by Ginger Scott
“You’re sure he’s not running away, right? That he didn’t send you here so he could skirt off guilt-free?” She leaves me with this new fear on our way to last hour, dismissing it with a wave of her hand and an added “I’m sure it’s fine.” But is it?
I wander into my last hour dazed by her theory. What if Dustin kept driving after we parted? I nibble on my fingernails, one at a time, while my lit teacher drones on about terrible fathers in Thomas Hardy novels. I pay attention to that part, laughing quietly to myself at the striking resemblance some of his characters have to Colt. I bet he would have sold his wife and son for cash like the main character in The Mayor of Casterbridge.
I’m lost in that thought when Tara, the quiet girl who sits next to me, nudges my elbow with her pen then points toward the window when I glance up. I turn and my eyes meet Dustin’s almost immediately. He lifts a hand and I check to see whether my teacher is looking before holding mine up in response. Soon, I’m biting my lip and remembering how his feel.
He’s like a dream. The wavy locks of his hair blow in the window, crossing his forehead that he wrinkles by furrowing his brow in response to the bright afternoon sun. He’s wearing all my favorites, though I doubt he knows that—black jeans, the black Vans, and the long-sleeved gray shirt that hugs his chest and smells like every dirt track we’ve ever visited. Last time he was resting on our couch with his feet up on one side, I drew hearts on the bottoms of his shoes. The ink bled deep into the rubber, making it hard to wear off.
The final minutes of my class are spent with my eyes glued to him, though he only looks my way once or twice. I love the way he reads his phone, the way he slides his hand into his back pocket when he’s done, and how he gnaws at the inside of his cheek while he’s thinking. So much to think about, and I’m sure he dreads walking back into my house, but I’m determined to change everyone’s minds when it comes to Dustin Bridges.
He is not his father. If anything, he is better than all of us because of his father.
When the bell rings, I waste little time, gathering my things and scrambling out the door and through the hallways to the curb of the parking lot and the boy I’ve been staring at for what’s felt like hours.
There’s no hesitation in my steps, and I march right up to him until my chest is pressed against his and our lips meet. His hands slip from his pockets and hover at my sides for a second, stunned by my boldness. But he comes to quickly, dipping them into the back pockets of my denim shorts and squeezing my ass enough to lift me into him more.
“I guess we’re letting everyone know what’s what then?” he says against my lips as we part. I fall back and his hands slip from my pockets but linger on my hips. His brow is arched on the same side as his raised lip and dimple. It’s perfectly adorable and I take a mental picture to dream about later.
“Just Michael Bosa,” I tease, knowing the jock will walk through the school gates to his Mustang any second now. I doubt he even glances our way, but the chord of jealousy I strike does its job.
“Oh, well, in that case,” Dustin says, moving his hands into my hair and dipping me back for a possessive kiss that instantly leaves my lips raw and satisfied.
“Hey! Get a room!”
I laugh mid-kiss at the sound of my best friend’s voice. Dustin pulls away enough to make eye contact but still holds me with my back arched.
“I’d love to get a room . . . and do so many things,” he says loud enough just for me. My cheeks burn at his offer, followed by a swollen ache between my legs. I’m wet just from his suggestion.
“You following me home?” I ask as he lifts me back to a standing position.
He sucks his lips in and looks off to the side, the dent in his forehead putting me off ease.
“Dustin,” I say, my voice quiet and pleading.
His head swivels back to face me and our gazes lock. His throat moves with a hard swallow.
“Don’t let them run you off so easily,” I say, reaching up and grabbing hold of his shirt at the center of his chest. He laughs and covers my hands with his, leaning forward to drop a kiss on my forehead.
“Han, I want this to work. And if I’m going to win over your parents, I don’t think I should be living under your roof. I’ll be fine. I should probably check on my mom anyway,” he says, his voice strained.
I shake my hands against his chest, pounding lightly while he holds on to me. He laughs lightly. I glance to my right to where my car is parked, Bailey sitting on the bumper.
