She turns slowly and I toss the packet from her mom on the table behind me before walking to her.
“I’m in a mood, is all. Tommy and I fixed the Supra and I drove all night. I’m just cranky.” Because I had breakfast with your baby daddy and he’s nice, and I want to hate him.
“Oh, yeah. I get it. I mean, try driving here from Nebraska.” Her words soften to a whisper. I’m guessing because she realizes the vision that conjures—her driving here with her family, which does not include me. Because I fucked us up, and she sold me out.
“Tour?” I raise a brow. It’s a terrible idea to spend time with her, but I can’t go on with this miserable grudge between us. I don’t want to die hating one another. I don’t hate her. I miss her.
“I’ve got some time. Sure.” She hugs herself, wrapping her arms through the front of her yellow hoodie to keep them warm as we step out from the garage and make our way to the main lobby.
“We’re closed for the next few days. Need to repair some of the track,” I explain, unlocking the main entrance doors to let her in. She stops in the center of the space and spins in a slow circle, taking in all of the memorabilia she was a part of.
“This is so cool, Dusty.”
I’m not sure she realizes she said my name like that, but since she doesn’t pause, I don’t bring it up. I drink it in and let the sound of it tattoo my ears in case I never hear it again.
“I want people to come here and get as excited about racing as we did when we were kids.”
I follow her to the far wall, my heart skipping that she’s so enamored by this tribute. On many levels, this room is about her. I mean, it’s about the three of us and our youth, but really—this wall especially—is about Hannah. I had some of the old news clips mounted and framed, and in the center is the photo of me and her at the Tucson race when I didn’t place at all because Colt showed up and ruined things. There’s an entire collage about girls in racing, and a snapshot Ava Cruz gave me of her and Hannah out on the Straights. She runs her fingertips over it lightly and my body shudders.
“It’s amazing,” she says.
“Come on. Let me show you the track.” I urge her to follow me outside through the back doors because if I spend any longer in that quiet, dark lobby space, I’m going to fall victim to feelings. That can’t happen. As much as I ache seeing her with Jorge, she’s better off. If Alex knew how badly he could hurt me by hurting her, he would use it to his advantage. It’s best he continues to think I still blame her for everything. And on many levels, I do. Only lately, I’m starting to understand.
We pass through the rental karts and Hannah laughs at the names painted on some of them. “Naturally, the ugly green one gets named Bosa,” she says, tapping her finger against his name.
I shrug but can’t let the lie go on, admitting the truth to her.
“Actually, he was one of our first clients. He comes here every Saturday to race with a bunch of guys we grew up with. He wanted to have his own kart so we let him sponsor that one.”
She licks her lips with surprise and flinches her eyes.
“Wow. Things around here have changed.” Her gaze lands on me and we swim in the moment, staring across the green kart for a few seconds.
“Some things,” I say. “Not . . . everything.”
She breathes in sharply, and I regret letting those words slip out. That was too close to the line, too . . . honest. Too much like flirting.
“Track?” I point up the steps, and Hannah seems to welcome the change in subject. She jogs up the stairs and I follow behind, the dog in me unable to stop myself from admiring the sway of her hips and the tight ass of her jeans. She must feel my eyes boring into her because she tugs her sweatshirt over her hips, hiding the best show in the world.
“How long? Quarter?” She points to the smaller track that winds around the center of the main one. I smile, loving that she simply knows by sight.
“A little over. We wanted to make the turns tough, so it had to be a little longer. That’s what they get started on. Then they graduate to the half-miler.”
She turns her head to me slightly, her eyes shifting as she smiles.
“You always had a thing for short tracks,” she says.
I laugh and fold my arms over my chest as I lean into the railing.
“You’ve got me.”
Our eyes mingle for a breath, and her lips part, almost as if she has more to share, but instead she turns and gets lost to my dream realized. It makes me feel good to show this to her, and not in the bragging way, like someone out to prove something. She’s always believed in my dream. I love seeing it through her eyes. It’s almost like making that final walkthrough again.
