Tom bends forward and flips the lid off the container closest to him, revealing a plastic Santa and reindeer set that’s chipped and missing a few antlers.
“All right. Maybe this one can go.” Leaning into the truck, he waves a hand at it.
“I got it,” I say, taking the bin and moving it to the back of his truck. “I’ll dump anything that needs to go.”
He nods thanks to me and together we sort through the eight remaining bins, narrowing the good stuff down to two. I retest a few of the strands for him, finding more bulbs that are out. The busy work is a nice distraction, but at some point, I’m going to have to go inside. We both are. That fact becomes apparent as we run out of tasks. The only thing left to do is the actual decorating.
I join Tom on the other end of his bumper and we both stare at the staging we set up for what is likely to be the ugliest but brightest display this town has ever seen.
“I want to make it special,” he finally admits.
The words hit me in the center of my chest because I’m not in that tight circle that involves this family and that adorable little girl. Someone else is. And not because of Alex fucking Offerman, but because I thought I could be in business with him without being in his business. And because Hannah refused to trust me. Maybe she shouldn’t have. I mean, look at me now, stuck. What did I think was going to happen? I would get my way, keep the track and walk away unscathed?
Young. Naïve. Arrogant. Colt Bridges’s kid.
“I found my mom. Alysha?” I haven’t brought her up to Tom in three years. He didn’t know I was looking for her, and he probably could have helped. I didn’t want the pressure of having to do something about it if I found her, though. People knowing about something makes it real.
“Wow. Did you . . . talk to her?” He turns slightly, swallowing my news.
I shake my head and pull out my phone to let him read the message from the investigator.
“Huh. She’s in Coolidge. Not a lot in that town, other than that ex-football player who owns some ranch.” He hands my phone back to me but leaves his gaze on the space between us long after the exchange.
“I’m not sure I want to see her, if that makes sense. I mean, when someone abandons you, it feels kinda desperate to chase after them.”
Tom’s eyes flit up to mine and widen. I get the sense he wants to give me advice, or tell me something about my mom, but we’re interrupted by the sound of tiny feet slapping against the cold pavement and rushing toward us.
“Oh, you stinker. You’re peeking early!” Tom says, kneeling and readying himself to catch his granddaughter in his arms as she hurls her way toward us. Instead of landing in Tom’s embrace, though, Bristol wraps her arms and legs around my leg in a giant bear hug as she presses her chin flat against my knee and stares up at me with the most spectacular eyes and dark chocolate hair pulled back into two ponytails.
“Hi.” She grins after announcing herself with this single adorable word.
“Well, hi.” I chuckle, bending down and lifting her in my arms. I hold her to my side the way I’ve seen Hannah do it and we spend a few seconds staring at each other. I can feel the wonder on my face, my mouth caught in this pleased yet baffled smile.
“Bristol?” Hannah comes jogging through the front door a second later, and I turn to face her. The moment she sees me holding her daughter, she stops in her tracks, her face contorting into something almost painful. Maybe afraid.
“She sorta hijacked my leg and ended up here,” I say, feeling the need to give an excuse.
Hannah shakes her head, but I can tell her laugh and smile are forced.
“You’re here. Tommy said—”
She moves in and takes Bristol from my arms, but the little girl clings to my shirt, pulling one of the middle buttons free.
“Wow, good grip,” I joke. I rebutton my shirt while Tom acts busy with the lights, giving us space, I assume.
“I told Tommy I wasn’t going to come, but then you—”
“There you guys are,” Jorge interrupts, stepping up behind Hannah. “Your mom needs your help.”
“Oh . . . yeah. Okay,” Hannah stammers. Our gazes connect again, and there’s a pull between us, a yearning to talk that I haven’t felt in a long time, with anyone. But this isn’t the time, and probably not the place.
“I’ll see you inside,” she says, and it’s hard to tell for whom those words were meant.
