by Ginger Scott
Still, though his body has calmed, he insists he’s sorry.
“I’m just so fucking sorry, Hannah,” he finally expands, as if somehow this gives it meaning.
I pull back enough to hold his head between my palms. Our eyes dance, his focus less manic than before but still not the restful expression I’m used to from him.
“I love you, Dustin Bridges. You did nothing wrong. And I love you for you. I love you,” I say. I’ll repeat these words until he believes them, until he hears them in every part of his body. I’ll say them to anyone who asks, to anyone who dares to question where my loyalty lies. I’ll pronounce my love for this boy in a court of law, in the face of death, at the line of fire. I’ll love him for always because I know, whether he can say it yet or not, he loves me back. He loves me, and I won’t let go.
24
Six hours earlier . . .
“My mom. Where’s my mom? Is she okay?”
I followed Mr. Judge to another small room, this one more like an office, after I soaked his shirt with tears and snot. I didn’t realize how hard I’d been holding on to everything until I saw him standing on the other side of that door. He let me cry it out, and I cried so fucking hard. I feel so lost in my head right now, and I have so many fears and questions colliding in my brain, leaving scars and cuts and so much damage. But I can’t move on until I know whether or not my mom is all right.
“I don’t know where she is, Dustin, but . . . please, sit down.” He flattens his palm on the center of a desk in the middle of this room. There’s a line of leather cubes against a wall across from the desk, so I decide to sit there instead of the chair across from him. I don’t know why. I feel trapped at that desk, I guess, and I’ve been trapped for way too many hours now.
“Okay, I’m sitting. You don’t know where she is, but—” My voice comes out threatening, shaking with frustration, and I regret the way it sounds. I hold up my palm and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Take your time and just breathe,” he says.
He pulls his hands together on the desk, folding his fingers together, and I stare at the zigzag line formed by his linked knuckles.
I do as he says and fill my chest, holding it that way until a satisfying wave passes through my body. That felt good. I blow it out and do it again.
“Nobody seems to know where your mom is, but she went to work today. The manager at the gas station said she clocked out on time and he saw her get in one of those ride-share cars about fifteen minutes later. Authorities are tracking down that driver, and I’m sure they’ll find her,” Mr. Judge says.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and nod before letting my head fall into my hands. None of that makes sense. My mom doesn’t have friends. We don’t have relatives other than my mom’s brother who lives in Oklahoma. He basically disowned us because he got sick of my mom asking for money. She has no place to go, other than somewhere new to get drunk or high. Maybe she took on another job? I laugh off that thought almost the second it passes through my mind.
“I’m more worried about Colt, Dustin. We need to talk about things, but I need you to be present with me for this conversation. I want you to process things first, to relax,” Mr. Judge says, and I laugh out loud in a knee-jerk response.
“Sorry,” I say, staring into his disappointed, sloped eyes and stern-lined mouth. “It’s kinda hard to relax given, well, all of this,” I add, waving my hands around the room and toward the door that leads to whatever the hell this place is where I’m being kept.
Mr. Judge nods slowly and looks down at the sterile desk.
“Give me a minute,” he says, knocking on the wood before standing. He rounds the desk and before exiting the door, holds up a finger as assurance he’ll be back. The clicking mechanism grinds when it shuts and I can tell I wouldn’t be able to just open the door like he did.
I spend my few minutes alone taking in the details of the room. I’ve been in a place like this before. The two-way mirror behind me confirms it. This is the kind of place where CPS meets with delinquents and kids they want to throw into foster homes. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need this shit.
I stand so I’m ready to protest when Mr. Judge comes back, and when the door beeps with a clearance badge, I ready myself to tell him to leave me in that vacant room I was in before for the next two weeks. I’ll check myself out when I’m an “adult,” as if I haven’t been one my whole life.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says before I can get my words out.
My brow draws in tight, and it takes a few seconds to process what he’s suggesting. Finally, he jerks his head, urging me to follow, and my feet move.