“Hey, Dust?” Tommy’s whistle follows my name, so I turn to see what he needs. He’s not alone, though, and the minute Hannah drinks in the very tall, very curvy blonde wearing very little, she cuts our tour short.
“I should go,” she says, guiding herself back the way we came.
“Chelsea, give me a minute?” I shout across the track. Tommy lifts a shoulder in apology, but I can’t help but think he brought her out here on purpose.
I can’t figure him out. One day he’s glad I’m not with his sister and the next he’s playing matchmaker, albeit a real shitty one. Chelsea holds up a hand and I smile, hoping she doesn’t insist on talking about Hannah after this. I’m not in the mood, and the few times she and I have gotten wasted together, I said some pretty awful things about Hannah.
By the time I catch up to Hannah, she’s opening her car door. I grip the top of it before she can slide inside and close me off.
“Hey, I was thinking. . .” I look down, my inner voices warring over what I’m about to do. It’s not about wanting to spend time with her. This is about safety. About her and her daughter, and fuck, Jorge too, I guess.
“Would you like me and Tommy to take a look at your car sometime over your visit? Make sure everything’s working right, running efficiently. I’m guessing you’ve rolled two hunny by now?”
Her mouth quirks a crooked smile.
“Two-forty-one,” she admits.
My brows raise.
“Wow. Hondas, huh?” I think when all is said and done in this world, her car and my Supra may be the only things left. Those machines can go forever.
“It’d make Tommy feel better. And, well, me. I’d feel better, especially if you plan to drive all the way back to Omaha.” I swallow down those words the minute they come out, and hold my breath as our eyes lock in silent conversation. Hers almond-shaped, mine squinty and hazed from too little sleep and way too many nights at the bar. Through all that sadness and noise, they still have a lot to say to each other. They still feel things.
“That’d be great, yeah.”
She falls into the driver’s seat and I pat my hand on the edge of the door, relieved and a little excited, despite the fact I truly shouldn’t be.
“Great,” I laugh out, repeating her word. Great. It’s all just great.
My cheeks burn, and I know it’s because all of a sudden, I’ve turned into a fourteen-year-old boy.
“Friday, I guess? Before the hike?” I suggest.
She nods and for a tiny moment, I can see her wanting more. I feel it, the pull of our regret and the mutual forgiveness we’re both too damned stubborn to grant.
“You ready, Dusty? They quit serving brunch at noon,” Chelsea says from somewhere behind me.
My eyes flutter closed, but the last thing I see is the ice form over Hannah’s. I back away and open my eyes again as she pulls the door closed and buckles up. She offers me a tight-lipped, fake-as-hell smile on her way out.
“Be right there. Let me wash up.”
Dusty. She’s never called me that, and I can’t believe Tommy would coach her. No, Chelsea was simply trying it on for size, probably flexing to judge how close she and I are, claiming her territory. I get it. I’ve acted like her with Hannah. Like dogs, we piss all over our property. Of all the damn th
ings in the world she could say, though, it had to be that? She had to call me Dusty.
5
Dad is pulling the boat into the driveway when I drive up. I park quickly and linger by the garage, admiring the way that man can successfully maneuver twenty feet of hull around my mom’s decorative front wall and cactus garden. He’s only taken out one that I remember, and I helped him hide the evidence. Occasionally, Mom still questions if she’s one cactus short, but I keep up my dad’s lie. He crushed that sucker with his truck because he was excited listening to the Suns game. I was nine, and we filled in the hole with rock before my mom ever noticed. As for the barrel cactus? It was swiftly wrapped in the week’s junk mail and tossed under layers of trash.
It’s been a long time since I’ve hung out alone with my dad. The last few attempts haven’t been great, and they’ve been during his and Mom’s visits up to Omaha. I tried to show him the digital graphic series I was working on for my final exhibition. He said my work was “cute” and asked how much money I might make from it. I explained it was all for critique and judging and would complete my degree.