“I’ve gotta wash up, too,” Tom says, clearly running away from being alone out here with me and Jorge. I don’t particularly want this situation either, but I have a strong feeling this is exactly what Jorge wants.
“It’s finally getting cold. We might see flurries,” I say. I made that up. I haven’t checked the weather in weeks. And honestly, today feels warmer than the day before.
“I’m the one who texted you, Dustin.”
“Oh . . .” I leave off the rest of that statement, but think shit.
I look down and drop my hands in my pockets as I nod, the puzzle pieces starting to form a clearer picture.
“So, Hannah—”
“She wants you here. I can tell,” he says.
I lift my view from Jorge’s flip-flopped feet and take in his crooked smile. He loves her. I see it in his soft eyes and the way he positioned his body between me and the door she went through. I can’t hate him for any of it, and if he set up this little clandestine meeting to tell me to back off, I get it. I kinda admire it.
“I’m not so sure, but it’s nice to see . . . everyone.” It’s nice to see Hannah. Meet Bristol.
“I know you guys have history. She doesn’t talk about it in detail, and I respect that. But lately, I get this feeling that your story is a lot more intense than Hannah lets on. And I guess . . . I need to know if my hopes are pointless.”
Well, fuck.
I lift my brow and shuffle my feet, kicking at the ground. There are so many ways to answer his question, and none of them are probably wrong. I’m impressed with his boldness and even more by his maturity and approach. He’s something to aspire to be. So much more graceful than my method of snarky one-liners and passive aggressive jabs often accompanied by physical intimidation.
“Honestly, Jorge? I don’t know.” For the first time maybe ever, I’m completely transparent to someone about how helpless I feel. I shake my head and let my mask slip for a second, my eyes stinging. I wipe away the evidence and sniffle before looking off to the side.
We stand in this gentleman’s face-off for what feels like minutes, but after a few seconds, Jorge gets my attention by reaching out his hand. I smirk at his leather bracelets and his paint-stained fingers but grip his hand in mine, not sure what we’re agreeing on. I can see why Hannah’s attracted to him. Fucker’s charming.
“Well, then, Dustin. I’m glad you came. It’s probably time the two of you figure shit out.” His grin is tight, and his eyes crinkle in that stubborn way, like when someone delivers disappointing news.
He steps back and our hands break apart. I let him walk inside alone, and he leaves the door cracked for me to follow. The stranger welcoming another stranger. I have so many burning questions, for him. For Hannah. But before I can ask those, I probably need to answer to myself.
7
For the most part, holiday meals in our house have always been quiet. Quick. Uneventful. Drama-free.
That is not the feeling I get sitting around the giant table my mom set up in our living room for today. At first, it was simply the chaos of figuring out how to make everyone fit—Bailey and her parents on one end. Tommy, Dustin, and my dad to their right. Me and my mom and Bristol on the other side, and then Jorge at the head, wearing a flowing white shirt, like Jesus.
Amen.
Tension brews as rolls are passed around the table. Then my dad and Jorge both attempt to carve slices of turkey at the same time, each trying to let the other guy go first but clearly wanting to keep their hold on the knife. My mom keeps prodding people to drink more wine, topp
ing off glasses that haven’t been touched. I burn my thumb on the pot of potatoes, ignoring my mom’s constant warning not to touch the side. And Dustin sits back, waiting his turn, letting everyone gobble up what they want before going in to fill his own plate. Maybe I’m reading into it, but the longer he sits there, gaze lost over the spread of food in front of him, mouth turned down, the more it feels as though he’s a dam about to burst and flood the whole damn town.
“So Bailey. Have you guys settled on a date?” My mom, always tuned in to a room, kicks things off with what seems like the safest icebreaker. For once, I’m on board with her plan. Too bad I’m about to fuck it all up.
“Yeah, I want to make sure I can be here and take care of all those Maid of Honor duties.” I didn’t realize how much missing out on dress shopping hurt my feelings until right this minute. Or maybe I did. Maybe I’m a dam too. Time for the perfect storm. Destruction for all.
