by Dawn Ius
Nick leans forward to dial down Jim Morrison’s voice. The radio’s busted, there’s no iPod hookup, and this CD is the only thing I could find in the glove box. We’re kicking it old school.
“Typical Stingray body,” Nick says. “Think Mako Shark, but with modifications.”
I scrunch up my nose. The thing I remember most about that boost is the unfortunate run-in with my ex. I call up a couple of images of the Barris car on the tablet. Sharp peaked nose. Retractable headlights.
“Corvettes do nothing for me.”
Nick chuckles. “Yeah, they’re more of a midlife crisis car.” He nudges his chin toward the iPad. “Unless it’s a Barris. The paint job alone on that car ate up more than two hundred man hours.”
I enlarge the picture. “Dude, it’s, like, two-tone orange.”
He swerves to avoid another pothole and the back end of the trailer slides out. I grip the armrest until the truck evens out.
“Peach, actually. Apricot pearl, platinum, and tangerine metalflake, blended over a white underbase.”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
Nick’s cheeks go pink. “George was built to be shown off, not driven.”
A common theme with most of the vehicles in Barris’s traveling road show. I don’t get it. Sure, they’re nice to look at, but without that rumble of the motor or the sweet scent of gasoline flowing through the fuel pipe, what’s the point?
“The Cosma Ray is some of Barris’s best work,” Nick says. “It won a bunch of awards, including the Grand National Sweepstakes.”
I cup my hand over my mouth in mock surprise. “No!”
A flash of annoyance flickers across his face. “Barris is the reason I even got into cars. I modeled Vicki’s modifications after work I’d seen him do on a Mustang.”
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip, weighing the pros and cons of continuing this discussion. I don’t trust myself not to tell him about the conversation I had with Roger. “Is Vicki an old girlfriend?”
“Jealous?”
Like hell I’d admit it. “Isn’t that how most guys name their cars? That or after their–”
“Mother.” There’s a subtle shift in his tone that lets me know he’s uncomfortable. “Victoria was my mom.”
“Can I ask?”
“Lung cancer,” Nick says. “She was stage four before we even knew she was sick.”
“Shit.”
He glances over and raises his eyebrow.
“I didn’t mean to be insensitive, it’s just . . .” My throat closes. “That’s got to be hard.”
“I didn’t have much time to think about it back then.” He swerves to avoid a random garbage bag in the middle of the highway. “I figure she knew for a while and tried to get things in order for me and Chase. Didn’t quite work out that way. When she died, it hit Chase hard. My father too.”
“That when he started gambling?”
I’m no expert on addiction, but I know loss makes people do stupid things. Mom turned to booze when Dad left, then numbed her pain with drugs. Things escalated fast.
“My father was a lying piece of shit before Mom got sick. Her dying just made him . . . shittier.” He lifts his fingers off the steering wheel, flexes, tightens his grip. “In the beginning, I almost didn’t mind when he hit up the casinos, because every once in a while, he’d strike it lucky. Win enough to put food in the fridge and pay for Chase’s school.”
He strums the steering wheel with his thumb, like a nervous twitch. “His luck ran out. I hooked up with Riley to pick up the slack. But the more I made, the more Dad gambled away. Eventually, we lost the garage, the house.”
“Your dad was a mechanic?”
“One of the best, back in the day. Learned a lot from him about restoration work. A lot about Barris, too.”
I twirl a strand of hair between my fingertips. “Is that what you’ll do with the money Roger gives you? Become a mechanic?”
A hint of a smile ghosts his lips. “A hundred Gs won’t get me back the garage, but yeah, it’s a start.”
We lapse into silence.
“Get some rest, Jules,” he says. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”
He turns up the stereo to another Doors classic. Something about the lyrics rings with sincerity: The time to hesitate is through.
With the chorus of “Light My Fire” echoing in the background, my eyelids grow heavy.
• • •
The thunk of the truck door slamming jolts me awake. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, sit up, and scope out the surroundings. A lineup of vehicles stretches in front and as far back as I can see.