He has no idea that I student teach at the institute, which is enough to offset my last semester and pay the few bills I have. I am suddenly uninspired to tell him. My mom thinks Jorge pays for everything. They’ve only asked about us getting married once, thank God. I don’t like bolstering that idea with Jorge. I’ve been upfront and clear with him, and he says he accepts our friendship. The day will come when that’s not enough anymore, and I will be prepared to support Bristol and me on our own. I have to.
“Fish biting?” I say as my dad climbs out of the truck. He’s wearing his ball cap low on his head, shielding his eyes. I can tell by his frown that it wasn’t a good outing.
“Caught two, threw ’em back.” He goes to work unloading his various pieces of gear, and I step in to help carry them into the garage. There’s a full wall of cabinetry in there now, and when I open the first door to inspect what’s inside, I’m greeted by a tumbling tower of tackle boxes that spill out at my feet.
“Damn it, Hannah!” He drops his rods and scoops up my mess while I remain frozen where I stand, a little shell-shocked that my father just scolded me as though I were six.
“Sorry,” I croak.
He pauses with his hands on one of the boxes and hangs his head while he squats.
“It’s fine,” he says with a wave of his hand. “It was my fault. I left this mess in there like a damn booby trap. I didn’t mean to . . .” Another wave of his hand accompanies a quick glance up at me. That’s his attempt at an apology.
The two of us pick up the spilled gear and get everything back in its place, probably set up to spill again on the next unwitting person who opens that door. Everything between me and my dad is so strangling, and I wish I could just flop down in a chair and cry. But I can’t even seem to do that. I’m not sure how we got to this point. I suppose I’m more than partly to blame. I get my stubborn streak from someone, though, and it sure ain’t Mom.
“House is starting to smell really good,” I finally say. Neither of us wants to go inside. I can tell.
“She hasn’t made a real meal like this in a few years. Not since—”
He leaves that statement open-ended. I know the rest. Not since I left.
“Well, she hasn’t lost her touch. I can’t imagine anything that smells that good doesn’t taste phenomenal.”
We exchange quick smiles and strained gazes before my dad peels his eyes away from me. I breathe in through my nose and wonder if I should quit while I’m ahead and go inside to help Mom boil something when my dad stalls, holding up a finger.
“Hang on,” he says, rushing to the cab of his truck and crawling inside. He pulls out the small cooler he takes with him on his trips and carries it to where I stand, glancing left to right then slipping out the last two beers from inside. He hands me one and nods for me to follow him to the other side of the boat.
“I’m twenty-four now, you know. It’s not so much sneaking when I’m of age.” I take his bottle opener when he offers, pull my cap off, and take a big sip.
“Are you kidding? Your mom wants us all ravenously hungry and thirsty to enjoy that meal tomorrow. She bought special wine and everything. If she catches us out here with two cold ones, she’ll flip her lid. I’m supposed to be fasting.”
We chuckle and toast my dad’s assessment. He’s not wrong. My mom gets a little funny about holiday meals and events. As crazy as she becomes, I’ve also missed it. These are the things that make Thanksgiving and Christmas at my parents’ house uniquely ours. I want Bristol to experience that.
“Your mom roped Jorge into helping, I take it?” I’m a little surprised my dad said his name right.
I nod.
“She did. He’s much better at peeling than I am. I was tasked with paper delivery to the track.” I take another sip to stave off that jealous feeling gnawing at my insides. She called him Dusty.
“Finally got to really see the place, huh? It’s pretty phenomenal.” My dad is proud of Dustin. He should be. I’m proud of him, too. Proud that he was able to find a way to make his dream a reality—a legitimate way. I don’t know why he continues to have a relationship with Alex. He doesn’t need him. And I have to believe Alex would have hurt him by now if that was his end goal after learning Dustin was going to turn him in. From the little Tommy has let slip out, I know Dustin has earned hundreds of thousands for him. I refuse to hear the details, and I don’t think our parents know any of it, but if Dustin was working off a debt, it must be repaid by now. At this point, Alex has nothing to gain by cutting Dustin loose. As long as he earns him money with whatever arrangement they have, he has no reason. After three years of subtle threats, I’ve become all too attuned to how Alex Offerman works.
