Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3

by Scott, Ginger

  Burn

  The Fuel Series Book 3

  Ginger Scott

  Copyright 2021

  Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  If you enjoyed this series, you might also like:

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By Ginger Scott

  Alright, Lesley.

  This is for all those times you had the truck races on in the background. ;-) Love you, my friend!

  1

  It’s harder than I thought it would be, being home. Everyone assumes I stayed away because I’m so bitter and angry at my family—at Dustin—that I can’t stomach being here. And perhaps, somewhere deep in the pit of my chest, that reason exists. That’s not the whole of it, though. Not even close.

  I stayed away because I had to. I carved this deep chasm with purpose, and it had to be impossible to close, and it had to hurt. What my heart wants is completely irrelevant when compared to what keeps my daughter Bristol safe.

  Dustin’s daughter.

  That’s the one fact I cannot delete from my heart and mind. It wouldn’t be right, and one day, when it’s safe, and when Bristol can think for herself and make choices that protect her from the dark cruelty in this world, I’ll let her know. She can decide what her relationship will be with Dustin. I can’t imagine a life where any relationship with him comes without risk, but I also can’t fathom one where I keep the truth locked up forever. That wouldn’t be right. I’ve seen it play out in Dustin’s soul, learning his real mother gave him up. I don’t believe that’s what drove him to be careless, but I do think it was one of many bends in his road.

  Jorge has been so patient. This situation also isn’t fair to him. He could have fallen in love with anyone. He lives and breathes in a world so beautiful, filled with creative geniuses who look up to him for inspiration because of the way he paints, the way he molds textures together with purpose and reason, the stories he tells with color and shape. I suppose that’s what drew me to him, too. He was solace and kindness when I was falling apart. I will always love him for being those things, but I can never be in love with him, and he knows it.

  He agreed to be my partner and knows more than most, yet he still doesn’t know the full truth. His heart is so kind that he doesn’t push or ask for details, which is good. I’ve made things so complicated that I’m not sure I would be able to explain how I got here.

  It all started as a lie when I had to share my pregnancy. With no family other than a sister he barely speaks to, there weren’t a lot of loose ends to tie up for him. And he was genuinely excited to be a part of bringing a life into this world. He looks at creation through an artist’s lens, seeing beauty in every moment of the baby’s journey. We became fast friends, on his part due to his inability to connect with many people; for me it was born from a desperate need to connect with someone. Our friendship, it was and is real. It’s my rock. And I felt our fake relationship could carry on harmlessly on his end. I never expected him to fall in love with me. I’m so . . . unlovable.

  He has no idea who Dustin is. He knows I got hurt and that I’m afraid. I haven’t told him fully what it is I fear. It’s better for him that he doesn’t know. The less the truth is out there, the better. It’s why I keep most of it to myself. But holding it all in is becoming incredibly hard. And being here, in this house, with all of these memories, it’s ripping me in two.

  “I think she’s pretty knocked out,” Jorge says, slipping into the room my parents set up for us. He put Bristol down for the night in what used to be Tommy’s room. This room was mine, and there are still too many traces of my old life around. My rose-colored blanket and pillows cover the bed, the pale pink lamp sits on the nightstand, and my favorite books remain stacked in the corner bookcase. Most of the clothes I left behind are gone, probably in those boxes tucked in the back of the closet. And the walls are bare, minus a few framed pictures my mom must have thought still looked nice. No more concert posters or race credentials tacked to the wall.

  The only thing I expected to see is missing. Dustin’s wind chime has been erased from existence. I’m sure if I stood on this bed and inspected the ceiling I may find the tiny hole in the plaster where the nail held the string in place. Besides that, there is no trace of it. My stomach hurts at the thought that someone threw it away. I should have taken it with me, but when I left, I didn’t want anything that would fuel my emotional attachment to this place—to Dustin. I suppose I got what I asked for.

  “Thank you for coming. I know this is . . . awkward.” I scrunch up my lips and look up at this man who could be anywhere else in this world. He could be with anyone else in this world. Yet he’s here, with me, as a friend hoping for something I can’t give him.

  “Hannah, this is only awkward if you decide to make it so. Your dad didn’t make fun of my name this time, so I see this trip as a major win.”

  Without asking, Jorge pulls the folded comforter from the end of the bed and spreads it out on the floor, making his pallet. He snags one of the two pillows on my bed and holds it up in question, asking permission, as if I’m going to say no and make him sleep without one. I nod and he tosses it on top of the blanket then moves to our suitcase to riffle through our things and find his clothes for bed.

  “I’m not looking forward to the jokes bound to happen when he sees me in a nightshirt. But comfort above all else!” Jorge holds up his long-sleeved, striped bed shirt, which is quite ridiculous. I chuckle as he slips out the door and heads to the bathroom to change. He’s not wrong; my dad will have endless jokes when he sees him in that.

