Shift

by Ginger Scott

  Dad tells Mom what he’s picking up for dinner.

  Mom tells Dad that Tommy called and he’ll be home for the Fourth of July weekend.

  They discuss paying my tuition, what’s left after my scholarship. They divide tasks and work well as a team. But is that love?

  “Go on, Michael. Tell me how I look,” I say, drawing my tongue over my bottom lip to lure him. I won’t kiss him tonight, and I think deep down he knows it. I won’t kiss anyone ever again. I’ll flirt, to feel the heat of attention. I’ve learned that I like the rush I get from the control. Anything more than that, though, comes with a risk.

  “You look hot,” he finally answers, his words tumbling out amid nervous laughter as he rubs his likely sweaty palms on the knees of his slacks.

  “Good boy,” I say, reaching over and tapping his nose. I look away before he has a chance to make anything more of it.

  “Now, let’s find a race,” I say, shifting into first and idling my way through the crowd. We’re not the only couple who opted for this over some dance at the Union Hall. I used to wonder if Dustin and I would have ended up here on our prom night. Now, I don’t care.

  He was the ruler of this place. A legend of the lanes. Now, he’s a ghost. And I’ve got his precious car. I’m not entirely sure why Dad let me keep it when he towed it home from the impound lot. Maybe he felt guilty for being so hard on our relationship. Funny how right they were, though. My parents knew he’d hurt me.

  Tommy did the wrap job for my birthday a few weeks ago, my eighteenth. I wanted the car to look nothing like it did when he drove it. Tommy made it midnight blue, almost black. The only hint at color can be seen under the right light, by the right set of eyes, thanks to the matte finish.

  I spot our mark halfway down the gathering, pull into an open space and shift to park.

  “Be right back,” I say, kicking open the door with my white Vans. I tossed the heels in the back the minute Michael and I left my house after my mom snapped about a million photos. Like I’ll ever want to remember this night.

  “You want me to come with?” He leans across the center console, his blue eyes blinking up at me. I dare say, he’s handsome. Just not handsome enough. Not broken enough. He’s safe.

  He works at his cufflinks, rolling up the sleeve on one arm, his jacket long abandoned to the tight back seat.

  “Oh, I’ve got this. I’m a big girl.”

  He lets out a smitten laugh, so when I shut the door I decide to cool it a little on the flirting. I can’t have him getting the wrong idea.

  I’m not sure whether Aiden remembers me or not. I look a little different than I did a year ago when he shot out the tires that used to be on this car. My brown hair is closer to black now, and I’m wearing a lot more makeup than normal. Plus, I don’t think Aiden ever really looked at my face the night he fucked us over. I flash him a fifty dollar bill as I walk up and he looks beyond my shoulder, probably for my boyfriend. I shift so his eyes have to meet mine.

  “Nope. Just me,” I say, giving him a crooked smile.

  He chuckles and looks to his friend. I don’t recognize this guy, but he could have been there that night. Aiden, though, him I will never forget.

  “Sure, honey,” he says, taking my cash and handing it to his friend for holding.

  “Can I trust him?” I cock a brow.

  “Either that or find yourself a different race,” Aiden says.

  I hold his stare for a few seconds, and for a moment, there’s a glint in his eye that makes me wonder if he recognizes me. I nod finally and turn to walk away.

  “No, I’ll take the race,” I toss over my shoulder.

  Aiden’s learned a thing or two since last year. He’s probably been burned for cash. That’s the only reason he would make a big deal out of my question. Truthfully, I couldn’t care less about the money. The way I see it, I just bought myself about four minutes of unadulterated euphoria. It’s worth fifty bucks, win or lose.

  I think I’ll win.

  I’ve gotten pretty good out here. Tommy taught me how to tighten my shifting, and he spent time with my footwork so I got gear changing down to about three seconds. It’s nowhere near the two Dustin could pull off, but it’s faster than any girl I’ve ever seen out on the Straights besides Ava. She complimented me last month too. That must mean I’m doing something right.

  “We’re on,” I say, climbing back in the car.