We stop at a security desk where a woman who clearly doesn’t know how to smile hands me a plastic bag with my keys, wallet, phone, and two sticks of gum that they confiscated from my jeans pocket when they brought me in. I sign for my belongings and Mr. Judge signs next to my name under the line labeled GUARDIAN. The woman buzzes us through a thick glass door, and it slams shut behind us. I glance back and note the layers and layers of security between where I was and where I am now. I don’t belong here.
I follow Mr. Judge down some steps and into a parking lot filled with squad cars and police SUVs. His truck is parked between one of those armored trucks used by SWAT teams and what looks like an unmarked vehicle, a Dodge that I know is built to go a lot faster than it appears.
“You hungry?” he asks me across the hood of his truck.
I nod as my stomach grumbles. I’m actually kind of sick, but I think having actual food under my nose could change things.
We climb in the truck and take a silent trip several miles toward home, stopping at the Waffle House off the main highway. We take a booth in the back corner and Mr. Judge orders himself an omelet and me a big stack of pancakes. The waitress fills our water cups and we slide the coffee mugs her way, indicating we’d like some. Our eyes meet and we both huff out breathy laughter.
“You boys tired, huh?” the waitress says, pulling her bifocals down to the tip of her nose as she pours coffee in my cup first, then Mr. Judge’s.
“Been a long night . . . and day,” Hannah’s dad adds, as though realizing night passed a long time ago.
She leaves with a cursory smile, leaving the pot behind so we can take care of our own refills. I’m glad we stopped here, far enough from town to not be inside the gossip ring. This place is a truck stop, everyone transitory, and Colt Bridges’ messed-up kid isn’t on anyone’s radar.
We take careful sips of our coffee, setting the mugs back down on the table in sync, which makes me smile. Mr. Judge leans forward, rubbing his hands together on top of the table, his eyes down, brow pinched, and jaw flexing as if he’s holding back words I fear might be hard to hear.
I mimic his posture at first, fisting my hands together and reminding myself to breathe through my nose. It’s a trick I’ve learned in racing, something that forces my heart rate in check. My leg bobs with nerves, though, the longer it takes Hannah and Tommy’s dad to break his silence. Eventually, I interrupt it for both of us, slapping my palms on the table and sliding them back as I fall into the seat back of the booth.
“Let me have it. Foster care, right? But only two weeks, so—”
“Dustin, Colt is in serious trouble,” he interrupts.
I shut my mouth, realizing my worries are bigger than getting stuck in a system. His eyes flit up to meet mine, and he does that thing where he doesn’t blink. He used to deploy this technique when Tommy and I were in trouble for breaking something.
“I mean, I gathered.” I shrug. Flashes of my dad’s face race behind my eyes and I wince outwardly at the memory of his bloodied face, his snarled smile.
“I have to know, and I’m serious about this, more serious than I have ever been my entire life, about anything,” he begins.
I swallow down the instant dryness in my throat and lean forward a little, enough to sit upri
ght, good posture for a good person. That’s my thought process, despite the one thing I keep coming back to is the two thousand dollars I stole from Colt’s stash. I know in my gut that’s at the heart of all of this. The remaining eight hundred bucks burns a hole in my pocket. Money I changed out when I bought the first set of tires, self-laundering money I knew was bad.
“Okay,” I croak. I blink a few times, my focus on the small pocket on his polo shirt, the imperfect crease in it that says he grabbed it from the dirty clothes and raced to county holding to get me. I move my gaze up until I reach his eyes, and staring into them is as hard as I knew it would be. I won’t lie to this man.
“What do you know about your dad’s business?” he asks.
“Can we . . . can we not call him my dad?” I respond, squirming a little in my seat. I break our stare briefly but offer a tight smile when I return to his eyes.
“Okay.” He nods, his voice soft and soothing. Understanding.
“Thanks,” I say.
