I blink out at the darkness as Hannah scoots back enough to fully accommodate my weight. This room is filled with her—with us—the scent of vanilla and flowers and honey. I let my eyes fall shut as she begins.
“It was four in the afternoon, and I wanted a donut,” she says.
“Maple.” I smile, but keep my eyes closed.
“Yes, always maple,” Hannah says, and I can tell by the timbre of her voice that she is smiling, too.
We’re going to be okay. Someday, we won’t be broken.
13
I’m not sure when I dozed off. I was awake for most of the night, long after Dustin fell asleep in my lap. I don’t remember slipping out from under his weight, but somehow we ended up cradling each other in the center of my bed.
I don’t know how long he’s been looking at me, but I hope it’s been awhile.
His face is hard to read. That’s to be expected given the rollercoaster I took him on. The man has been afflicted with so much emotional and traumatic damage over his lifetime, and it’s unfair to expect him to become whole all at once because I want him to.
“Good morning,” I utter, sucking in my lips. I fight the urge to smile simply because I’m in his arms. I haven’t earned that right.
He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flit around my face, moving from one corner to the other. I feel exposed, and when his gaze comes back to mine, I swallow down the sharp rock in my throat.
“It’s early yet. You should sleep some more,” he says, his hand moving to my face and dragging a few stray hairs from my eyes. His fingers hover at my shoulder for a second before he drops his hand again, resting it along his hip.
“I’m shocked I slept at all,” I admit.
“I had a really good bedtime story,” he responds.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and allow myself one faint smile. I’m glad he feels that way. It’s a good sign.
“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move. That also gives me hope.
I swallow again.
“Okay.”
Neither of us moves. The birds are waking outside, which means the clouds have probably cleared and the sun will be bright and high today.
“I thought you were going,” I say, testing the waters with my usual brand of teasing sarcasm. This is us. It feels like us anyhow.
“You’re so pushy,” he says back, and allows himself the tiniest smile in return.
“Well, go on, then,” I continue.
“I’m going.”
We both shake with a silent laugh. It doesn’t last more than a handful of seconds, but it is everything.
I don’t know what to say next. I vacillate between apologies and thankful grace. Words are too small for what Dustin deserves. Nothing either of us could do can replace the two years our daughter lost.
My thoughts must show on my face, because Dustin reaches up and runs the tip of his finger along my dented brow. I let my eyelids fall shut at his touch, mostly so I don’t cry. I’m cried out. I can’t anymore.
“Bristol,” he says, urging my eyes open at the way his voice forms her name. It rounds the ends, the deep timbre of his sound cradling her name and giving it a richness. “How’d you come up with that name anyway?”
My lip ticks up.
“You always said you wanted to win in Tennessee,” I admit.
His eyes shut, squinting tight with his warm laughter.
“Bristol Motor Speedway,” he pieces together.
“You always did love a short track.”
Naming our daughter Bristol was never a question in my mind. I’d fantasized about giving her that name since the days of doodling I <3 DUSTIN BRIDGES in my notebook. I knew he’d be along for the idea, and maybe part of me left it as a clue.
“What’s her middle name?”
“Bea, after my great grandmother. She was a hellraiser, and I liked the idea that our daughter would be triple B one day.”
His expression softens and stills, and I sink into his eyes. We’re so close that the slightest push, a sign from either of us, would lead to something more. But that is me rushing. That is me wanting and avoiding the journey. I have to tread the distance to receive the rewards.
“So she’ll be Bridges?” He swallows his emotions and sucks in his lips.
“I downloaded the application yesterday, right before Jorge left. He helped me find it online. Seventy-five dollars and our daughter will finally have a complete and true birth certificate.”
“That’s less than it cost for Colt’s ashes,” he jokes. I push his chest and he wraps my hand in his.
Any attempt to laugh at his dark humor is consumed by the new tension tainting the air.
One move is all it’ll take.
One shift of his arm, or curl of my fingers against his chest. My mouth twitches at the thought, my tongue paints a slow line against the back of my teeth. Dustin’s gaze shifts to my mouth.
“I really should go.” His eyes are on mine again, and that moment—the time for one more move—has passed. It will come again. It has to.
I nod and he rolls to his side, sitting up and pushing his fists into his eyes before stretching his arms high above his head. His shirt lifts as he does and I’m gifted a glimpse of his waist, the definition of his abs teasing me with a brief show before his shirt falls again and he stands. That body and mine made a life together. Holy shit.
I’m amused by that thought when Dustin turns around and I blush that he caught me staring at what is clearly his ass. He doesn’t tease me, but his smirk says enough. I cover my own shame with a yawn as I push myself up to sit in the center of my bed.
“It’s the Santa Hike today. I thought maybe we could take Bristol. My mom would love it, you know.”
“I’d love it,” he says without pause. I dare say I think he really will.
“Okay.” It’s a date. Well, a family plan. But a date too. I close my eyes and will away the flutters.
“Hey, don’t fill out any paperwork yet,” he says before he reaches the door. His sudden change hits my gut, and my breath falters.
Before I can question why, he waves his hand. He must have seen my panic.