Bailey drops her fork and picks the napkin up from beside her plate, dabbing it on her mouth even though I don’t think she’s actually taken a bite. She clears her throat and flits her gaze to me.
“We’re actually thinking of making it a trip. Santa Barbara. On the beach.” She forces a polite smile and looks to my brother to bail her out. I follow her lead and stare at my brother, waiting for more details.
He finishes chewing a bite of turkey and leans back to meet my stare, and I realize I’m not involved in their plans.
“Oh,” I say, my face dropping. My throat burns so I reach for the water glass but knock over my glass of wine on my way. It spills across the tablecloth and douses half the rolls.
“Damn it, Hannah,” my dad says, leaping from the table to minimize my damage. My eyes burn as Bristol bangs on the table next to me and repeats after my dad.
“Damn it!”
“Bristol,” my mom scolds, as if my daughter has any clue what’s unfolding or why that word she echoed is bad. Tommy spits out a laugh, finding humor in it all, as he always does, and it’s the straw that pushes me completely over the edge.
“Why are you still working with Alex?” I tilt my head and level Dustin with my stare, my question cutting through the commotion and silencing the room. Dustin’s only started to pile food onto his plate, and he freezes at my question, the serving spoon in his hand hovering over the green beans and yams.
“Hannah,” Tommy cuts in to stop me. Suddenly, the shit show is less amusing to him. Is that it? It’s too late now. If he didn’t think having this conversation was appropriate then maybe he should have had it with Dustin eons ago, especially since they’re partners and roommates. What he lets slide baffles me.
“Tommy, let him answer. I think we’d all like to know,” I say, scanning the table and noting the surprised faces looking back at me, gazes shifting from me to Dustin to my brother and back again.
“I’m sorry, what?” my dad pipes in, his hands balling up the soiled napkins from my spilled wine. He paces around the table, pausing when he faces Dustin, staring across the rest of us and putting him under his special brand of spotlight.
I cross my arms, but while I thought I would be vindicated by starting this conversation, all I feel is the pounding of my heart. Our lives are made up of various pivot points, and the choices we make take us down roads, many we can’t ever come back on. One way only. This is one of those points in my timeline—in many of ours—but it may be the most crucial to any future Dustin and I could ever have at all.
Dustin falls back in his seat and drops his plate on the table, beans rolling off and falling to the floor. He runs his palms over his face, something he does when he’s flustered and stuck—when he’s been caught. He drops his hands to his lap and tilts his head, meeting my stare. Our mouths are matching straight lines, and our eyes spar, daring each other.
Do you really want to do this?
“I’m not doing anything that involves anyone but myself. And no, I’m not running drugs for him like a mule, or laundering money, or—”
“Or losing races on purpose?” Tommy slips into the conversation, shifting the direction somewhere so unexpected it levels us all. Now my brother and Dustin are the ones having a standoff.
My mom amuses Bristol, and I’m grateful for it because I don’t think I can pull my attention from this open wound bleeding out in front of me even if I tried.
Dustin’s lips part, the hardened shadows of his eyes softening with guilt. My God. The man who hates to lose is losing . . . on purpose. Why?
“It’s obvious,” Tommy says, running a napkin over his mouth then tossing it to the center of the table, somehow not spilling wine. He folds his arms over his chest and grinds his teeth. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen my brother angry, since I’ve seen him deal with conflict. He prefers humor and jokes, ignoring the problem and moving on.
“Tommy, you don’t understand,” Dustin starts.
My brother shakes his head and mashes his lips before lifting his gaze again to Dustin.
“Are you on the take too? Is that the new deal you worked out? You said it was a business partnership because you had to make good on things after burning him. You made it sound like you had to invest in some hotel of his or something. I probably should have asked for more details. I wanted to. But I also . . . didn’t. That’s on me, I guess.” My brother’s eyes fall with disappointment and Dustin’s flutter closed.
“Tommy, please.”