“I have to take her home,” I say, nodding toward my friend.
“Good. You should do that,” he says, walking me backward a few steps. He moves his hands to my cheeks, cupping them before dusting my lips with a chaste kiss that leaves me buzzing for more. I grab his wrists as we stare into each other’s eyes.
“I grabbed my clothes and stuff already, not that I have much. I’m gonna drop the box at home and then I’ve got a race I wanna check out in the Valley tonight. Maybe I’ll cruise by after and we can meet up in the garage again?” His teeth snag his bottom lip as he raises his brows, which makes me laugh.
“I don’t want you to go.” I sigh, knowing he’s right and that he’s going to respect my father as much as he can.
“And that makes me feel amazing,” he says.
My heart pounds, its strength growing and pushing against my insides harder and harder the longer Dustin and I stare at each other in complete silence. I told him I loved him. I told everyone I loved him. I know he feels the same, and I’m patient, but the truth of what I said lingers in the air between us right now. I feel it, taste it.
“I’m holding you to that promise. I’ll see you tonight,” I say, slipping from his fragile hold while wishing he’d reach for me, hold on and never let go.
“Tonight,” he repeats, tugging open his door and leaning on the window frame to watch me walk away. I sway my hips a little more knowing his eyes are on them.
“You two are seriously hot together,” Bailey says.
I smile and say thanks before getting in the car, my inner voice saying “I know.” Bailey has no idea how fucking combustible we are.
I drop Bailey off and decide to start the hard work of moving my parents over to my side. My dad’s the harder sell, and I get that he’s conflicted given how close he and Dustin are and what we’ve all been through together. We were, on many weekends, “his kids.” I’m sure his head is a little screwed up over the idea of us as a couple.
My mom, however? She’s soft. She’s the reason we took Dustin in when he couldn’t be at home. She’s seen the bruises, and I heard her and dad fight about calling Protective Services when we were younger. For a while, I thought she was going to push to adopt Dustin. Fuck, what a mess that would have created now!
I pull into the small parking lot behind city hall and dial her office on my phone. She picks up in the middle of the second ring.
“Hannah? Are you all right? Is everything okay?” I can almost visualize her cupping her phone and pacing her office with worry by the way her voice sounds.
“I’m fine,” I say, killing the engine and getting out of my car. My brow pinches so much I feel the fold of skin between my eyes. “Why are you so worried? I call you all the time.”
“I know. I wasn’t . . . I just . . . I’m glad you’re okay.” She coughs down her overreaction.
It hits me suddenly. I stop midway to her office, just outside her window.
“Is this about Dustin?” I ask pointedly. I turn so I’m square with her window, looking at my own reflection as it outlines her behind the glass. She twists in her chair and our eyes meet. “What, did you think he kidnapped me? Took me off to start a meth lab and make babies out of wedlock?”
She recoils at my hyperbolic questioning.
“Hannah.” Now her tone is condescending.
“No. Don’t Hannah me. Mom, even if you don’t like the idea of me dating a boy—”
“It’s Dustin, Hannah. It’s Dustin.” As if this make
s it all okay.
“Yeah, Mom. It’s Dustin. And even if you don’t trust him, you trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”
There’s a pause that lasts just long enough to dry out my throat. I punch out an offended laugh.
“Are you kidding me?” I turn my back to her and head toward my car, sorry I ever tried to make any of this okay. Maybe I should run away with him. I’d be the one kidnapping him, but that’s not how anyone would see it. Their minds are so made up, and they are so wrong.
“Hannah!” My mom’s voice comes from behind me, not through the phone. I unlock my door and toss my phone to the passenger seat, then stop to stare at her over the roof of my car.
“Shame on you,” I grit out.
Her eyes start to tear right away. Imagine how this must look to anyone in their offices looking out on this tiny parking lot. The mayor’s daughter is making the mayor cry. Hell, in this fucking small-ass town, this outburst might make the news.