  I’m sure Michael says something in response, but I don’t hear him. I’m already lost to the road. My legs tingle with the rumble as I reverse, giving the car a little gas to let people know I’m serious.

  I flip around and line up at the usual start, my eyes glued to the empty stretch of roadway ahead as the Subaru, still covered in those goddamn stickers, crawls up next to me. A guy who used to lose to Dustin out here on the weekly passes between our cars and gets our nods, a silent acceptance of the rules. He makes his way out to the yellow dashes that jet out from between us, and stops in the glow of our headlights. His hand lifts, a white bandana tied around his wrist to make it easier to see.

  My eyes haze, and my mouth curves. The smile is faint, and I feel drunk. Later, I will be. Never too drunk, but enough to tamp down the threat of feeling anything. I tarnish the memory of us every time I go to a party, every time I light up with my brother at a bonfire, and every time I sneak downstairs when my parents are asleep and I’m fighting with my demons. At this point, if Dustin Bridges shows his face anywhere I am, I’ll be unrecognizable.

  When the bandana falls, I punch the gas and do as I’ve been taught. My hand moves slower, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll pass Aiden in the stretch, halfway back to home. And if I don’t, fuck it. Because this feeling right now? This is my love. This is my bliss. And it’s the only kind I’m ever going to get.

  Epilogue

  Three years later, Tulsa, Oklahoma

  Virgil isn’t Tommy.

  I say this every damn race, and yet I can’t seem to let myself part with the man. He’s fifty, and wears a John Deere hat over his salt-and-pepper hair every day of the week. He’s a shitty mechanic, though. I think there’s probably some daddy issues at play with our relationship and my inability to let him go. I mean, he’s fine for a guy changing oil and filters and crap, but he’s never going to get me beyond the B-level races out here in the sticks.

  “All right, give that a go and let’s see how she does,” he says, dropping the truck hood with a heavy clunk.

  I’ve dropped a lot of cash into this modified Chevy pickup, and the best it’s done is fourth place. Yeah, I’m getting attention, and I’ll probably pick up enough sponsorships and wins to slide into the circuit for stock after this year, but I sure would like to feel the thrill of winning again, just one damn time.

  “Alright, Virgil. I’ll treat her right,” I say. He winks at me and I remind myself again that I can’t ever drop him. The man is too good, and my life is too void of that stuff.

  The ride feels choppy already, and I know a belt is too tight. I wait until I get out to the track before I step out and give it one tiny adjustment. Hopefully Virgil doesn’t see this. I hurry back inside to find my rhythm, my heart not quite ready for the final thirty laps of this stage. If I can just hold on to the top five, I’ll earn out. I’ll be able to pay off the advances from Tulsa Motors and get Uncle Jeff the rent money we agreed I’d start to pay.

  I’m too old to be living with my uncle, but I don’t know yet where I would go. Everything around the city is too pricey to handle on my own, and since I left Arizona, I’m not much of a people kind of guy. The idea of picking up a random roommate sends shivers down my spine.

  In through the nose. Hold, and exhale.

  My ritual doesn’t work as well as it used to. Nothing does. I know I did what I had to do, and I know it was for the best.

  Colt’s been out for two years now. He’ll probably find me someday, and by then I’ll probably have earned things that are important to me. He’ll take it all, too. But he
won’t take Hannah. She’ll be okay, and so will Tommy. And that’s all that matters. That’s why I keep Virgil. That and the man insists on making me mix tapes for every race. I’m the only asshole out here with some garage-sale tape player buckled to his passenger seat because his only friend is fifty and lives in 1984.

  I press play, curious what song will hit me out of the gate. I chuckle at the first few notes of Tom Petty’s “American Girl.” It’s a classic, and Virgil didn’t have to teach me this one. It’s not his fault, but only a few seconds in, the song has me deep in my thoughts. The Judges loved Petty, and Hannah and Tommy’s dad used to play his greatest hits on the drive down to Tucson. “American Girl” was always Hannah’s favorite.

  It’s her theme song. Every verse of it.

