“Suit yourself,” I say, standing from the tufted leather chair that faces his desk. I round it and meander to the wet bar, pulling out the whiskey and pouring myself a glass.
I like the burn the whiskey provides. It’s a pleasant reprieve, but it only last seconds as it goes down my throat and into the pit of my stomach.
It’s hard to be the best at what you do knowing you’re holding back. I wonder if Hannah watches the races. I wonder if she can tell. I wonder if anyone suspects. I’m pretty sure Tommy knows. I see it in his eyes after every race, the way he stares at me with question. I suppose I see disappointment, but maybe I’m only reflecting what I see in myself.
“Maybe you should stay awhile this time, hang out with us, party a little. You know, you make a lot of money for a lot of my friends. It’s the least I can do to show you a good time.”
Alex knows I won’t stay. I never do. Not here with him, anyhow. I’ve found a second home just outside Henderson, an old airstrip where people meet up and hold drag races, and if I have to endure these little one-on-ones with Alex, then I am going to indulge in this little window to my past when I can. I will never tell him about it because he’ll only find a way to ruin it, as he has everything that’s good in my life.
“I should get back. It’s Thanksgiving, and people I know are cooking actual food.” I shrug as though it’s no big deal. I know better than to share many details about my private life with him. He knows enough. And he doesn’t need to know Hannah’s in town.
“That rich uncle of yours cooking?” There’s an edge to his voice anytime he brings up my uncle.
I breathe in deeply, hating every minute of this.
“He’s actually working at the church back home in Tulsa. He feeds a lot of people, and without his support, they wouldn’t have much of a Thanksgiving.” I should probably join Uncle Jeff out there. My soul could use the cleansing, and I don’t really want to be in Arizona while Hannah’s there.
“How saintly of him. You know what I give my staff for Thanksgiving?” He pauses and settles his elbows on his massive desk, toying with the empty tumbler in his hand. He drank his whiskey the minute I walked in.
“Tips on how to bet the next series race?” I joke. He fakes a laugh then shifts his expression to an intense stare over his flat mouth and perfectly trimmed mustache.
“No, Dustin. I give them lap dances in the titty bar. Ha ha!” He pounds a fist on his desk as he laughs at his sexist, unfunny joke. His bellow echoes in his frosted glass office and I wonder how many people are rolling their eyes, used to his bullshit, on the other side of this wall.
“You’re quite the giver,” I retort. I down my whiskey in one gulp and set the empty glass back on the cart. “So let’s do this. What’s the plan for Texas?”
Alex chews at something invisible inside his mouth. It’s an affectation he likes to display to keep people on edge. It works. It makes me think he might shoot me. I find myself staring intensely at his mustache and watching for a sign of what’s to come next.
“I think you’re due for a top five.” He kicks his feet up and threads his hands behind his neck.
His eyes are amused. He’s toying with me because I didn’t laugh at his joke. Or because he’s an evil son-of-a-bitch who knows how much this kills me. I’m in my third year of the circuit. The world is questioning my staying power. People are of two camps: Team Dustin is About to be King and Team Dustin is a Fluke.
“Lots of numbers in that top five. Are you thinking maybe third or . . .” I’m flirting with danger here. I know what he means, but fuck if I’m not gonna push some boundaries.
“Did I say top three? I don’t think so. I think I said top eight.”
“Actually, you said—” I stop myself. I know better than to engage. I swallow hard before I get myself in a worse position. “Eight. Got it.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
He pulls his feet from his desk, and it’s as if I’m invisible. He’s done with me, with our business.
“Maybe next time we can call this in?” I drop my hands in my pockets while I hover by the door. He’s focused on his keys and wallet and phone, slipping on his jacket and fixing the clasp on his watch. I flick my wrist in my pocket as a reminder to myself where I came from. I’m still wearing my uncle’s watch. Only splurge I indulged in was to get it fixed.