“I don’t want a record for Alex to find. Not until I figure out what to do.” He holds his tongue between his teeth in thought, his focus off to the side, no doubt his mind working from the moment he woke up.
“I understand,” I respond.
“I know you do.” His eyes return to me, and hidden under his words, I read the double meaning. He gets why I had to hide her. He understands, too.
“I have to find Tommy. He probably hates me right now,” he says, patting down his pockets for his phone. He pulls it out to check for texts, but his dejected expression tells me my brother has remained radio silent. I’m sure my phone is messageless too. It has been for a while.
“He hates me a lot more, so use that to your advantage,” I quip.
“Nobody hates you, Hannah. They couldn’t.”
It’s not forgiveness, but it’s close. His words wrap around my heart and hug me from the inside. It isn’t love but it’s an unequivocal rejection of hate. I celebrate it internally as we give in to one last longing stare. At least, it’s longing on my part.
“I’ll be back here by noon. Just in time to climb a mountain.” He flashes his signature grin and I nod, marking our date in my mental calendar.
I have nothing to do . . . other than figuring out where I’m going to live. Or how I’m going to support myself now that I’m giving notice to the institute that I won’t be back to teach in the spring. Or how I’m going to repair my friendship with Bailey, and engage her help to somehow reignite the inner vixen who was once able to wrap Dustin around her pinky finger all with a pair of very short denim cut-offs.
I do have a lot to do.
Dustin makes a stop at Tommy’s room to look in on our daughter one last time before he leaves, and rather than sprint from this bed to join him, I let him have his moment. He’s due so many of th
em. I’ll know when I’m wanted at his side.
I wait until I hear the Supra fire up before I slip from bed. I’m anxious to change out of yesterday’s clothes, but I also like that I smell like Dustin. I think I’ll keep them on for a little while longer, at least through coffee.
I slept in my shoes and my feet ache from the feeling, so I slip them off and stuff my feet into my old house slippers. Ducks, because for an entire year I thought I would go to Oregon for college. That never happened, obviously, but the slippers are boss.
I slide my way down the hall and stairs, fumbling through drawers until I find my mom’s secret stash of the expensive coffee grounds. I prep the maker and fill the water enough to brew an entire pot, assuming everyone of adult age in this house will need the added boost.
With idle time on my hands, I riffle through the pile of mail on the counter, holding what looks like a check from one of my dad’s clients up to the light the way I did when I was little. Unable to make out the numbers, I pretend it’s worth a million dollars and busy myself with the remaining envelopes.
My mom gets a lot of mail here. It’s forwarded from city hall, and the letters are mostly from people with big ideas or gripes about local politics. I recognize most of the names, and in a way, it’s satisfying to see that the regular players haven’t changed a bit.
A thick booklet listing wedding vendors catches my eye, so I flip through that, sliding up on one of the kitchen stools and crossing my legs. As I fan through the pages, though, a rogue letter slips to the floor. I ignore it for a few minutes, half-tempted to leave it there because my mom has enough of those to go through. But she answers every single one of them. When my handwriting got nicer in junior high, she used to dictate and let me respond for her.
“Emails get emails in return, but people who bother to walk to the post office and plaster on a stamp deserve the same,” she always said. It’s a dogma passed down from my grandfather, and it’s the way he ran city hall. My mom may be a lot of things, but she is most certainly not above the people. My grandpa would have been proud of her.
I pick the letter up and nearly discard it among the others but stop when I realize it’s addressed to me. I don’t recognize the formal handwriting, but I’m on edge simply at this letter’s existence. I grab a knife from the drawer and slice through the end of the envelope, shaking it upside down until a single folded note falls to the counter. The paper is expensive. The embossed monogram is recognizable from the back side.
AO
I swallow the razor blades down and unfold the paper.
So tell me, Hannah. Does Dustin know she’s his?
14
Tommy has been gone all morning. I can tell he didn’t sleep here. His bed is pristine—pillows lined up, spread tucked and all that—exactly how our weekly housekeeper left it two days ago. Tommy barely knows how to clean out the dryer vent, let alone make his bed. Lucky Bailey.
I feel pinned. I have so many things I want to accomplish, but I can’t move forward until I have this out with Tommy. I’ve been bobbing my legs while propped on the coffee table for the last thirty minutes, and I keep having to scoot the damn table back in place after shoving it away with my jack-hammering legs.
Finally, our front door beeps the alarm sound of someone entering. I set it to alert anytime someone enters, because now I know. Alex is going to hold me hostage forever, and I was only operating under the illusion that I was keeping everyone safe.
Tommy grumbles and flips the panel on the system, so I leap to my feet to stop him.
“Leave it. I reset it,” I say. His hand falls and so does his head as he groans.
“It’s the worst noise. It means I hear you come in late, when I’m sleeping, or leave early . . . when I’m sleeping.”
Tommy is always sleeping.
“I know, but there are things happening now and we need to know when someone is at our door, bro.” I’m trying not to sound freaked out, but honestly? I’ve worked myself up into a pretty wound-up mood.
Tommy rolls his head and finally turns so our eyes meet, just in time for him to roll those too.
