Overdrive by Dawn Ius Page A

forward.
    â€œYou’re too late, Barker,” I say, without even looking back at Nick. An unfamiliar warmth unfurls inside me, and a smile creeps into the corners of my mouth—I’m surprised at how easy, how comfortable this all is. “See the number on this car? Read it and weep, my friend.”
    He idles up next to me and winks. “Hey, Ghost . . . watch me disappear.”

11
    A GIANT FLAT-SCREEN LOWERS FROM the ceiling in the games room. Nick hits the lights while an oversize picture of a blue and black Super Bee rocks into focus. I refer to the list on my phone: This is Jack.
    Chelsea screws up her face. No question she’d be happier stealing Rolls Royces and Audis—which is just another reminder she’s out of her element. All the gadgets in the world can’t net us those high-end rides.
    Mat grabs a cue from the rack next to the pool table and uses it like a pointer stick, tapping the screen. “Ladies, meet Jack.” Using a remote clicker, he flicks through a series of photographs while providing voice-over commentary in a low, game-show-host tone. “True, he’s not the most handsome guy on the lot, but he makes up for it in power and speed.”
    Nick clears his throat. “Not compared to today’s hot rods, but he can still push zero to sixty in just over five seconds—with the right driver.”
    Our eyes lock in silent challenge.
    â€œIt’s a four speed,” I say. “Manual transmission.” Nick lifts an eyebrow and I shrug, feigning nonchalance. Truth is, I’ve done some of my own research. “I know how to work a stick.”
    Mat shakes his hand. “Aychiwawa.” Turning back to the screen, he points to the front of the car. “This beauty right here is called a looped bumper—often referred to as the car’s bumble bee wings.”
    â€œAw, now you’re just showing off,” Chelsea says. Mat ducks to avoid a piece of popcorn she lobs at him. “Okay, I’m sold on Jack’s profile pic. Tell me how to get this stud muffin home.”
    My neck tightens and I roll it from side to side.
    Mat clicks through to the next picture. “Well, you’re in luck because your guy is here”—he nudges his chin toward an enlarged image of a modest clay house with a well-manicured front yard—“at the home of Grant Danvers, an entrepreneur by day, showgirl ogler by night.”
    Chelsea’s mouth gapes. “You found that out by logging into the DMV?”
    â€œThis is the age of social media, chica ,” he says. “Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter—Danvers is fully connected.”
    To emphasize the point, he forwards to a screenshot of a Facebook profile and a recent status update.
    â€œâ€˜Show me the titties,’” I read aloud. “Classy.”
    Chelsea grunts. “God. He’s not even good-looking.”
    â€œWhere’s this loser live?” Nick says.
    â€œEast Flamingo Road.” Mat splits the screen—a map of Vegas on one side, the Danvers house on the other. “He keeps the car in the driveway—which, as you can see, is surrounded by some serious fencing.”
    Thick, yes, but not impenetrable.
    â€œUnfortunately,” Mat says, side-eyeing Chelsea, “I couldn’t zoom in close enough to figure out the lock system on the gate.”
    I chew on my lower lip. “Nick and I can focus on that when we scout the car.”
    Chelsea hops off her stool and stoops to grab a six-pack of Coke from the mini-fridge. “Can we talk about getting diet soda down here?”
    Nick rolls his eyes. “Tell it to Sugar Daddy Roger.”
    She scowls at him, then hands each of us a can before wiggling back onto her seat. “I don’t get what we’re waiting for. Scouting or whatever. Let’s just go get it.”
    I crack open the Coke and take a long swig. The bubbles tickle my esophagus. “Too