  Jorge was born in Luxemburg to two hippie parents who immigrated to northern California when he was a baby. His older sister, Clara, resented the lifestyle she was forced to grow up in and took off when she was sixteen. Jorge, however, stayed until his mid-twenties, caring for his mom after his dad died from a heart attack. His mother passed away from cancer two years later. It was in his grief that he found his art. And a decade later, his fame—at least in the art world.

  He’s ten years older than me, a fact my mom seems to love to dwell on. My dad likes to point out all the passions Jorge seems to be missing—sports, movies . . . cars. We have art in common, and that’s usually my response. My dad blames art for me running away, still too blind to see the error of his ways. At first, I corrected him and tried to make him see how paying his daughter’s boyfriend to leave might have had
something to do with the rift in our relationship, but he’s hellbent on believing his own story. Sure, Dad. I left because you don’t like oil on canvas and I do.

  Tommy doesn’t mind Jorge. He’s rather indifferent to him. I think more than anything my brother likes that when I’m gone, there’s very little drama in his life. He and Dustin have grown closer than ever, and while at first I resented my brother for that, now I’m grateful they have each other. It’s through their relationship that I know the danger to Dustin’s life is still very present, and a real threat to Bristol.

  Dustin’s working with Alex, still, after everything. I won’t let Tommy share the details with me. The less I know, the better. All that matters is Alex isn’t investing in the track, and that’s good because that track has my mom’s name tied to it as the mayor. As annoying as she’s been about her legacy and building something for the town, that track did turn into something special. I want our family name attached to it too. I want it to be something Bristol takes pride in one day.

  I’ve been flipping my phone from front to back in my palm ever since Jorge left the room to get dressed. He catches me noodling with it as he comes in.

  “I still think cell phones are the root of all evil,” he jokes.

  I breathe out a laugh and nod toward the dresser, where his phone is charging.

  “Pot, kettle.” I wink.

  “I didn’t say I’m not a little bit evil.” He pulls his phone free from the cord and flips through his video app. “I swear, it’s the cat videos. I can’t get enough of them.”

  I laugh again, half-heartedly. He takes a seat on the bed next to me and turns his phone over, resting it on his hairy knee. He’s almost attractive. I find myself constantly trying to talk myself into feeling something when I’m with him. I don’t, though. And while I’d like to say it’s the hairy legs and the man bun and the gold-rimmed glasses and gauzy shirts, it’s not. It’s that his skin isn’t scorched from working under a car out in the sun, his body doesn’t smell like motor oil, and his eyes are light brown, not hazel. I favor one type—one singular type—and I forbid myself from having him.

  “We’ll survive Thanksgiving, you know? This week will be fine.” Jorge leans into me and I smile, barely.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just . . . my best friend got engaged, and I had no idea any of it was happening.” I shudder once, failing to hold back the prick of tears. Jorge rubs my back with his palm but keeps the appropriate distance between us. This is it for me—a platonic love and a lie.

  “Maybe you should spend some time together while you’re here. Might be good for you.” His suggestion seems so easy on the surface.

  I nod.

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Bailey and I have tried. She was the first call I made when I shared the news that I was pregnant. I told her when I was three months along, but as far as she knew the news was fresh. My best friend doesn’t know my baby girl’s actual birthday, which is two days before my own. Nobody knows except me and Jorge. And he doesn’t know why I twist so many lies. He only knows it’s important.

  His eyes linger on me and I feel that tug that accompanies the guilt. The last time he asked me to give him a chance is still burned into my memory.

  We could be great together, if you’d just let me in.

  He told me I was his one.

  He isn’t mine.

  I had mine, and he broke us into infinite pieces with his lies. Then I added to them.

  “I’m pretty tired.” I fake a yawn, something I do often, and I know Jorge can tell. He lets me fake them anyhow. It’s probably easier than hearing someone say again how they don’t want you.

  “I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll keep the nightshirt on for breakfast, just for laughs.” He pulls my hand into his and kisses the top, such a formal goodnight. It’s sweet, and that’s it.

  “Good night,” I say, feeling for my pajamas in our suitcase then turning off the small lamp on my nightstand. I slip out my door and head to the bathroom, glad to not run into anyone in the hallway on my way.

  Bailey’s at her parents’ house. My brother’s outside talking with Dustin. He’ll take off for his place soon and Dustin will be on his way to Vegas. For a business meeting. A required meeting, per his arrangement with Alex. My brother insists Dustin isn’t laundering money, but anything he does with Alex Offerman can’t be good. I know all too well how intimidating that man is and how hard it is to say no to his requests. When Alex came to see me two days after I found out I was pregnant, I got a glimpse into just how dangerous he can be. It was enough for me to cut Dustin out of my life completely, for the sake of our daughter. I have to let Dustin take care of himself and decide where his moral line is drawn. It still hurts to see it so damn blurry.

