by Dawn Ius
Nick shrugs like he knows I’m joking, which is partially the truth. Mostly I’m scared. I’d tell him as much, but I can’t even look at him right now. He reeks of cheap whiskey. It’s in his hair, splashed across his T-shirt–there’s even a giant alcohol stain on his thigh.
He’s wasted.
At least, that’s what we need Kevin to think.
Kevin.
At the thought of seeing him again, my stomach clenches with unease. Which is why I’m hanging outside the pub while Nick pulls off an Academy Award–worthy performance.
I make a left turn into the parking lot of the HAZE Lounge, a run-down bar where the owners don’t double-check ID and scum like my ex go to suck back a few illegal drinks. A popular watering hole among Riley’s crew.
A giant neon cowboy waves at us in the distance. Vegas Vic isn’t really flagging us into the HAZE, but from this angle, it almost looks that way.
Nick drapes his arm across my chest and slurs. “Do you thhhink I thound drunk?”
“If the slurring doesn’t work, your stench will do the trick.” My nose scrunches up. “Jesus, are you sure you didn’t down that bottle?”
“Stone-cold sober.”
I’m still nervous. We’re taking a huge risk and I’m not convinced the payoff will be worth it. The plan seems simple: Nick will bump into Kevin inside the bar. He’ll act like we broke up and he needs a buddy to drown his sorrows. Nick will shift the conversation to shop talk, which makes sense, since boosting cars and me are the only things the two of them have in common. Nick will slip in the information about the Aston Martin. Kevin will pass the info on to his boss, because that douche bag is always looking for brownie points. If Riley takes the bait–and that’s the part that worries me–his crew will boost the car for us.
And then we’ll steal it from them.
“A lot could go wrong here,” I say. “What if Kevin doesn’t tell Riley?”
“That shit-weasel needs any piece of leverage he can get if he wants to stay in Riley’s good books. I know what it’s like to be on the outs.” He leans across the console and kisses me on the cheek. “Trust me.”
I choke on his stench and shove him away. “You’re so getting in the shower after this.”
“If you say so.”
“Alone.”
His lower lip juts out. “Tease.”
I bat my eyelashes and try to look coy, but flirting still makes me feel like the only duck in a pond filled with swans. Literally every girl on the planet is better at it than me.
Nick jumps out of the car and leans in through the window. “We’ve got this.”
“Make sure you’re hooked up.”
He pulls back the collar of his leather jacket to show me the Bluetooth wire taped to his neck. As I start to drive away, his low voice curls into my eardrum. “You’re sexy when you’re stressed out.”
“Keep your head in the game, idiot.”
I’m sure he can hear my smile through the wires.
I pull around to the back of the parking lot, find a spot between two beaters, and cut the lights. The Ford Escort I’ve chosen from Roger’s selection of specialty bait cars is the least conspicuous, but it’s still nicer than the rest of the vehicles around me.
A homeless guy plods from behind a Dumpster, bottle of booze dangling from his outstretched hand. If another zombie comes out, I’m activating my Apocalypse Survival Plan. For now, I lock the doors.
Another voice snake slithers through my earpiece. “Jesus, Nick. You look like hell.”
Kevin.
Nick mumbles something but I can’t hear over the background noise. I turn up the speaker and a high-pitched squeal bites at my eardrum. “Fuck.” I turn it down and lean forward, my chest pressed up against the steering wheel like it’s somehow going to help me hear.
The horn blasts.
Startled, I jump back.
Across the lot, the drunk zombie tilts his head with an inquisitive stare. I hold very still.
“Where’s Ghost?”
The sneer in Kevin’s tone is clear through my headset.
Nick lays it on thick. “Bitch dumped me.”
According to Kevin, I wasn’t worth much–certainly not getting busted over, which is why he bailed on me. He wouldn’t have lasted a day in prison anyway. I don’t care about him, but that doesn’t mean the words don’t sting.
