Overdrive by Dawn Ius Page B

risky.” I wipe the corner of my lip with the heel of my hand. “We need to establish Danvers’s routine—we already know he frequents the Strip. How often?”
    Mat scrolls through his cell phone. “According to Twitter, three nights a week.”
    â€œGross,” Chelsea says.
    â€œWe also don’t know if the car runs,” Nick adds.
    I raise my soda in mock toast. “That too.” After a pause, I add, “Or whether it can be hot-wired.”
    Chelsea swivels toward me. “Can’t they all?”
    â€œMost of the older cars, yes,” I say carefully. “Unless it’s been modified or the security’s upgraded. Most people who have a true appreciation for hot rods tend not to mess too much with them, though.”
    On cue, Mat clicks back to the first image of the car and enlarges the frame. “Paint looks original.”
    Clearly I’m not the only one who’s done some research.
    â€œAssuming the interior’s the same, we’re golden,” Nick says.
    â€œA quick trip through Danvers’s enlightening Instagram feed tells me he’s more interested in the ladies than Jack.” Mat grins. “I’ll spare you the photographic proof.”
    â€œWhy hold back now?” Nick says, winking.
    I deflect a pang of misguided jealousy and blow out a breath to refocus. Lots of factors, limited time. “Flamingo Road is just off the Strip, right?”
    â€œIt’s a long street.” Nick moves closer to the map. “East runs right between the Bellagio and Caesars Palace.”
    I gather my hair in a ponytail and curl it up into an easy bun. The motion draws Nick’s attention and suddenly I’m aware of his eyes on my exposed neck. My voice catches a little. “That explains the extra security.”
    The streets on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard (famously known as the Strip) can be rough—littered 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. “You up for a drive?”
    He chugs the rest of his drink and shrugs into his leather jacket. “Can’t think of a better way to spend a hot Tuesday night.”
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    Nick’s motorcycle might be on its last wheels. The rear fender’s bent, the chrome polish is scratched, and the body is so chipped, the black finish looks marbled under the floodlights in front of Roger’s 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. “Bike needs some work,” I say, faking indifference. Truth is, I’m terrified of anything on two wheels. I don’t even know the last time I rode a bicycle. Not like I’d admit that to Nick. Or anyone. In my experience, copping to any kind of vulnerability just makes you weak. “No car we can borrow?”
    His expression darkens. “Someone stole mine, remember?”
    Right. Vicki.
    He cranks the ignition key. There’s a soft tick, but the engine doesn’t turn over. He tenses. Tries again. The motor sputters and then peters out.
    â€œMaybe we could take one of Roger’s?”
    Nick smirks. “Sure, let’s borrow the RX.”
    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. “Huh. Guess we take the bike after all,” he says.
    The scent of gasoline and exhaust curls under my nose. I can’t help it—my stomach flutters. The sound, the smell—they’re a damn turn-on, heightened by Nick’s hot-guy-bad-boy vibe. Jesus. I need to give