forward.
âYouâre too late, Barker,â I say, without even looking back at Nick. An unfamiliar warmth unfurls inside me, and a smile creeps into the corners of my mouthâIâm surprised at how easy, how comfortable this all is. âSee the number on this car? Read it and weep, my friend.â
He idles up next to me and winks. âHey, Ghost . . . watch me disappear.â
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 sheâd be happier stealing Rolls Royces and Audisâwhich is just another reminder sheâs out of her element. All the gadgets in the world canât 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. âLadies, meet Jack.â Using a remote clicker, he flicks through a series of photographs while providing voice-over commentary in a low, game-show-host tone. âTrue, heâs not the most handsome guy on the lot, but he makes up for it in power and speed.â
Nick clears his throat. âNot compared to todayâs hot rods, but he can still push zero to sixty in just over five secondsâwith the right driver.â
Our eyes lock in silent challenge.
âItâs a four speed,â I say. âManual transmission.â Nick lifts an eyebrow and I shrug, feigning nonchalance. Truth is, Iâve done some of my own research. âI know how to work a stick.â
Mat shakes his hand. âAychiwawa.â Turning back to the screen, he points to the front of the car. âThis beauty right here is called a looped bumperâoften referred to as the carâs bumble bee wings.â
âAw, now youâre just showing off,â Chelsea says. Mat ducks to avoid a piece of popcorn she lobs at him. âOkay, Iâm sold on Jackâs profile pic. Tell me how to get this stud muffin home.â
My neck tightens and I roll it from side to side.
Mat clicks through to the next picture. âWell, youâre in luck because your guy is hereââhe nudges his chin toward an enlarged image of a modest clay house with a well-manicured front yardââat the home of Grant Danvers, an entrepreneur by day, showgirl ogler by night.â
Chelseaâs mouth gapes. âYou found that out by logging into the DMV?â
âThis is the age of social media, chica ,â he says. âInstagram, Snapchat, TwitterâDanvers is fully connected.â
To emphasize the point, he forwards to a screenshot of a Facebook profile and a recent status update.
ââShow me the titties,ââ I read aloud. âClassy.â
Chelsea grunts. âGod. Heâs not even good-looking.â
âWhereâs this loser live?â Nick says.
âEast Flamingo Road.â Mat splits the screenâa map of Vegas on one side, the Danvers house on the other. âHe keeps the car in the drivewayâwhich, as you can see, is surrounded by some serious fencing.â
Thick, yes, but not impenetrable.
âUnfortunately,â Mat says, side-eyeing Chelsea, âI couldnât zoom in close enough to figure out the lock system on the gate.â
I chew on my lower lip. âNick and I can focus on that when we scout the car.â
Chelsea hops off her stool and stoops to grab a six-pack of Coke from the mini-fridge. âCan we talk about getting diet soda down here?â
Nick rolls his eyes. âTell it to Sugar Daddy Roger.â
She scowls at him, then hands each of us a can before wiggling back onto her seat. âI donât get what weâre waiting for. Scouting or whatever. Letâs just go get it.â
I crack open the Coke and take a long swig. The bubbles tickle my esophagus. âToo
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