It’s either a traffic jam or . . .
My stomach clenches.
Roadblock?
“What’s happening?” Mat’s voice is groggy with sleep.
I curl my feet under my butt for added height. The domed metal top of the Petersen Automotive Museum shines like a grounded UFO in the distance. We’re so close.
Chelsea sits up. “Where’s Nick?” She rubs her eyes and smooths out a few wayward strands of hair. “Wow. That’s quite a look I’m rocking.”
“Lucky for you we’re not going to a fashion show,” Mat teases.
Chelsea punches him in the arm.
“Nick can’t have gone too far.” I bite off a piece of hangnail from my thumb, drawing blood. “It’s pretty backed-up, though. Think it’s cops?”
Mat yawns. “Maybe, but it won’t be about us. Even if the Nevada police have started piecing things together, we’re in California now. No jurisdiction.”
Chelsea leans forward. “That’s probably the lineup to get into the place. Didn’t it just reopen?”
The truck door swings wide and Nick hops in. “Welcome to the land of the living,” he says, all smiles. “Got tired of talking to myself.”
“So you conjured up a few strangers to shoot the shit with?”
Nick flashes me a grin. “What’s wrong? Miss me?”
My cheeks go hot. “You wish.”
Chelsea sticks her finger down her throat and fake gags.
“The bad news is that we’re stuck in this line for a bit–crowd control.” Nick puts the truck in gear. “By the time we get inside the building, we’re looking at late afternoon.”
Mat groans. “Got any good news?”
Nick’s whole face lights up and it does something funny to my stomach. “Barris’s team brought the Batmobile!”
• • •
I curl my fingers into fists, dying to rip the wig off my head. It’s itchy as hell.
But the museum is rigged with more than four hundred security cameras–there are eyes everywhere. Last thing we need is for someone to catch my ghost locks on film. So instead, I’m an insta-blonde, Chelsea’s rocking the brunette, and Mat has contained his wild curls under a Seahawks baseball cap. He’s full-on geek.
I catch another look at Nick in my peripheral and almost burst into laughs. A fake mustache presses up against his upper lip. As good-looking as Nick is, not even he can pull that thing off.
He drapes an arm around my shoulder. “You still hate ze mustache?”
“Creeper.” My pulse quickens at his touch. “It doesn’t even match that stubble on your chin. What is that anyway? Some kind of messed-up superstition? Like athletes that don’t shave until after the play-offs?”
He leans in close. “Admit it, it’s hot.”
Okay, he’s not all wrong. Wall-to-wall body heat has rendered the AC in the museum useless. Everything sticks to me–my T-shirt, my hair. Real and the fake. It’s gross.
I shift to avoid the eyes on a roving security camera, and scratch just under the wig with one finger. Instant relief.
Nick points to a black and gold convertible that rotates on a pedestal. “That’s a 1913 Mercer Type 35J Raceabout,” he says, voice low. “Pretty much the Superman of the car industry.”
“And yet, no cape.”
“Doesn’t need one. With the flick of a lever, this thing
could drop its fenders, running boards, and lighting equipment in a matter of minutes, and be ready to fly around the track.”
I squint to read the spec sheet. “But at a top speed of seventy miles an hour, not quite faster than a speeding bullet.”
“You have no appreciation for the classics.” He puffs out his chest like a superhero. “I’m just going to leap over this crowd for a picture.”
“Don’t mind me. I’ll just stand around and keep watch.”
Or rather, assess who is watching us. There are three cameras in this section of the museum alone. Alarmed fences surround most of the cars, and DO NOT TOUCH signs warn of strict consequences for delinquents. Something tells me we’re not the only rule breakers in the joint.
I slide over to the corner of the room and engage my Bluetooth. “Dude, the security in this place is insane.”
“Sí. I’ve got seven in the exotic cars showroom. Chelsea is currently taking selfies with a Ferrari.”
“Of course she is. Have you found the Barris exhibit yet?”