“Is this all part of your gambling scheme?” His tone is pretty crude. I’ll give him a pass because he deserves to feel left out and angry. But I didn’t do any of this to make money. If anything, I’m losing out—all of us are—by not placing as high as I should.
“Yes, I’ve synced our alarm system to the books in Vegas and every time someone walks in I make a buck,” I deadpan.
He purses his lips and slits his eyes.
“Fucker,” he finally retorts.
My friend tosses his keys on the small table by our entry and works his leather jacket from his arms, dropping it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs on his way to the fridge.
“Look, I get that you’re pissed,” I begin.
“Oh ho ho, pissed does not begin to cover it, Dust. Not even close.” Tommy points at me and his eyes burn a hole through my head before he turns to the open fridge door and grabs himself a beer. He doesn’t offer one to me, even though I bought them. It’s fine.
It’s only nine in the morning anyhow. He’s a fucking alcoholic.
“I’m gonna need you to put that rage on hold, and not forever. You can beat the shit out of me later if you want. I’ll hold my hands behind my back and give you a free shot.”
“Four free shots,” he interrupts.
I shake my head and part my lips.
“Four,” he insists. “If I have to simmer with this so-called rage in my gut, I want to hit you four times. I’m a shitty fighter, so I need a buffer.”
I blink a few times as our gazes lock, and while I know he’s being funny, I also sense he’s fairly serious about this negotiation. Four times. He’ll probably break my nose and knock out a tooth. I simmer on that thought but eventually nod.
“Fine. Four. Whatever.”
I mash my lips and breathe in deeply through my nose in an attempt to reset my focus. Tommy slides into one of the stools at our kitchen island. He pops the cap on his beer and takes a sip before setting it down and folding his hands together on the counter as he sits up straight, seemingly prepared to listen. I stare at him for a few seconds while I riffle through all the things I have to say. There’s so much. I should probably work through the biggest fact with Hannah present. But there isn’t time to do things the right way, and I get leeway on account of being kept in the dark for so long.
“I’m Bristol’s father.” I decide to go big. I’m confident in my decision as the hostility in my friend’s expression lessens, his tight-lipped smirk falling to a straight line and his jaw twitching. He blinks at me and I lean back against the opposite countertop and fold my arms across my chest. Eventually, Tommy nods.
“I’m . . . not surprised?” He cocks his head as his eyes study me, and my stomach tightens.
“You knew?” I swear to God, if he knew . . . Four punches my ass.
He shakes his head.
“I didn’t know, but I also didn’t try very hard to ask or find out, if that makes sense. My sister and you—”
He shrugs.
I hold his stare for a few seconds and nod in understanding. Tommy has never loved our messy relationship. He loves us, and eventually he came to love the idea of us together. But the drama has never been his style. Hell, it’s not mine either, but Hannah and I can’t seem to function without it.
“Hannah told you?”
I nod.
Tommy lifts his brows, which makes me breathe out a short laugh.
“Yeah, it went about as well as you can imagine, I’m sure. Or maybe better. I don’t know. I’m still processing much of it. I met my mom yesterday, so that’s also in my head.”
“You met your real mom?” My best friend is coming around.
“Ha, yeah. I did. It was wild. Amazing, actually. Like, for once in my life, something happened exactly the way I dreamed it would.” My chest flutters at the memory of hugging my mom, of connecting with her and lea
rning so much about the woman who made me. I’m still trying to decide if I want the details Hannah mentioned her father knew. I think I do, but I also think maybe I want to hear them from my mom, if that’s possible. I can’t focus on any of that, though, until I get my situation with Alex figured out. It’s not just me anymore. His threat stretches to the most important people in my life.
“I’m really glad, Dust. I’m still pissed at you, but the stuff with your mom? I’m glad.” Tommy lifts his beer, toasting me, and takes a sip. I give him a brief crooked smile.
“Thanks. And I’ll tell you all about it, but Tommy, pissed at me or not, I’m in big trouble. I need your help. I think we need to sit down with your dad and maybe Bailey’s dad and see what legal options I have. Alex . . . he visited Hannah.”
Tommy’s face falls at that news and his jaw hardens. He might not love the drama his sister and I bring into his life, but he would fight to the death for either of us when faced with an actual threat. Hannah and I are family. It’s always been the three of us. We’re water, fire and earth, and together we complete each other.
“Visited how?”
I shake my head, not knowing the minute details but enough to paint the picture.
“He found her when she first moved and paid a little visit, I think making sure we really split up. He likes leverage, you know.”
“Yeah. I fucking know,” Tommy spits out. He’s always been upfront with his distrust of Alex, and I’ve ignored him—to my demise. He has every right to throw that in my face.
“When Bristol was born, he sent her presents and cards and shit.”
“Do you think he knows?” Tommy instantly verbalizes my biggest fear.
“Hannah doesn’t think so. It’s why she—”
“Why she lied,” Tommy finishes my thought.
I nod.
“I think he knows more than she thinks. He’s not stupid. He’s . . . calculating. And if he hurts my daughter, Tommy. If he . . .” Tears hit my eyes fast. I run my arm over my face and look to the side before gritting out, “Fuck!”
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 11