“He’s been through so much, he doesn’t even know what his life experience has done to him yet. And I worry. Can’t I worry?” She’s begging me.
I look down at my palm as I grip the keys in my hand, the teeth digging into my skin, and I chuckle to myself.
“Sure, Mom. You can worry. But you should also have some faith. A life like his might just make someone resilient.” I lift my head until our gazes meet and I hold hers through the slight flinch she makes just before the corners of her eyes soften.
“I’ll see you at dinner, Mom,” I say, not waiting for her to respond.
I climb in my car and pull away, only glancing in the rearview mirror once as I pull out of the city hall lot. She’s still standing where I left her.
16
Deep down, I knew I’d come back to this place; I just didn’t want it to be so soon. The familiar smell of dirty clothes and piled up garbage assaults my nostrils as soon as I step out of my car. Colt’s ride is nowhere in sight, which is comforting. Mom is home alone.
I grab my box of belongings from the trunk and carry it to the back door, knowing it will be unlocked. My mom always leaves the back door open; that’s one of the things that sends Colt into a rage. He’s convinced she’s working with ATF or the FBI to grant access for a raid. I hate to break it to him, but I’m pretty sure toddlers could punch their way through one of the walls and make their way inside if they wanted to. An open back door is the least of his security worries.
The theme music from her favorite soap opera echoes from the shitty TV speakers as I enter, and I can see the top of her head peeking out from the recliner as I walk in.
“Hey, Mom,” I announce. She leaps to her knees in her chair and spins so our eyes meet. Her right eye is ringed in black, no doubt a gift from Colt.
“Dusty!” She wiggles her way to a stand, a half-spent cigarette dangling from her fingers, the ash so long I’m not sure how it hasn’t fallen to the floor. She grinds out the butt in a cereal bowl on the small table next to the chair.
Ah, home.
“Do you want some eggs? You must be hungry. Let me make you some eggs.” She stumbles her way into the kitchen, her arms swinging wildly for balance. She knocks over a few stacked pots but somehow manages to catch one of them mid-air before it clanks on the floor. She glances up at me and grins, proud of herself.
“Look at that,” she says, winking.
She’s high. I’m guessing opiates, probably prescription. It’s sad that I can identify the difference.
“I’m just dropping off some stuff for my closet, Ma. You don’t have to make me anything.” It’s three in the afternoon. Not that you can’t eat breakfast whenever, but I don’t think she has a clue what time it is.
I kick a few empty snack cake boxes out of my way as I amble down the narrow hallway and try like hell to keep the visual of my mom passed out on the floor out of my head. I haven’t really had a bedroom for years. There’s a room and there’s a bed in it, but it’s covered with boxes filled with shit my mom thinks is too important to throw away. I think it’s probably where Colt hides money, too. I never touch those boxes. I’m better off not knowing. The closet, though—that I got to keep.
I slide the door open and wedge my foot between a few bins, sliding them apart enough to drop my box to the floor. I pop the top open and hang a few of my old shirts. These aren’t things I wear much. I keep those in my trunk. But I was so freaked out when I left the first time, I just grabbed random things and took off.
The smell of burnt egg drifts into the room, so I close the box and swear under my breath. The last thing I want to do is hang around this place, but if my mom is actually going to make an effort, I may as well indulge her and try to eat them. I’m sure they’re dry as fuck.
I grab the edge of the sliding door and begin to move it when something glaring hits my frame of focus. I let go of the door and reach up, holding my hand a few inches from the bundled brick of cash before convincing myself to go ahead and touch it. A second stack rests below it, both bundles wrapped in Saran Wrap, but the second one is clearly drugs.
Fuck.
The cash is heavy in my palm. I can see enough through the layers of plastic to get that they’re all hundreds. Hundreds of hundreds.
Fuck.
“Dusty? Eggs are ready!”
My heart pounds heavy in my chest, pulse ratcheting up at the sound of my mom’s voice, and I drop the bundle to my feet.