“Ah, wish we could, Dustin. Wish we could.” He walks over to me and I tighten my muscles, ready for the sucker punch. Instead, he looks down but steps in close. “Thing is, I can’t trust you, now, can I? Because you’re a fucking liar, aren’t you?”
His question is rhetorical. I don’t have to answer. I do anyway.
“That’s me. One big fucking liar.”
Alex’s mouth ticks up. He’s amused. His palm lands on my shoulder and his fingers dig in with ominous pressure, his brand of warning.
“See ya in two weeks.” He points at my face, his finger so close I could bite it off.
“Yes, sir,” I say once his back is to me. I let the glass door close between us and indulge in a frustrated growl before straightening my shirt and preparing my expression to exude the confidence of a man who belongs here.
I schedule my next appointment with Drina, Alex’s secretary, on my way out. She flirts with me, as she usually does, and I tell her I like her hair. It’s white-blonde today. Last time it was red. She’s a beautiful woman but she’s also a shark. Alex’s shark. She would hang anything that happens between us over my head until the day I die. I’m not interested in accumulating any more debts in this life.
I did myself a favor today and parked in the garage below ground so I don’t have to look at the facade of this building until it’s well in my rearview mirror. If I truly had discipline, I wouldn’t look at all, but it’s impossible not to indulge in old memories. See those balconies hanging over the strip, the sun glinting off the glass, the shimmer of water features and lights—only one of those things takes me back to that night with Hannah. All of them, though? It makes the memory feel real and present. I can taste her. Smell her honey vanilla lotion. My hands move around the steering wheel, imagining the silk of her skin and hair.
I flush those memories away with all I know: Hannah is a mother, she has a new man, she doesn’t want me, and as painful as it is, it keeps her alive. I don’t know for sure that Alex would do anything, but I know what he said when we made our arrangement.
Hannah seems happy now. It’s a good life she’s built for herself in Omaha.
He wanted me to know what he knew, which was more than I did: Hannah was expecting, she was living with some artist, she was better off without me.
He could get to her anytime he wanted to, if he had to.
So I will finish eighth this weekend, not a car earlier or a car later. I wish I could brag about how much skill it takes to come in on an exact position. Flat out winning is probably a hell of a lot easier. That’s why I pretend I’m a nobody when I meet up for a race or two in Reno. It’s the only way I can remember what winning feels like.
I tell everyone my name is Tommy Judge.
3
Bristol woke up at four this morning. She was confused. I was confused, too. She’s taken to shouting “Mommy” at the top of her lungs whenever she wants to summon me. It’s only a code red situation about ten percent of the time.
Today, it was because she was thirsty. And lost. And the room she was in was too dark. That’s because, technically, it was night. Whenever the sun isn’t up, it’s night. At least, that’s what my circadian rhythm is trained to believe. Bristol Bea Judge is rewiring that theory, though.
I could have handled the jarring wake-up call if that’s all it was, but because I’m at home—home home—and my mom is literally fewer steps away from my daughter than I am, Bristol’s four a.m. summoning drew two Judge women to her beck and call.
Nothing like getting a full-on, not-yet-dawn lecture about child rearing from the mayor of Camp Verde. All the coffee in the world
isn’t going to keep me awake for a full day today. I’m trying, though. I’m on my third cup and the sun is finally up. My mom is finally done pampering my daughter, giving her exactly what she wants so I’ll have to undo this damage when I get back to Nebraska.
“She’s fast asleep again. Oh, Hannah, you shouldn’t drink that. You’ll never get back to sleep.” My mom turns her back to me and bangs pans around the stove to whip up some breakfast.
“Yeah, the coffee will totally be the thing keeping me up.” I roll my eyes and rub my temples, cringing as my mom bangs two pans together.
“I couldn’t help but have noticed . . .”
I gulp down the rest of my cup of brew and try my best to rush my way out of the kitchen. There are about a million things Amanda Judge could have noticed that she wants to point out—the bags under my eyes, the baby weight I haven’t lost, the way I tuck my daughter in at night.