“You ever hit the track? I saw they have senior day for kart racing,” I tease.
My dad spits out his last sip of beer and runs his sleeve over his chin before punching me gently on my bicep.
“Hey, now. Careful who you call old. I bet I could take you on that track.”
My mouth puckers, the old me waking up to the challenge.
“We’ll see,” I say, taking another drink.
Our eyes connect and make a silent bargain to race out there one day. I lean back on the edge of the boat and my dad does the same. It’s late afternoon, almost the golden hour, and the sun casts gold onto the landscape. Nebraska doesn’t look like this. The greenery was novel for a while, sure. And having actual running water in rivers is pretty awesome. But I miss the desert. Nothing anywhere else looks like this place.
“You watch his last race?” My dad quirks a brow. For a beat, I consider lying. I don’t see the harm in telling the truth, though. Not about one race. He doesn’t need to know I bought into the season app and save every single one of them.
I nod.
“Something’s off with him. He can’t seem to find the magic. It’s like he’s all poised to win and then can’t close the deal. He’s lost something.” My dad stares out at the neighbor’s property across the street. I read into his words, thinking I’m what’s missing, whether he meant them that way or not.
“Maybe he needs a new mechanic,” I tease, throwing Tommy under the bus. Tommy’s not the only guy on his crew. He’s not even the lead. Douglas came over after Gorman lost his mind over Dustin winning. Ernie, too. I maybe obsessed on the Miller Racing website a little. My dad smirks and breathes out a short laugh, but his thoughts turn back into concern as his brow pinches.
“I don’t know what he needs. But if he can’t pull off a win soon, I’m not sure his sponsors will stick it out for another season.” My dad takes a long draw of his beer and I set mine down, no longer interested in the carbs and the miniscule buzz one beer might give me.
“What do you mean? He’s always top ten.” Sure, Dustin isn’t living up to expectations, but he’s performing. He’s better than most. His sponsors would be fools to drop him. Besides, his un
cle owns the naming rights.
My dad wiggles his head and I turn into him, pressing my question.
“It’s kinda like this. You remember Anthony Skokie?”
I scrunch up my nose and eyes and think hard on that name, mentally deciphering whether my dad is bullshitting me or not.
“Exactly. You have no idea who he is. You know why?” he questions.
I shrug.
“Because he was a consistent top ten driver in the nineties, top fifteen at the worst. Man made a damn good living, and for an entire season, he drove the Cheerios car.”
“That’s . . . that’s a great run,” I say, not sure what my dad’s point is.
He finishes off his beer and takes mine in his hand, probably planning to finish that too. Turning to face me, he draws in his lips and shoots me a blank expression.
“It’s a career, Hannah. Sure. One you or me would be damn proud of. But ain’t nothing about that anyone would call great. And Dustin? He’s meant for greatness. He’s wasting the best years of his life on fifth place, I’m afraid.” My dad slides his cooler toward the garage with his foot and takes a sip from my beer on his way
“You should talk to him, Dad. He’s always listened to you, trusted you. If anyone can get him back on track—”
My dad’s shoulders shake with a silent laugh. He turns around and our eyes meet.
“Now, we both know I’m not the one he listens to.”
My small but hopeful smile fades, pulled down by the guilt sinking my stomach. What I want to say and can’t is that I watch every damn race he drives and wish away the best years of my life wanting our circumstances to be different. I would give anything to be down on that track with him, to sit in some suite with his uncle and my dad. To be a family—me, Dustin, and our daughter. But instead, I think about the roses Alex sent to my hospital room the day Bristol was born, congratulating me. I think about the birthday card he sent with Bristol’s name on it six months ago. I think about my sickening suspicion that Alex knows the truth deep down and is waiting for me to mess up so he can use Bristol as leverage to make Dustin pay. It’s an evil possibility I have to live with because I’m the one who ruined Dustin’s plans in the first place. I was so afraid of him getting sucked into that life, of being dazzled by the easy money. Now I can’t help but wonder if I simply pushed him closer.
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 4
