Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3

by Scott, Ginger

  “He won’t.”

  I flick my gaze back to my friend, not ready to believe his statement. His eyes haze and his jaw tightens even more.

  “Dustin, there are some things in life you are better at than me. But when it comes to finding loopholes and ways to exploit motherfuckers through the legal system? Me and my dad have you in spades.”

  I breathe in and my chest almost fills. Almost is a lot more than it has in twenty-four hours, and I can nearly smile thanks to Tommy’s support.

  “I still want four punches,” he says, pointing at me again and taking a draw from his beer.

  I laugh, and he smiles around the bottle as he drinks.

  * * *

  I don’t know that the four of us have ever sat at a table together at once, but somehow Tommy and his dad, me, and Mr. Tingle are all facing one another inside the Judge home. It feels a bit like the apocalypse.

  Tommy called his future father-in-law, and I called Tom to let him know we were coming over to figure things out. It takes a lot for me to ask for help, which I think Tom realized. His relationship with his son’s future father-in-law is still icy, but the two men were cordial and shook hands before we sat down.

  I’m not sure what anyone at this table knows, so I dive in without emotion, simply stating facts, starting from the very beginning. I was a kid desperate for cash and got in with a high-rolling racing crowd. I grew up envious of Alex’s wealth, and I thought I could be in business with him without actually being in business with him. I was wrong. I’m his bitch. Bristol is my daughter. And Alex has the power to hurt anything and anyone I care about—and the men to enforce it.

  By the time I finish, Tom and Bailey’s dad are both sitting back in their seats, wide-eyed and a little shell shocked. You’d think I took them for a lap around the track in a Jeep. I don’t think the part about Bristol took Tom by surprise, but the depth of the threat I’m facing? That hit him hard. This is his family, too.

  His lips part as he leans forward, elbows resting on the table, ready to edge into these treacherous waters with his usual calm demeanor. It’s a façade he can somehow uphold under the highest pressure situations, and I admire it as a man who wears a similar mask whenever I’m behind the wheel. Before he can speak, though, Hannah walks through the front door with Bristol on her hip and her mom behind her. Those two women have no façade, and I instantly read the fear in her eyes and surge to my feet.

  “What happened?” My eyes flicker from Hannah’s to our daughter, who thankfully seems oblivious and is happily licking away at a sucker. Hannah’s mom takes her and ushers her upstairs, clearly so we can talk, which has my stomach somehow sicker than it has been in the last two days.

  “He knows.” Hannah’s expression resembles death. Her pupils big, eyes unable to focus, mouth slack, and skin pale. Even after a morning walk, her cheeks aren’t flushed. I see the awareness disappear in an instant, and my hands sweep under her arms just in time.

  She isn’t out for long, a few seconds at the most, but in that time I lift her and take her to the sofa in the living room while her dad rushes for a glass of water and Tommy and Bailey’s dad join me in the living room. Her brother feels her head with his palm, but his eyes meet mine. He heard what she said. We all did.

  Hannah comes to and slips a note from her pocket, then she points to the counter where she discarded the envelope this morning. Tommy grabs it while I read the ominous words meant to intimidate me. The handwriting isn’t Alex’s. It’s too nice. I’ve read enough of his chicken scratch to recognize it instantly. But those are his words. It’s his style. Subtle and on the cusp of threatening. One of his assistants probably sent it off for him from his offices. All this, of course, means he could be here. He could be outside right now.

  My eyes dash to the front door and, reading my mind, Hannah’s father moves to lock it. He uses the deadbolt too.

  “Goddamn it,” I mutter, not really to anyone.

  I stare at the floor while Hannah pushes to sit up. Her brother nudges her shoulders, encouraging her to lay back. Bailey’s dad slides a pillow behind her back so she can drink water.

  “This is all my fault. I brought him into our lives, and I’ll find a way to get him out. Even if I have to trade myself.”

  “Stop it,” Bailey’s dad says. He’s a man of few words, and his insistent declaration takes me off-guard. I lift my gaze to him and he stares at me with lowered eyes and sucked-in lips.

  Before I can question him, he reaches over Hannah’s body and grips my shoulder. His fingers dig in and he gives me a good shake. I’d usually light up with anger, but his sense of authority grounds me fast.

  “None of this is anyone’s fault. That’s not how life works.” He releases his grip on me as his focus shifts to Hannah and Tommy’s dad. The two men hold their stare for a beat before they look at me.