“Coming!” I yell, scrambling to pick up the money. I tug one of my T-shirts free and wipe away my prints, not that I even know if that’s a thing. I just know if it is a thing, I don’t want my prints on this shit. Holding the cash with my shirt for a glove, I slide it back into place and finish closing the door.
My heart thunders against my chest cavity and the rhythm of my pulse drowns out the sound of Mom’s TV when I walk back into the living room. There aren’t any chairs in the kitchen, so I stand at the clear spot on the counter that my mom made by shoving crap out of the way with her arm. She drops the plate of steaming and slightly browned eggs in front of me and I commence shoveling them in my mouth as fast as I can.
“Aww, you were hungry. My sweet boy,” she says.
She’s super sentimental when she’s high on opioids.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say through a full mouth. The eggs are fucking awful, but I power through them, my mind calculating how much cash fits in an eight-inch-by-four-inch brick. Thousands. Fucking thousands!
By the time I finish my plate, my arms and legs buzz with nervous energy. I have to get out of here, make sense of what I just saw. Colt’s always had drugs and cash around the house. Hell, he cooked his own meth a few times. But the things I found in my closet? That’s another level. That’s cartel kinda shit. That’s dealing for real, not passing around baggies of weed and watered down blow at the truck stop.
“Do you want more? I can make more . . .” My mom is already moving toward the carton of eggs still on the counter. I think that’s the only edible thing in this house.
“No, I gotta go. I got a race to get to, but thanks. That was great,” I lie, dumping the plate on top of the dozens of dirty ones piled in the sink. At some point, my mom will clean a few of those. That’s how it works around here, a constant state of washing what you need when you need it . . . sometimes.
“Okay, baby. Momma loves you!” she chants as I race out the door. I cringe at her syrupy banter. I’m not sure what version of her I’d rather have—the angry rage-a-holic in detox, the depressed, doped-up zombie, or this woman who’s manic and full of way too much energy.
I get in my car and roar out of the gravel driveway, backing into the street, racing away from my house as fast as I can. I hit eighty by the time I reach the end of my street and peel around the corner, smoke spilling from the back of my car so heavily it’s almost impossible to see out the back window.
So much money.
My head is dizzy with all of the thoughts running through it, some I’m not so proud of, like the fact I left be
hind so much money! I could just take it. Take it and run. But run where? And without Hannah?
Sometimes, I think God has a wicked sense of humor. Now is one of those times as Hannah’s car passes mine heading the other direction. I spin around and chase her, glad to see her pull to the side of the road because she saw me. She was probably headed to my house, and that’s the last place she should ever go. I can’t fathom what Colt would say or his friends would do if she showed up there alone.
I rumble to a stop behind her, my fingers still teeming with guilty energy. I actually considered stealing that cash. For more than a few seconds, that thought sat in my head and I could have convinced myself.
She opens her door and swings her legs out but remains sitting so I get out and walk over to kneel in front of her. I grab her hands in mine and hold them on her lap.
“Where you running to?” I glare up at her with a squint because of the bright sun above.
“To find you,” she says through a smirk that I can tell is pasted on. I hold her stare long enough for it to slip into a frown.
I nod.
“What happened?” I ask.
Her eyes fall, her lashes kissing her freckle-dusted cheeks. Goddamn, is she the sweetest angel on earth.
“Had a not-so-great talk with my mom at her office. It’s fine, really. She’s just being overprotective.” She pulls her hands free and makes air quotes around that last word. It makes me laugh. I grab them again and thread my fingers between hers before leaning in to press my lips softly on hers.
“I assume the subject of me came up.” I sigh. I’m not upset. It actually feels nice that she wants to fight for us so badly, enough to barge into her mom’s office. I picture her pointing and telling her mom how it is. Hannah has a bossy streak.
“Why are you smiling?” Her head tilts. I slide my hands along her hips, up the bottoms of her shorts until they cup her ass. I squeeze and she blushes.
