risky.â I wipe the corner of my lip with the heel of my hand. âWe need to establish Danversâs routineâwe already know he frequents the Strip. How often?â
Mat scrolls through his cell phone. âAccording to Twitter, three nights a week.â
âGross,â Chelsea says.
âWe also donât know if the car runs,â Nick adds.
I raise my soda in mock toast. âThat too.â After a pause, I add, âOr whether it can be hot-wired.â
Chelsea swivels toward me. âCanât they all?â
âMost of the older cars, yes,â I say carefully. âUnless itâs been modified or the securityâs upgraded. Most people who have a true appreciation for hot rods tend not to mess too much with them, though.â
On cue, Mat clicks back to the first image of the car and enlarges the frame. âPaint looks original.â
Clearly Iâm not the only one whoâs done some research.
âAssuming the interiorâs the same, weâre golden,â Nick says.
âA quick trip through Danversâs enlightening Instagram feed tells me heâs more interested in the ladies than Jack.â Mat grins. âIâll spare you the photographic proof.â
âWhy hold back now?â Nick says, winking.
I deflect a pang of misguided jealousy and blow out a breath to refocus. Lots of factors, limited time. âFlamingo Road is just off the Strip, right?â
âItâs a long street.â Nick moves closer to the map. âEast runs right between the Bellagio and Caesars Palace.â
I gather my hair in a ponytail and curl it up into an easy bun. The motion draws Nickâs attention and suddenly Iâm aware of his eyes on my exposed neck. My voice catches a little. âThat explains the extra security.â
The streets on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard (famously known as the Strip) can be roughâlittered with pawn shops, tattoo parlors, twenty-four-hour wedding chapels, and run-down motels. Not to mention drunks, tweakers, and drunk tweakers.
I glance over at Nick. âYou up for a drive?â
He chugs the rest of his drink and shrugs into his leather jacket. âCanât think of a better way to spend a hot Tuesday night.â
  â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢Â Â
Nickâs motorcycle might be on its last wheels. The rear fenderâs bent, the chrome polish is scratched, and the body is so chipped, the black finish looks marbled under the floodlights in front of Rogerâs house. A small patch of oil marks the pavement beneath the engine.
He fastens his helmet and shifts forward in the seat. The leather jacket tightens across his shoulders and back.
Heat flushes up the side of my neck. âBike needs some work,â I say, faking indifference. Truth is, Iâm terrified of anything on two wheels. I donât even know the last time I rode a bicycle. Not like Iâd admit that to Nick. Or anyone. In my experience, copping to any kind of vulnerability just makes you weak. âNo car we can borrow?â
His expression darkens. âSomeone stole mine, remember?â
Right. Vicki.
He cranks the ignition key. Thereâs a soft tick, but the engine doesnât turn over. He tenses. Tries again. The motor sputters and then peters out.
âMaybe we could take one of Rogerâs?â
Nick smirks. âSure, letâs borrow the RX.â
Low blow, but the point drives home.
Nick reaches under the gas tank and tugs out a couple of wires. He twists them together in a motion that is all too familiar. This time when he turns the key, the engine click-click-clicks and then roars to life. âHuh. Guess we take the bike after all,â he says.
The scent of gasoline and exhaust curls under my nose. I canât help itâmy stomach flutters. The sound, the smellâtheyâre a damn turn-on, heightened by Nickâs hot-guy-bad-boy vibe. Jesus. I need to give
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