In through the nose, hold, out through the nose.
“I found his money a couple of days ago. I mean, he’s always had cash around, but this was serious money. Hundred thousand, maybe more,” I admit.
Mr. Judge remains calm, probably because he knows the real number for the cash. Which means he knows what was with it.
“And there were drugs, like a brick of something. I figured heroine,” I say with a shrug, my face flashing hot. I hate that this is my life, that I’m the son of a man who has shit like this stashed in his kid’s closet.
Hannah’s dad stutters in a sharp breath and his eyes flutter as he leans back in the booth. He looks out the window and grabs the back of his neck with one hand. Maybe he didn’t know so much.
“They’re gonna lock him up, though, right?” I ask, assuming. I’ve never thought it would be anything different. Hell, some nights I prayed for this.
Mr. Judge grimaces as he brings his gaze back to me. His mouth holds a tight line as the waitress moves in with our hot plates. As delicious as my hotcakes smell, my stomach turns from the news I sense coming the minute our server leaves our table. She drops off an extra set of silverware and some syrup, then heads to the other end of the diner to attend to a couple who just walked in to sit at the counter.
“Dustin, they’re gonna offer your dad a deal,” he says.
I pull my plate close and focus on my pancakes. I pick up the fork knowing I won’t eat a damn thing on this plate. I just need something to do. I swirl butter around the top as I say “oh.” After several seconds of silence, though, I drop the charade, and the fork, and push my plate away.
“So, he’ll be out soon?” I feel the invisible stranglehold of terror grip my throat.
“I wouldn’t say days. But weeks? Yeah. And depending on how fast they want to move, maybe days.”
“But then he’ll serve time, right? He doesn’t get a free pass without something, does he?” A mental slideshow of all the awful things Colt has done—to me, to my mom, to people—plays through my mind.
“Oh, he’ll serve time,” Mr. Judge says.
I sigh with relief, but it’s temporary.
“Not a lot, though. Maybe eighteen months, maybe six. I don’t know the deal. He’s small fish compared to the guys they’re after.”
“So after all this, he’ll still get out?” I don’t want the truth to sink in. I understand it, I just wish I didn’t.
“He will, Dustin. He’ll come home.”
Home.
I nod and drop my gaze to the table between our two pointless plates.
“That’s why I need to know, Dustin. How involved are you? How much do you know about your dad’s business?”
I shake my head, processing for a few seconds before I speak.
“Nothing beyond what I told you. I swear,” I say, denying my suspicions even though I’m certain they’re right.
“You swear on your life?” he pushes.
My eyes move up to find his waiting and I nod.
“I swear, sir,” I say, sliding my plate to the side and moving the coffee back in front of me. I pull the mug to my lips and take a bigger drink this time, needing the jolt of a strong, black brew. The taste is bitter and perfect, so I go in for more.
“Your dad . . . Colt, I mean,” he corrects. “He got in with the cartel. And from what my friend could tell me, Dustin, he’s been working with them for months, maybe almost a year. Something went wrong with this exchange, though, and I’m guessing it went really wrong. Colt probably thought he could out-maneuver the guys he was in contact with or something, but those guys always have bigger guys behind them, as do those guys, and so on. Until it’s the guy. And that guy? He doesn’t give a shit about anyone.”
I rub my hand over my tired, numb face as Mr. Judge confirms what deep down, I always knew was true.
“I took some of the money,” I blurt out. I swore I wouldn’t lie to this man, and I won’t.
“Shit, Dustin!” he whisper shouts. He covers his mouth and leans back, looking out the window at the busy rush of traffic.
“I know. It was stupid. But he owed me, and I needed to take care of some things.” I fumble for an explanation that makes my actions okay.
Hannah’s dad leans forward and waves his hand.
“It doesn’t matter. Forget that. It doesn’t matter,” he repeats.
“O-o-kay,” I stammer out.
