Nick says. âAs in James . . . Bond.â
âSomeone woke up on the right side of the bed,â Chelsea says, nudging Nickâs shoulder.
A heaviness settles in my chest as I stare at the last car on the listâthe 1967 Shelby GT500, previously owned by Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors. Naming the car is one thing, thatâs the easy partâbut it means nothing if we canât track it down.
âThe obvious choice is Jim,â I say.
Chelseaâs eyes light up. âJack, José, Jimâtalk about a few good men!â
âAccording to the legend, Morrison didnât even like the car,â Nick says. âIt was a gift from his record label. Thereâs 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 carâgonzo. No oneâs seen it since.â
The reality of the situation sets in. âGuys, thereâs no way we can pull this off.â
Mat finishes off his shake and tosses the cup into a garbage can. âYouâre underestimating my mad tracking skills, Jules.â
I muster an apologetic smile but doubt lingers in the pit of my stomach. The carâs been MIA for more than two decadesâand weâve got seven weeks to track it down. There is nothing good about those odds.
âSince thatâs the most important car, I vote for a female name,â Chelsea says.
Nick and I exchange knowing glances before simultaneously blurting out, âEleanor.â
Itâs the name of the famous Shelby from the movie Gone In 60 Seconds . It shouldnât surprise me that Nick and I would be in sync, but it kind of does.
He smiles. Itâs 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.
âLuck,â Nick quips.
âSkill, cabrón .â
He grabs a laptop from his messenger bag and flips open the screen.
Chelsea shuffles closer to him. âWhatcha doinâ?â
His fingers fly across the keyboard. âResearch. This place is close enough to the Strip that I can log into the public Wi-Fi. Itâs one of the few spots around with a fiber connection that gives me enough gigabyte speed to . . .â
He glances up, notices that weâre staring at him with confusion, and chuckles. âForget it. All you need to know is that Iâm tracking down our first target.â
Emmaâs voice carries over the racetrack. âJules! Nick! Come race with me.â
âNot a chance,â I call back.
âAfraid youâll lose?â Nick taunts. His eyes get that mischievous glint that causes my stomach to flutter.
âWhoa,â Chelsea says, joining in on the teasing. âYouâre not going to take that, are you?â
âJesus, Jules, you look scared,â Mat adds. âYouâre as white as a ghââ
âFor fuckâs sake, you guys.â Iâm trying hard not to laugh. âEnough with the stupid ghost cracks.â
Nick shrugs. âSorry, Jules. Youâre just so . . . transparent.â
I shove my tray of untouched food aside and stand. âYou prepared to put a wager on this challenge, hotshot?â
âRace you to the starting line.â 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.
âIs Nick coming too?â
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
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