip, but of course, Hollywood has trumped up its notoriety. Ironic, maybe, that we’re about to boost a car here, where George Clooney and his ridiculously cute costars pulled off one of the biggest casino heists in film.

  “We could try bribing the valet,” Nick says.

  I lean forward and tuck a strand of Chelsea’s hair back up into her wig–she’s gone from fiery redhead to no-nonsense brunette. “We don’t have enough cash.”

  Mat glances at his watch. “No time for another plan, amigos. We’re less than fifteen minutes from go time.”

  He’s already laid the groundwork. After logging into Dominic’s e-mail, he sent Cherry Moony–like that isn’t a fake name–a revised time for this evening’s date. It gives me about forty-five minutes with Dominic before his real date shows up.

  Nick leans in close. “You ready?”

  I swallow and nod.

  Mat goes over the plan again. I’ll distract the maître d’ with my nonexistent cleavage, while Chelsea slips in behind, disguised as one of the staff. When I’m hooked up with Dominic–provided he doesn’t catch on quick that I’m not the girl he’s been chatting up online–Chelsea will sneak in close enough to pick his pocket, score the valet ticket, and hand it off to Nick. I’ll excuse myself from the date. Nick
will grab the car. We’ll all ride off into the sunset.

  “Piece of cake, right?” I say.

  Nick helps me to my feet, squeezes my hand, and sends me off with Chelsea. I hobble toward the restaurant, my heels click-click-clicking on the patterned marble floor.

  “In retrospect, we probably should have avoided spikes,” Chelsea says. “You walk like there’s one up your ass.” She pauses outside one of the storefront windows and I lean on her to take some of the weight off my feet.

  “I suck at being a girl.”

  Chelsea arches an eyebrow. “I doubt Nick is complaining.” At my stunned expression, she laughs. “Hey, no judgment here. If you’ve got it . . .” Her eyes scan the length of me, pausing at the open V of my gown. “Flaunt it.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, feeling naked. My skin is goose-pimpled under the heavy AC. “Can we just get this over with?”

  We pass a few more high-end stores and a candy shop with a fountain that bubbles over with chocolate. The price tag on a small box of truffles in the display window reads fifteen hundred dollars.

  “Jesus. Who buys that?”

  Chelsea grimaces. “I have.” Somehow I’m not surprised. She pauses outside the front of the restaurant and shrugs. “Chocolate is serious, dude.” She puts both hands on my shoulders and squeezes. “Don’t fuck up.”

  Then she kisses me on the cheek, spins me around, and slaps my ass.

  My heart rumbles like I’m behind the wheel of a drag racer as I head for the maître d’.

  “Good evening, Miss,” he says, acknowledging me with a gentle bow. “Do you have a reservation this evening?”

  I work hard on pulling my lips into a smile. “Mr. Harris is expecting me.”

  He looks me up and down, clearly judging. “Follow me, please.”

  We weave to the back of the room, to a small cluster of candlelit tables tucked away from the busiest part of the restaurant. It’s as if someone’s flicked a dimmer switch and ordered insta-romance.

  I recognize Dom immediately. His bald head shines under the overhead chandelier. His dark blazer covers a crisp white shirt, the first two buttons undone far enough to suggest confidence. At least I look the part.

  He looks up from the menu and smiles.