“Other side of the Mustang showroom,” Mat says. “Meet you there?”
I flag Nick over. “Sure, I’ll just make a quick pit stop for a paper towel.”
Nick raises an eyebrow. “What for?”
I grab his hand. “To mop up your drool when you see where we’re going.”
• • •
A picture of the Cosma Ray features prominently on the banner that stretches across the entrance to the Barris exhibit. The line is about fifty people deep. I stand on tiptoes to peer over the crowd, but there’s no point. The showroom is jam-packed with gawkers.
Nick waves me over. “Check this out.”
It’s the tenth time I’ve heard this since we hit up the Mustang exhibit more than half an hour ago. He’s a kid in a candy store, drooling over every make and model like a salivating English Mastiff. Every few minutes he checks in to show off a picture or fire off a statistic. No, I had no idea that the first Mustang was unveiled in 1964. Fascinating.
“You might want to go see what your boyfriend wants,” Chelsea says. “He’s got that puppy dog eye thing going on.”
“He’s not my–”
She nudges my shoulder with enough force to knock me out of line. “Teasing would be so much easier if you dropped the denials.”
Solid point, except I’m in full-on avoidance mode. No question the tension between us has shifted from animosity to that awkward flirty stage. I’m trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible when we’re always together. His essence is everywhere.
I elbow my way to him through a crowd gathered at the other end of the room. I’m a hot sweaty mess when I finally catch up to him. I don’t even know if my wig’s on straight. “This better be worth it.”
It totally is.
“Eleanor,” he says.
Not our Eleanor–the movie version from Gone in Sixty Seconds. The film that vaulted the Mustang back into the spotlight. Even a nonbeliever can understand her appeal–that shiny Gunmetal Gray body, the twin racing stripes that cut through the center of the hood. This car . . . it single-handedly has the power to make me rethink every negative thing I’ve ever said about Mustangs.
“Jesus.”
Nick rubs the back of his neck. “She’s a beauty, all right. I could stand here all day.”
Me too, but the universe has other plans. Mat’s voice pings through the earpiece. “We’re moving.”
I tug on Nick’s sleeve. “Time to go. We have a date with George.”
• • •
The brochures don’t do it justice.
That’s my first thought when we muscle our way for a close-up view of the Cosma Ray.
My second is that there’s no way in hell we’re getting out of here with this car. Forget the live–as in, it will zap you–security fencing and the excessive, borderline obsessive, cameras. That’s bad enough. But the Barris exhibit is at the far end of the museum, and several cars block the closest exit. For a clean break, we’d have to hot-wire all of them–and we’re not talking Camrys–without tripping a single alarm.
Things are about to get messy.
Mat leans close. “We need to find a security flaw.”
“Look at this place,” I say. “It was built not to have any.”
Cameras flash-blink-flash all around us. Voices rise and fall with various degrees of awe. I hate to admit it, but for a Corvette, George is making all the right moves. “Can you hack the system?”
Mat adjusts his fake glasses. “The renovations aren’t totally finished, which might leave a few gaps in their technology. I’ll take a look.”
An exuberant fan jostles me from behind and I pitch forward into the perimeter fence. I twist to avoid hitting the wire, but my shirt rides up, leaving the side of my stomach exposed. My skin connects and–
Nothing.
Steadying myself, I raise an eyebrow.
“Maybe they’re not live during the day?” he says.
Good thing. “But they will be tonight?”
“I’d be shocked if they weren’t.” He grins, clearly pleased with himself.
It takes me a second to catch the pun. “Good one.”
I snap off a couple of pictures while Mat keeps an eye out for Chelsea and Nick, who have wandered off to see where the Barris cars will be held overnight. I zoom in on everything from George’s tires to his door handles. They’re keyless.
Mat touches my shoulder. “We should go.”
I follow his gaze to where two security cops have begun weaving through the crowd toward us. They’re big, burly, and determined. My pulse speeds up. “You think they made us?”