“I gave up grad school. I signed on to be in this—with you! I saw the dream, and it was real and tangible, and when I thought about not being a part of it with you, it killed me. I knew you never meant to let things get far with Alex the first time. I forgave you. And when the door was still open, I couldn’t not help you become the best, because Dustin . . .” My brother breathes out a pained laugh. “You have always been the best I’ve ever seen. You’re destined. Nobody can touch you when you are in that driver’s seat and focused. Seeing you lose, knowing in my gut that you’re doing it on purpose? Just . . . fuck, man. I mean, fuck!”
My brother storms away from the table and mutters “excuse me” before Dustin has a chance to respond. He’s almost out of the room when Dustin pulls everything into focus and stands from his seat.
“I don’t have a choice, Tommy. It was either this or let that asshole kill me. Or hurt Hannah. Or one of you.”
My brother stops at the archway by the kitchen, his arms stretched out and spanning the opening. His head bows, and the silence in our house becomes so intense I can hear the tiny wheezing sound from Bristol’s nose.
I feel like throwing up, and I have to cover my mouth with my hand because it’s the only thing stopping me from crying or screaming in frustration. How did this man get so much power over my family? Over Dustin?
“He’s Russian mob, Tommy. His dad is, at least. And he’s a dangerous man, like you always said. I ignored the signs and walked right along the edge, but I finally fell into the deep end. I’ve tried to find a way out, believe me. Any other way. But this is literally the only thing I can justify that won’t put anyone else in danger. Yeah, Tommy. I fucking lose on purpose. I’m so good at losing I can tell you the exact position I’m going to finish. Want a sure bet for next Saturday? Guess who’s coming in eighth.”
Dustin holds out his hands, his eyes red from a mix of anger and sheer pain, and lets out a guttural laugh to punctuate his own frustration. A tear forms and slides down his cheek, and I find myself wanting to stop it. I’m paralyzed by the truth and sick that I’m still protecting my own. I’m as ensnared by Alex as he is.
“Dustin,” I breathe out, my heart breaking all over again for the boy I fell in love with when I was a girl. The man in front of me so stuck I fear he may die here, like this, never getting to live his purpose.
“It’s fine. I’m . . . I’m just gonna go,” he says, his eyes darting wildly around the ruined meal. His muscles twitch like a feral animal trapped and desperate to flee. He looks up, meeting my mother’s gaze.
“I’m really sor
ry,” he says, to her and nobody else. My chest squeezes because I want to hear him say that to me. To my brother. To all of us. But then, I have so much to apologize for too. Dustin may have set the trap for himself, but I’m the one who triggered it. I pushed him in. Unfortunately, nobody has the key.
He’s out the door and the sound of the Supra revving dissipates into the distance just as Tommy leaves to follow him. Seconds later, my brother’s car squeals from the driveway. My dad heads out to the garage just as Bailey’s parents leave, probably shocked by the mess their daughter is marrying into. My mom and Jorge take Bristol into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Bailey. I haven’t a goddamn clue what to say. I’m not even sure how to exist. The one thing I’m certain of, though, is that I need my friend.
It takes almost a full minute to find the courage to speak out loud, and even then, the only eye contact I can muster is short glances to my side.
“How did we get here?”
Bailey doesn’t look my direction at all, her gaze fixed out the window overlooking the driveway where her fiancé just pulled away, angry and confused. Almost an entire minute passes without a word from her, and my need to hear that voice—and mend this strained bridge between me and my friend—prompts me to try again.
“Should we go find Tommy?”
Bailey shakes with a silent laugh and lowers her head, blinking at her half-eaten meal that’s long ago gotten cold.
“When are you going to deal with your shit, Hannah?” She shifts her head and her gaze flickers up to meet my face. She stares at me expectantly while my mouth hangs open.
“Bailey, it’s complicated.”
She breathes out another laugh, this one audible. I open my mouth to explain but she stops me with an open palm.
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 6