  “Alright, Han. I guess this one’s for you,” I say, flipping down the visor to get one last look at the image of my sleeping beauty. I used Uncle Jeff’s printer to run a copy of the photo I snuck of Hannah the night I left, and it’s fading. I’ve lost the original, though, in a devastating phone incident that involved me, a bit of whiskey, and a river. So much for not following in my mom and Colt’s footsteps. I’ve been drunk every Friday and Saturday night since I left Arizona. I had to do something to survive, and it turns out alcoholism loves company.

  I press two fingers to my lips and close my eyes, remembering how hers looked the first time I let her ride along for a race. Nothing has ever been so pure. She was a calm in a storm, a bigger storm than she bargained for, and I’m sorry for that every day I breathe.

  My vision of her is still with me when my eyes open. I press my kissed fingers to her photo and push the visor up to keep her safe.

  I’ll always keep her safe—from me, from Colt, from my demons. But I’ll never quit looking for her everywhere I go. You can love something and deny yourself the pleasure of it. That’s real love. That’s the kind of love that matters, the kind that lasts. Love from afar, it can’t get hurt. It can’t be broken. And if that’s all I’m going to get in this life, I’m sure as hell going to protect it.

  “Hey, you hear me, Dust?” Virgil gets a kick out of the headset.

  I get a kick out of how amused Virgil is.

  “Roger that, V-man,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  I shake my head and laugh quietly.

  “Nothing, I was just trying out some lingo.”

  “Oh, right. I mean, ten-four,” he says. I smile at his attempt.

  “Hey, you got a call from some woman named Bailey. She said you could call her after the race if you want. You know her?”

  I think maybe a full minute passes before I answer. I’m stunned lifeless at first, but soon, I’m scrambling out of my truck and signaling that I need into the pits. Of all the blasts from my past, Bailey is the last one I expect to ever hear from, and there could only be one reason for her call.

  Hannah.

  “Uh, Dust? You’ve got like ten minutes till go,” Virgil says. His voice is breaking up through our connection, but I’m almost to him anyhow.

  “It’s fine, Virg. Just let me see my phone.”

  I startle him when he realizes I’ve crept in behind him. His wide eyes look panicked, so I rest my hand on his chest.

  “Virgil, this race is sponsored by a chicken wing shop that only has six locations,” I explain.

  “Yeah, but. . .” Virgil stammers. I hold up my finger now that my phone is in my hand, and I’m already dialing Bailey’s number. She answers on the first ring, thank God.

  “Dustin? Is that you?” she asks.

  “Yeah, Bailey. What’s wrong? Is Hannah okay?” My mind races through a dozen different scenarios, from accidents to illnesses.

  “Dustin—” Virgil breaks in again. I shush him this time, and he must sense by my expression that this call, it’s serious. I pace a few steps away, plugging my ear to cut out the engine noise as much as I can.

  “Are you at a race?” Bailey asks.

  “Yeah, but it’s fine. Bailey, tell me!” I plead.

  “Oh, God. I didn’t want to tell you this before a race. And Hannah didn’t want you to know at all, but—”

  “For fuck’s sake, Bailey! What is it?” I demand.

  “Colt’s dead. Your dad. He . . . passed away. The manager of your old trailer court found him. I guess he’d been in there a few days, and I, well, Hannah’s been torturing herself with the news all weekend, debating whether or not to tell you.”

  I fall back on my ass. For most people, the next phase to hit them would probably be grief, but all I can seem to do is cry out in laughter.

  “That’s it?” I say.

  “I’m really sorry, Dustin.” Bailey knows my life story. She wouldn’t think I would be destroyed by any of this.

  “Don’t be. God! Oof!” I blow out. I hold my hand to my forehead then give Virgil a thumbs up. His face is still full of worry. I love that he cares.

  “I’m just glad it’s not Hannah. I was worried—” And then something new hits me. “Wait, Hannah has my number?”

  I got a new phone number when I left. I knew if she could text or call me, I’d give in. I later learned she did the same.

  “Yeah, but don’t . . . Dustin, don’t let her know I told you. She’ll be so mad, and you can’t call her.”