“. . . Jorge is sleeping on the floor.” She finishes the statement as I stand, almost free. Not fast enough. I squeeze my eyes shut since my back is to her.
“Just being respectful,” I say.
I’m honestly surprised Jorge hasn’t come downstairs already. He’s an early riser. Maybe he took my advice and is avoiding time with my mom at all costs.
“Ah. Okay, I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t trouble in Lover’s Lane.” My mom chuckles at her annoying joke. I play along and shake my head as I rinse my mug and leave it to dry.
“Nope. No trouble at all. Lover’s Lane is just fine.” I meet her eyes for a beat, ready to make a break for it, but the second I turn to dart from the kitchen I’m met with a hard chest and hands that brace me upon impact, wrapping around my shoulders.
“Whoa. Hey, there,” Dustin says.
He’s not supposed to be here. Fuck, does he have a key now?
“Well, what a nice surprise,” my mom says, stepping around me and kissing the cheek of the man she literally paid to leave me.
Dustin’s eyes are wide and an uncertain smile stretches his mouth wide open, his teeth together in a straight line.
“Yeah, well—” He sighs and moves his gaze back to me, suddenly realizing his hands are still on my shoulders, his touch still burning through my nightshirt, scorching my skin, making me remember things. He drops them to his sides and takes a few steps back as they find their way to his pockets.
“It was a quick trip. Supra blew a gasket and was smoking pretty good. I did a quick fix, but I wanted to get back and take care of it the right way. I’ve got a lot of things to deal with at the track, too.”
“Dustin. It’s Thanksgiving. You can let track business rest for a few days. Why don’t you join us for dinner tomorrow? Plus, we have the Santa Hike! You guys used to love that hike,” my mom suggests, suddenly full of glee that this boy she thought was the root of my undoing is in our house.
“We were four,” I add to her sales pitch. “Santa isn’t real.”
“Oh, Hannah. Santa’s as real as you let him be. Besides, it’s fun. Bristol will love it.”
My eyes flit to Dustin’s just as my mom mentions our daughter, and he quickly looks down. I shouldn’t have come home. Being here isn’t appropriate. I’m the intruder. My therapist said it was a good step, though. I have a lot of baggage to work through, and one of the biggest suitcases is packed with my relationship with my mom. The only relationship that’s messier happens to also be in this kitchen right now.
“I’ve got a lot to do, so maybe . . . if I have time. I’ll call you. Or I’ll let Tommy know.” Dustin holds up a hand and backs out of the kitchen. I’m both relieved and sad to see him go. Problem solved when my mom snags his wrist and directs him to one of the kitchen chairs.
“Well, you don’t have to go right now. I’m making breakfast. Hannah here had an early morning because she didn’t prepare Bristol for waking up somewhere new.”
“Oh . . . my God!” I let my face fall into my hands as I groan. I cannot win with this woman.
I should take this as my cue to leave, but instead, my body settles into the chair I just abandoned, familiar nerve endings firing away from being near Dustin. My inner voice is shouting to ignore them, but it’s been so long since we’ve been in the same space. And last night, when I interrupted the proposal, and Dustin was there—that’s not how I ever imagined us running into one another again.
He just came back from Vegas, too. From doing who knows what with Alex. This is the entire reason I built in all this space between me and Bristol and him. I should leave.
I should get up right now.
I should not be sitting here next to him.
He leans toward me. I glance his way.
Hazel eyes.
Fuck.
“Your mom used to tuck me in while I was already asleep on the sofa or in Tommy’s room just so she could remind me where I was. Woke me up out of my sleep and everything. Jarring as hell. Don’t listen to a word she says,” he whispers, winking then glancing to my mom’s back to make sure she didn’t hear.
My lips curl automatically on the side closest to him.
“Thanks,” I mouth.
He nods then clears his throat, sitting up straight as my mom drops a plate in front of each of us.
Such a stupid interaction, but it’s the most normal thing that’s passed between us in years. I wish I could hold his hand. I wish he were still my Dustin, the man who would refuse the lure of money if it was tainted, who would find a way to get us both out of here and into the Supra so we could speed down the highway. I don’t know this Dustin.