  I hover in the dark hallway of the home I grew up in, holding my breath and listening for any sound from outside. The timbre of Dustin’s laugh infiltrates the walls and windows, the cold air making it crisp. It pierces my heart, just like the moment his voice hit my ears when he stepped out of the closet while videoing Tommy’s proposal. That laughter of his has spilled in my driveway so many times over the years, usually from Tommy and Dustin trash-talking one another. A smile plays at my lips as I close my eyes and imagine them messing around right now. A second later, the Supra roars to life. I didn’t see it when I pulled up to the house originally, probably because Dustin had it hidden in the garage while filming Tommy’s big moment. I’m not sure what I would have done if I had advance warning that he was here. I’d like to think I wouldn’t let it alter my plans, but if I’m being honest with myself, I think maybe I would have run back to Omaha.

  I count the seconds it takes before the familiar squeak of the chassis dipping from driveway to road, and imagine the last few words exchanged between Tommy and Dustin before he rolled up the window and zipped away. The sound of the motor fades and so does my smile. I open my eyes in time to catch my brother taking the steps two at a time. I should slip away into the bathroom, but I miss my brother and I can’t seem to get my legs to move.

  “He’s gone, if that’s what you were out here wondering,” Tommy whispers. He steps up on his toes and peers over my head into his old room where Bristol is fast asleep. “I wanted to say good night, but if it’s too late—”

  “She’s knocked out, yeah.” My chest hurts that there’s this distance between us despite how close we’re standing. “I’m happy for you and Bailey, Tommy. Like . . . really happy.”

  My eyes tear up.

  “Yeah. I did pretty good, huh?” My brother grins on one side of his mouth and hooks his thumbs in his pockets as he looks down.

  “I always knew you had the hots for my best friend,” I tease.

  “Shut up,” he jokes back, rolling his eyes. Our exchange lasts seconds, and the following silence seems to go on forever.

  “I should take off. Lots of prep tomorrow. Dad wants to decorate since Bristol’s here, treat her to a real Judge family holiday. He’s been working on replacing bulbs in the Christmas lights.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to just buy new strands?” I ask.

  My brother chuckles softly and shakes his head.

  “Probably, but that man is a hoarder. He likes the ones he has. Mom keeps—”

  “Telling him to have a garage sale,” I finish. We both laugh, and for a slim moment, everything fits together as it’s supposed to. The silence takes over again quickly.

  “Well . . . congratulations.” I open my arms to give my brother a hug. He hesitates, his lips forming a tight smile, but eventually gives in. Our embrace feels methodical. Obligatory, perhaps. He steps back before I’m done, and I’m caught awkwardly clinging to him. I hide it by dropping my pajamas and floundering around the floor.

  “See ya tomorrow, Han.”

  “Yeah, see ya,” I say, wishing he’d call me Banana just this once.

  I toe my way into the bathroom as soon as the front door closes behind him, and sit at the edge of the tub garnished w
ith my mom’s decorative soaps and rolled up towels only put out for guests. Guests like me. Who don’t live here anymore. And never will again.

  2

  I want to hate her. For half my drive to Vegas, I pretended I do. It felt good, but also dirty. That’s because it’s a lie, and the man I’ve become can’t stand them. It doesn’t mean I don’t commit them left and right. I only wish I could live a life that isn’t bound by them. Unfortunately, there are things I have to do that I can’t share with anyone, not even Tommy. It’s better that way.

  What I do with Alex? That’s the biggest lie of all.

  I haven’t won a race since the Phoenix Series that got me on the circuit on my own. I’ve come close—second, third, fifth, seventh. Multiple times. But I don’t win. I’m not allowed. Not until the man sitting across from me in an office I’ve come to despise tells me I can. For now, he makes a far better profit when I lose. Or so he says. I think he’s simply punishing me.

  “The money moving on you for Texas is huge, brutha.” I hate that Alex calls me that, in that voice, using that tone, like we’re . . . friends. We aren’t. Not even close. I’m his fucking prisoner.

  “Probably because people know betting against me is a sure bet. Maybe we should change things up.” I shrug, knowing he’ll turn down the idea of me winning. He pretends to mull the idea over, but his rejection is coming.

  Right.

  Now.

  “Nah, let’s let her ride a little longer, shall we?” His eyes settle on mine with that wicked flare. He hates me. He hates me the way I wish I could hate Hannah. And he sees right through me to the truth, to the fact I would still do anything to keep her safe. Including lose every fucking race for the rest of my goddamned life.