I pull out a pair of binoculars from the glove box and train them on the windows of the bar. Bodies are everywhere, including a half-dozen women wearing not much more than bikinis. Two of them flank an oversize guy sporting a leather vest. I spot his Harley at the front entrance. He kisses the blonde on the cheek, plants one on the brunette’s mouth, and then pulls them both closer to his side.
Somewhere behind him, I think I see Nick.
“Took a boost and fumbled it,” he’s saying. “And now I’m jammed up. Jammed real bad.”
“That’s the shits, man.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Nick says. “This car . . .”
Music from the band drowns out the rest of his sentence. Frustration shakes through me. I’m starting to think this plan isn’t going to work.
“Why? So you can rat me out to your boss?”
Okay, so somehow I missed the transition, but it sounds like Nick’s on track.
The interest in Kevin’s voice is unmistakeable. “Nah, we got history, bro. I’ve got your back. You can bank on that.”
“Bullshit,” I spit out. I know from experience you can’t believe a thing Kevin says. All trusting Kevin ever got me was a trip to the cop shop and a broken heart. I sniff. Screw that–love was never on the table.
Glasses clink together and there’s some kind of murmured oath of secrecy before the band kicks in again and the conversation is drowned out by an out-of-tune bass riff trying to mimic Gene Simmons.
I can’t hear a fucking word they’re saying.
Two guys leave their seats at a table. Nick stumbles into view, nearly crashing into the chair. I catch him searching the parking lot for me before plunking down across from Kevin. Maybe if I zoom in enough, I can read their lips.
Their conversation cuts in and out between the guitar riffs.
“. . . Bond movie . . .”
“Serious, bro?”
“. . . airport hangar . . . security . . .”
I chew on my fingernails and tap the floor mat. Okay, Nick, time to wrap this up.
Across the parking lot, zombie dude slumps up against a rusted Chevy Malibu. A little paint, some TLC, the car would probably clean up nice.
Movement from the bar draws my attention. Nick stumbles into a standing position and fist-bumps Kevin. I throw the binoculars into the backseat, flick on the headlights, and drive up to the side of the bar.
A couple of guys come out and stare at me before getting into a taxi that pulls up behind me. By the time Nick trips into view, my nerves are rattled and my heart is pushing against my chest with fear.
“Well, hey there, purdy lady,” he slurs. “Is it time for that shower now?”
His scent is so strong it takes my breath away. “Way past due.” I wait for him to buckle up and then step on the gas. With the pulsing HAZE sign in the distance and the image of Kevin wiped clear, the tension finally drains from my shoulders. “You think he bought it?”
Nick rolls his head toward me and smirks. “Oh yeah. He practically pissed himself. I give it until morning before he spills his guts.”
24
CHELSEA AND I ARE WHITE-HAIRED twins. I come by it naturally, and yet she wears it better.
The blue glow of her cell gives her tanned skin a slight neon hue that somehow looks exotic. I’ve never been more aware of our differences.
“Tell me again why you chose a white wig for this stakeout?”
Chelsea looks up from her Instagram feed. “Nick said we should make like we’re invisible,” she says. “So we’re, like, sister ghosts.”
Somehow I doubt that’s what Nick mean
t.
She frowns. “Still nothing?”
“Nada.” This is our third shift since Nick told Kevin about the Aston Martin. We figured Riley would have jumped on it faster, but maybe he’s working through the logistics. It’s not like they’re working to a deadline.
Ten days.
That’s what’s left of our seven-week heist, and we’ve still got two cars to go. My confidence is beginning to wane–and that’s a bad sign. I shuffle down in the seat, staying far enough above the dash so I can see what’s happening.
We’ve parked on a side road that sits parallel to the hanger. A thick cluster of trees obstructs most of our view, but I managed to find a small clearing that allows just enough of a sight line.
Chelsea holds out a bag of popcorn. “Hungry?”
I can’t eat when I’m stressed. “Go ahead.”
