Overdrive by Dawn Ius

Nick says. “As in James . . . Bond.”
    â€œSomeone woke up on the right side of the bed,” Chelsea says, nudging Nick’s shoulder.
    A heaviness settles in my chest as I stare at the last car on the list—the 1967 Shelby GT500, previously owned by Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors. Naming the car is one thing, that’s the easy part—but it means nothing if we can’t track it down.
    â€œThe obvious choice is Jim,” I say.
    Chelsea’s eyes light up. “Jack, José, Jim—talk about a few good men!”
    â€œAccording to the legend, Morrison didn’t even like the car,” Nick says. “It was a gift from his record label. There’s a couple of versions of the story, but the gist of it is that he crashed the Shelby on the way to a gig. Instead of calling the cops, he hitched a cab ride to his show. A couple of hours later he came back for the car—gonzo. No one’s seen it since.”
    The reality of the situation sets in. “Guys, there’s no way we can pull this off.”
    Mat finishes off his shake and tosses the cup into a garbage can. “You’re underestimating my mad tracking skills, Jules.”
    I muster an apologetic smile but doubt lingers in the pit of my stomach. The car’s been MIA for more than two decades—and we’ve got seven weeks to track it down. There is nothing good about those odds.
    â€œSince that’s the most important car, I vote for a female name,” Chelsea says.
    Nick and I exchange knowing glances before simultaneously blurting out, “Eleanor.”
    It’s the name of the famous Shelby from the movie Gone In 60 Seconds . It shouldn’t surprise me that Nick and I would be in sync, but it kind of does.
    He smiles. It’s a beautiful smile. The kind that burrows its way under my skin and sucker-punches me right in the chest.
    Mat crumples his empty burger wrapper into a ball and fires it at the garbage can. It circles the rim and plops in.
    â€œLuck,” Nick quips.
    â€œSkill, cabrón .”
    He grabs a laptop from his messenger bag and flips open the screen.
    Chelsea shuffles closer to him. “Whatcha doin’?”
    His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Research. This place is close enough to the Strip that I can log into the public Wi-Fi. It’s one of the few spots around with a fiber connection that gives me enough gigabyte speed to . . .”
    He glances up, notices that we’re staring at him with confusion, and chuckles. “Forget it. All you need to know is that I’m tracking down our first target.”
    Emma’s voice carries over the racetrack. “Jules! Nick! Come race with me.”
    â€œNot a chance,” I call back.
    â€œAfraid you’ll lose?” Nick taunts. His eyes get that mischievous glint that causes my stomach to flutter.
    â€œWhoa,” Chelsea says, joining in on the teasing. “You’re not going to take that, are you?”
    â€œJesus, Jules, you look scared,” Mat adds. “You’re as white as a gh—”
    â€œFor fuck’s sake, you guys.” I’m trying hard not to laugh. “Enough with the stupid ghost cracks.”
    Nick shrugs. “Sorry, Jules. You’re just so . . . transparent.”
    I shove my tray of untouched food aside and stand. “You prepared to put a wager on this challenge, hotshot?”
    â€œRace you to the starting line.” Nick grins, then darts away.
    I take off after him, pushing my way through the crowd of people gathered around the entrance. People file out from their go-karts. I catch sight of Emma and wave her over.
    Her face is flushed.
    â€œIs Nick coming too?”
    I glance over to find him already strapped into the number three car. Emma reclaims the two. Across the track, I find the empty number one and jump inside. Fasten the helmet.
    A jolt from behind nudges the car