Tommy says I need to hear him out, but Tommy didn’t get a visit from Alex Offerman the way I did. I wish the fact Alex somehow knew where I moved was the scariest part of his visit, but it wasn’t—not even close.
All I have to do is close my eyes and I’m right back in that conversation, mind reeling with panic, instantly hatching plans and constructing a web of lies that would keep Bristol safe.
* * *
Three Years Earlier
I wonder how long I can manage to do this job without someone realizing I’m pregnant. I can scrub toilets pregnant, right? I can definitely take out the trash and push that cart around the empty halls and workshop rooms. The smells and chemicals, however? Those might become a problem.
It took me a little more than two hours to get through everything on the custodial list tonight. Ruben, the head janitor, seems really nice. It’s only my second day at the gig and he already told me to half-ass some of the things and get myself home early. Ruben has six kids and a wife who must be an amazing cook. His dinner in the fridge has looked unbelievable the last two nights. Beats my PB and J. That’s about all I can stomach for now, and barely, at that.
I clean myself up and tuck the cleaning smock into the metal locker by Ruben’s desk. My stomach turns over a few times so I wait it out before getting in my car and heading to my small apartment. I’d rather throw up here than in my car or off the side of the road. When I no longer feel as if I’m rocking on a ship, I slip out the back door of the maintenance office. It’s dark out here at night, and I don’t love the walk to my car when I get off shift. Ruben says there are cameras all over this place, but I don’t know. I’ve looked and I haven’t seen a single one.
Pulling out of the institute parking lot, I plug my phone into the car charger and check my messages. Bailey finally texted me back. She said she got her registration settled for senior year. The news was a huge relief. Of everything I left up in the air, the plans Bailey and I made nagged at me the most. Our friendship was the victim of collateral damage. Bailey did nothing wrong. She supported me and my choice, in fact, though it meant I’d be leaving her in the dust.
I texted that I would call her on my way home, but I better make it home first in case I need to make an emergency stop. Plus, I want to tell her everything. I’m gonna need to be sitting down and comfortable for this conversation. Not only will my news rock her world, but she’s bound to have advice for me. Advice I should
probably take, and at least need to be in a position to hear and consider with a clear head.
Rather than rushing our conversation, I text her that I’ll call in twenty minutes, and allow myself a leisurely drive home—through the Milk Shake Shack drive-thru. The vanilla is soothing. Or at least, it was yesterday. It’s still strange to call this suburb home. I’m in a nice apartment, considering the price. A few hundred bucks a month for enough space for me. Nine months from now, I’m going to have to rethink things. I don’t see an infant working out well in my current situation.
I swallow hard at that last thought. An infant is going to change a lot of factors in my current situation. Namely, how am I going to work under Jorge LaRonne? I won’t have time for studio sessions and massive projects. I won’t be able to build a portfolio that anyone will think is worth a damn. Maybe this entire dream is the joke my parents always told me it was.
My stream of negative thinking is interrupted by the drive-thru voice, so I put my worries off for at least a few more minutes and order my shake for the drive home. I’m halfway through it by the time I pull down the long, narrow driveway of the house I’m staying at. Sheila Lexington built this place near the campus that she founded. I lucked into getting this place, really. Blessings . . . I need to count those more.
I pull up close to the steps on the side of the garage and kill the engine and lights on my old sedan. I sit back in the worn cloth seat and sip the remaining half of my shake, poking the straw up and down to melt the ice cream better. I miss the Supra. I felt safer in that thing, even though it was built for speed. I guess I knew I could outrun danger behind that wheel. It was never really mine, though, and keeping it would have been a huge reminder in my face at all times. I didn’t leave Camp Verde to be cruel. I left because I had to. Dustin and I weren’t in a good place, and I fear he’s too lost to find his way back to good. His life has been too damn hard, and he feels owed—owed money and power, damn the legalities that get in the way.
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 2