I can’t fathom how it doesn’t matter, but I’ll follow his logic for now.
“The DEA is working with the FBI, and they’re going to use Colt to get to his guy. You understand what I’m saying?” he asks.
I nod, though I don’t know what that means bigger picture-wise.
“Dustin, I need you to understand the gravity of this. Your dad—Colt Bridges—is going to be a dangled carrot to lure some really fucking heinous men.”
I flinch at his brashness. And then, my pulse ratchets up. I’m starting to understand everything. Why we’re here—why he’s here.
“I feel sick,” I say, laying my head on my arms and pushing my ass back in the booth so I can stare at my lap. “Oh, God, I’m gonna be sick.
“Go if you have to,” he says. “Bathroom’s right there.”
In through the nose, hold, exhale.
“No, I’ll be okay.” I won’t. I never will be again.
A weight hits the table, the thud enough to push my forehead up from my arms. I glance up through my lashes to find a massive book, a notebook with it, along with a stuffed business-sized envelope.
“Is there a test?” I lift a brow. My stomach rolls.
“It’s twenty thousand dollars, Dustin. Take it, and the book so it doesn’t look like I’m just handing you cash at a truck stop.” His voice is low, and for the first time since we got here, it quivers with nerves.
I blink my focus to the bundle as he pushes it toward me and I do as he says. I pull it all into my lap and turn the spine of the book to read it—Moby Dick.
“What do I do with this?” I ask, hugging the envelope, tucking it against my stomach and behind the book and notepad.
“Amanda and I are going to be your guardians. A few papers need to be filed, but for two weeks, until you’re eighteen, you’ll be ours.” He pauses with his mouth open and his eyes drop. This is where the but comes in.
“I need to go,” I say in a low whisper, the words coming out slowly.
Mr. Judge nods, his movement stilted and slight. His eyes flit away from mine, the guilt of looking me square too much to take now that the cards are on the table. He’s paying me to leave; to leave Hannah. I can’t blame him.
I pull the envelope out and drop it on the table.
“I don’t need your fucking money,” I bite out.
He pushes it back to me and holds it at the edge of the table, about to fall into my lap.
“Don’t be stupid. Dustin, this isn’t a bribe, it’s what we can do to help. You can get started with this, find a place, get a job somewhere far away from Colt
and his taste for revenge. You can break free of his shadow. Get a good truck body, build it out. Join the circuit and win your way to greatness. I believe in you, Dustin.”
I can’t help the laugh that spills out of my mouth when he says that last part.
“I do, Dustin. Truly.”
“Fuck this,” I say, sliding from the booth. He steps out before I can stand, though, grabbing my arm, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. The envelope of cash falls to the booth behind me and we both glance at it before staring each other in the eyes.
I’m so goddamn hurt right now. And I’m angry. But I can’t take that out on him. I just can’t, though my instincts want me to be violent, to throw this fucking whale book in his face. To hotwire his truck and peel out of here. What good would that do, though? I’d be just like Colt. I’d really be buried alive then, more than I am right now.
“You want me to leave Hannah,” I finally say.
His eyes flash with the truth and he nods, just once.
“That’s the deal, Dustin. I can get you out of here, out of this.” He leans his head to the side as if that signals the trap I’m in with Colt and the law. “But you’ve gotta leave my baby girl alone. You’ll destroy her, Dustin. The target you’ve got on you is so hot, so big. It’s not only you at risk anymore, and I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
He runs the side of his palm under his tearing eyes as he sniffs. I relax my muscles and he loosens his grip, letting me slide back into the booth. I pull the envelope back into my hands, and I swear it burns my skin to touch. It feels dirty.
“What about the DEA or whatever? Aren’t they going to want to know where I am?” I can’t believe I’m considering this.
Mr. Judge leans to one side and pulls a small folded paper from his pocket, opening it and holding it out for me to take. There’s a phone number jotted in pencil. I don’t recognize the area code.