  “This is her phone you’re calling me from?” I shout. I haven’t been this close in so long, and suddenly I find myself wanting to drive across the country. Colt’s gone. My mom hasn’t shown up anywhere since she disappeared the day hell went down on Earth. There’s no longer a threat, or a reason to worry.

  “Yes, but please, Dustin. Please. She would kill me if she knew. She would kill me. She won’t call you, and it took her so long to get herself right,” Bailey says. I fall back to my ass again. So many goddamn ups and downs. This one is a heavy blow, and it cuts out a cavity in my chest. Hannah had to get herself right.

  I hurt her. Like her dad said I would.

  I knew it would be forever when I left, but damn hope in the form of a phone call.

  “No, no. I get it. I won’t, Bailey. I . . . thanks for letting me know, though.”

  “You’re welcome, Dustin. I hope you’re okay. I . . . I better go,” she says, and after a short good-bye, the line is dead.

  Virgil is tapping on my shoulder now, and my body teems with so many toxic emotions, I jerk around and bark “what!” at him.

  “I’m sorry, Virg,” I apologize right away. I run my hand over my face and pinch the bridge of my nose. My head is pounding. There’s no way I’m going to drive well. There’s too much to process.

  “That’s Robert O’Keefe behind you, the owner of Tulsa Wings,” Virgil says, leaning into me and doing his best to whisper. Thanks to years of smoking, though, his whisper is more like a growl, and it’s completely audible from everywhere.

  Add one more crushing weight to my fragile, barely-held-together ego.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I just . . . that was news from home.” I can’t very well blurt out my dad died, not after I giggled with fucking glee. I wait while the man studies me, tugging the lapel of his oversized suit jacket. I shouldn’t make fun of the fit. It’s a nicer coat than I own.

  “Just get in the goddamn truck, Bridges, and drive. And maybe fucking win tonight.” Mr. O’Keefe’s thick, gray eyebrow lifts up on one side, like a checkmark on his forehead.

  I nod and leave him with Virgil, reminding myself of my mechanic’s charm, which is one more reason I accept his failures underneath the hood. He’ll smooth this over, but I got the meaning of our sponsor’s undertones just now. If I don’t win, he’s pulling his money. If he pulls his money, I might not get out of these shithole races for another two years.

  But none of that matters. Hannah knows where to find me, and I have faith that when she’s ready, she will. She’s my love. My bliss. And the only love I’m ever going to have.

  Preorder Wreck and Burn, books 2 and 3 of the Fuel Series, releasing July 2021!

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  Acknowledgments

  Phew! Am I right?

  This series has been such a rush to write. I cannot wait for my readers to experience every moment of it. I wanted you to have something special this summer. Of all summers, this one called for something big. I hope this book hits the spot for you.

  I have a lot of people to thank for helping me get this baby over the finish line. (Get it?) As always, Autumn, you steer me in the right direction. I am forever grateful for your expertise, but even more for your friendship. Aly Stiles - you are more than a critique partner, you are literally a life coach. I’m not sure I know how to write without Rebecca Shea sitting across from me at a Panera. My betas for this baby, Jen and Shelley, you were patient and guided me so much. And Brenda Letendre, YOU were my Rusty Wallace. You kept me going when I was running on empty, and this book shines because of your editing. I’m so deeply proud of it, and I have you—all of you—to thank for that.

  Mom, boys, and my gear-headed brother—you are the soft and chewy center of this book. But my sweet Lesley, you are the heart. It beats with your spirit. This series—it’s for you. Even if you’re too shy to read the saucy parts lol!

  Thank you for taking this journey with me. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review, talking about it with a friend, forcing it in someone’s hands, shouting about it out the car window—pretty much anything. (Only kidding a little.) My readers are the only reason I get to do something with these stories in my head, and I am profoundly grateful. Now, back to the race. ;-)

  About the Author

  Ginger Scott is an Amazon-bestselling and Goodreads Choice and Rita Award-nominated author from Peoria, Arizona. She is the author of several young and new adult romances, including bestsellers Cry Baby, The Hard Count, A Boy Like You, This Is Falling and Wild Reckless.