Mat lets out a breath as they pass. “Not yet. I don’t know how long our luck will hold, though.”
I check the time on my cell. “At least six hours. Because that’s the soonest we’re getting back into this building.”
21
IT’S GO TIME.
Not that we can go far until Mat gets us inside the Petersen.
Moonlight reflects off the silver crisscrossing ribbons of steel that frame the museum’s futuristic architecture. The surrounding LED lights are supposed to suggest the speed of an automobile ripping through the wind, but right now, everything moves in slow motion. My body hums with restless energy.
Nick’s boot snaps a twig, causing me to jump.
He puts his hand on my back. “Deep breath.”
Any second, the roving camera outside the front entrance will rotate toward us, where we’ll be smack dab in the center of its lens. Busted.
“Hang tight.” Mat’s low murmur hums through the earpiece. “Almost there.”
Move too far left or right, and we risk triggering the motion sensor alarms that dot the perimeter. I shuffle closer to Nick. His ragged breathing whispers across the top of my head. There’s mere inches between us.
“Camera one, moving,” Nick says.
Air traps in my lungs.
“Got it,” Mat says. “You’re clear.”
Relief flickers over me like warm rain. “Chelsea, you’re up.”
Nick presses up against me to let Chelsea pass. His heartbeat pulses through our clothes. He pulls me close. It feels so good to be wrapped in his embrace that I almost forget where we are.
I put some distance between us.
The surrounding streets go quiet but I’m still uneasy. This kind of boost should take weeks, maybe months to pull off. One hour staking out the place–that’s the extent of our physical recon. We did everything else online.
“I’ll need more than a standard torsion wrench,” Chelsea mutters. “Dammit, I forgot my ball pick.”
“Men around the world are saying a prayer in thanks right now,” Nick says.
“Aren’t you a fucking comedian?” Before he can respond, Chelsea adds, “That was rhetorical. Jules, stop groping your boyfriend and find my Slagel pick.”
I’m stunned frozen.
She sighs. “That wasn’t rhetorical.”
I
grab her pack and start fishing around for what I can only assume are special lock-picking tools. They all look the same. I hold one outright but she shakes her head. “That’s the half-diamond.”
Of course it is.
I gather all the tools in my hand like straws. “Pick a pick, any pick.”
Chelsea stares at me like I’m a moron, rolls her eyes, and then yanks one of them from the bunch. “You two are meant for each other. Seriously.”
Heat flushes up my neck. Embarrassed, I force myself not to look at Nick.
“No pressure guys, but we’ve got about twenty seconds of loop before the feed repeats,” Mat says. “No guarantees it’s a smooth transition.”
Which means Chelsea should pick up the pace.
She fiddles with the pick, bites off a string of serious curses, and then pops off the lock. Her relief comes out in a loud whoosh. “We’re in.”
My stomach does a slow roll.
“Five seconds,” Mat warns.
Nick pushes open the door and we all file through. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the lighting. The entire lobby is bathed in a warm blue glow. A red EXIT sign blinks in the far corner.
An army of ants scampers along my skin. I can’t shake the feeling we’re under surveillance, that there’s something Mat missed.
The scooped overhead ceiling and rounded walls give off the illusion that you’re standing under a giant dome. On the other side of the entrance, shadowed vehicle outlines begin to take shape.
Nick guides us through the virtual blueprints we’ve committed to memory. “Fifty paces forward.”
We need to find the exhibit showroom again to make sure the car’s been moved. Our best guess is that the Cosma Ray will be stored in the loading docks at the back of the building.
The Barris exhibit leaves at first light, en route to a car show on the other end of the country. This is our only opportunity to make the grab before George gets too far out of range.
Chelsea puts one hand on my shoulder and counts our steps as I follow behind Nick.
At fifty paces, we pivot right, walk thirty steps, and turn left. I shine a small flashlight on a familiar door and make like I’m about to twist the knob.
Chelsea grabs my wrist. “Wait. You’re not wearing gloves.”