She tosses a kernel into the air, catches it with the tip of her tongue, and curls it into her mouth. Her eating habits are a bit lizardlike tonight.
“I can’t decide if that’s sexy or gross.”
She looks up at me from behind hooded lashes. “You’d be amazed what I can do with my tongue.” To drive home the point, she licks her lips.
“Disgusting.”
“So far you’re the only one that thinks so.”
That’s probably true.
I check in with Mat, who is back at the mansion working on the trawling program. There’s nothing new to report there, and Nick’s asleep, so I turn on the radio to cut the silence.
Chelsea taps the dashboard clock. “I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”
“Three more hours of fun to be had.”
She rolls her eyes. “Would it kill you to talk a little?”
The question takes me aback. I’m probably the worst stakeout partner, since for the past two hours, all I’ve done is stare through the binoculars and answer Chelsea’s questions with one-line responses. Except when she asks about Nick. I pretend not to hear her.
“What, you want to gossip?”
She twists a strand of hair around her finger. “Sure, if we can gossip about you and Nick.”
“No hablo Inglés.”
She flicks a popcorn kernel at me. “Like hell you don’t speak English. Come on. Give me something here.”
I’m almost surprised it took her this long to say something. It’s not like Nick and I have been hiding our . . . well, whatever we want to call it. But I’m not ready to tack a label on it. So much of our future depends on what happens in the next ten days.
But Chelsea’s right. If I have any hope of building my friendship with her, I’ve got to open up a little. “We’re taking it slow.”
“I admire that,” she says. “I’m more of an impulse girl.”
No shit. “You ever regret those knee-jerk decisions?”
The shift in tone is unintentional, but Chelsea’s body language tells me she’s uncomfortable with the question. I think about dropping it when she sighs. “Are you asking if I miss my parents?”
“Do you?”
She scrunches up the empty popcorn bag and tosses it into the backseat. “Sometimes.” She tilts her head. “Okay, maybe. But I don’t regret leaving.” She blows out a long breath. “Well, not entirely.”
“Have you thought about going back?”
She shakes her head. “Not if my father came crawling on his hands and knees.”
Something about the way her voice wavers tells me she isn’t quite telling the truth about that, but I don’t blame her for lying. Owning up after a fuck-up isn’t easy.
But it’s like Chelsea is the only one who hasn’t really opened up.
“I’ve never known anyone who chose to go into the foster system,” I say gently. In fact, I don’t even know if that’s possible.
Chelsea chews on her bottom lip. “Well, I’m not technically in the system.” She swallows. “It’s kind of complicated.”
A flush of anger rides up my throat but I tamp it back. I’m a hypocrite to expect her to trust me, even after all we’ve been through. If there’s one thing I know something about, it’s how to build effective walls.
A flash of light catches my eye, and I decide to drop it. Maybe she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
We both peer over the dash as headlights pull up to the hangar. Seconds later, blue and reds flicker through the trees.
“That’s not Riley,” Chelsea says.
My stomach plummets. “Cops.”
Chelsea scooches up and squints through the bug-splattered windshield. “Kind of strange how the police tracked James down after all this time.”
“There are no coincidences in boosting cars.”
Which means instead of taking the bait, Riley called the police. It doesn’t make sense. Either he knew he’d been set up or he has a backup plan.
I zoom the binoculars in on the scene. Two officers get out of a squad car and wave flashlights at the hangar. One walks the perimeter while the other tugs on the door.
A second set of headlights cuts through the trees.
“Tow truck,” Chelsea says.
“Fuck.” I hand her the camera. “Zoom in on the logo as much as you can. You won’t get a clear picture, but maybe Mat can work with whatever shows up.”
A shadowy figure runs onto the scene on foot. That’s got to be the owner. Judging by the way his fists punch the air, he clearly wasn’t expecting this raid.
“They’re going to take the car.”
I hold the binoculars steady.
Chelsea’s voice lifts. “What do we do if they take the car?”
Tension spider-webs across my neck.
“Jules!”
I snap my head toward her. “I don’t fucking know.” Her eyes fill with tears and I curse under my breath. “I’m sorry. I just don’t . . .”
Have a clue.
Without the Aston, we’ve got nothing. All of our work until now, worthless.
Think, Jules. Think.
I hand Chelsea the binoculars and grab my phone. “I’m calling Nick.”
One.
Two.
He picks up on the third ring. “Jules . . . ?”
“We’ve got a serious problem. Cops are here.”
His voice tightens. “You’ve been made?”
“No.” I blow out a deep breath. “But the police are taking James. There’s a tow truck and everything. They’re outside the–”
“Inside,” Chelsea says. “The tow truck is backing up to the door.”
“Stay calm,” Nick says. His voice is muffled like he’s covering the microphone, and I hear him talking to someone else–has to be Mat. “Damn it. I thought for sure Riley would take that bait.”
“There’s a cash reward for that car. Maybe Kevin wants that all to himself.”
Money over loyalty, that’s how he works. Always looking out for Number One. Jesus. How is that a lesson I didn’t learn?
“James is on the flatbed,” Chelsea says.
My stomach roils. “What’s the plan here, Nick?”
A beat, and then, “Follow them.”
The vein in my neck thickens into a tight cord. I work through the logistics, the options. There aren’t any. If I don’t do this, we’ve failed.
I’ve failed.
“They’re probably going to the impound,” he says. “We just need to know which one.”
I can read between the lines of false optimism. It doesn’t matter how experienced we are, how much our crew has gelled, stealing a car from the LVPD isn’t as easy as it seems in the movies. Distracting guards, disabling cameras, using blowtorches to cut through fencing–one big Hollywood lie.
“They’re leaving,” Chelsea says. “What now?”
“Follow them,” Nick repeats.
“And if they don’t go to an impound?”
There’s a chance they won’t, given the car’s significance.
“Follow them to wherever they park it.”
Right. I hand my cell over to Chelsea. “Tell N
ick we’ll call him back when we have a location.”
Boosting cars is one thing. This PI shit is a whole different pile of crap, and I can’t afford the distraction.
I flip a U-turn and drive toward the hangar. The back roads are a maze of unmarked pavement. I stay well under the speed limit to keep off anyone’s radar, but by the third intersection, I realize we’re lost. I never even got close enough to tail them.
I make a left turn and double back.
Hit reverse and turn right.
Everything looks familiar, but different. There are no landmarks or street signs to gauge my location. I think I see headlights to the left, but it’s just a kid on a dune buggy zipping along the ditch.
Chelsea points right. “There!”
I suck in a gasp, hoping she’s right.
But as we close in, I realize it’s an oversize camper trailer, not the tow truck. I veer off to the side to see in front of it. The road stretches into a dark abyss.
They’re gone.
I pull over to the side of the road and slam on the brake. “Fuck!” My fist punches the dashboard, sending a fiery ball of flame through my wrist. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” I’m so mad I start crying. I can barely see through the haze of my grief.
Chelsea reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, girl. You don’t know these roads.”
But I should have.
Instead of feeling sorry for myself or gossiping about Nick, I should have been studying maps. Memorizing back roads and detours.
“I’ll GPS directions to the mansion,” Chelsea says.
I can’t help but snort. “Maybe I should stay lost for a while. At least until I figure out how to make this up to the guys.”
At this, Chelsea brightens. “You’ll be fine. You’re practically sleeping with one of them, right?”
My jaw drops.
“Well, if you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, I have to imagine it.” She grins. “And boy, do I have one helluva good imagination.”
25
ROGER IS PISSED.
Like, cartoon-character mad. He stalks across the sitting room floor with enough force to dent the wood. His eyes are glossed with rage.
He whirls on me and I flinch. Jesus. He’s batshit crazy.