  “If you hold a stick over a flame and it catches fire, you can say you started a fire. But what if your family was cold, and those tools are all you had? What if that fire leaps to something else and burns down a forest? Was it your fault? Was it your intent? Or were you simply doing the best you could with what you had, making decisions to take care of the people you loved?” Mr. Tingle’s riddle makes me uneasy, and I don’t think it applies.

  “What if I made the choice to light the fire not because I wanted my family to stay warm but because I wanted to make a name for myself, because I wanted to run a business and be successful, and it was the only way I knew how?” I challenge him, but instead of relenting, he digs in, pushing back.

  “But you did make that decision for family. You made it because your family abandoned you. Because you had a father who beat you and died and left you with nothing. You made that choice because when you were a baby, the system failed you. I failed you.”

  I blink and cock my head.

  “What do you mean you failed me?”

  “We failed you,” Tom interjects.

  I shift my gaze from Mr. Tingle to Tom, but the two of them are busy exchanging glances of their own. I shake my head and wave my hand.

  “What are you saying?”

  Hannah’s hand snakes into mine at that very moment and she squeezes gently, urging me to look at her. I’m breathing harder than I want to, and I feel edgy. I don’t want to take this trapped, angry feeling out on anyone in this room, but what the fuck is going on? She pulls me toward her, so I drop my chin and meet her eyes.

  If you want to know, my dad will tell you. Like I said. Her words stir my memories back to meeting my mom, and the room swirls with conflicting emotions.

  “You . . . failed me?” I tilt my head up and meet Tom’s red eyes. He nods, the movement tiny and seemingly difficult for him. I flit my gaze to Bailey’s dad and while his expression is more resolved, regret tinges the corners of his eyes as well.

  “Your mom always wanted you, son,” Tom begins. “She was the last custody case I ever handled, and it is the one great regret I have in life. If I could go back—”

  His breath hitches and mine does the same. Hannah squeezes my hand harder, and while instincts caution me to pull away, to run from this room and drive miles out into the desert, angry and bitter, I battle against them. That’s what I do. I rage and I run. Those two elements mix for even more dangerous choices, and this spiral, it’s what landed me here.

  “You lit a stick on fire,” I croak out.

  Before Tom can respond, Bailey’s dad steps between us, cutting off my view, placing his hand on Tom’s chest.

  “We lit a fire. We made a choice based on paper and a broken family and paystubs and histories, and the facts were wrong. We placed you with a monster, Dustin. We didn’t know, and it was never our intent, but we did it. So here I am, several years too late, owning up to my decision, hell-bent on making things right for you.”

  The two men exchange glances, and seeing them on the same page is jarring as hell. Even more disrupting is the way Mr. Tingle rests his palm on Tom’s shoulder. It’s like the
scene when Luke finds out Darth is his father. It’s Batman working with Superman. It’s oil and water, and I feel utterly out of control. And I’m still not so sure that any of this doesn’t land squarely on my shoulders, but I’m struck by this odd sense of hope brewing in my chest.

  15

  These four men, who at some point in their lives either hated or had major beef with one another, sat together all afternoon fighting as one in search of solutions. All to help Dustin. To help us.

  I don’t pretend to understand some of the ideas Bailey’s dad mentioned. Nor am I going to lie to myself and say I am not afraid of Alex finding out and destroying everything anyway. My faith that this will work isn’t as strong as I would like. But I no longer feel I am waging a war on my own. When I look over my shoulder, I have an entire family looking with me. There is comfort in that, and that is what I cling to.

  Bailey came over about two hours into the meeting of minds. She’s in her second year of law school—criminal law, top of her class. Naturally. More than anything I want my friend to assure me. Of everyone in that room today, she’s the one voice I could always count on to shoot straight. Dustin is too blinded by the same fears I have. But things between Bailey and me have never been stretched so thin. Even now, up in my childhood room, a place filled with so many shared memories, she and I feel worlds apart.

  We are worlds apart.

  She joined me in my room out of obligation. Tommy, Dustin, and my father went to the track to search for some things, and Bailey’s dad went home. We’re all supposed to meet my mother at the base of Fools Mountain for the Santa Hike at twilight, but our spirits are deflated. I’m powering through because Bristol deserves this. And maybe I want to believe in magic for once.

  “So do you think I can still squeeze my ass into these jeans?” I pull one of my old favorite pair from the box my mom’s kept in my closet. They have holes ripped in the thighs. I used to draw hearts on my skin underneath.

  “Probably,” Bailey says in a half-hearted voice.

  I give her a closed smile, stretch the pants out across my waist, and look down. For some reason, everything in my head and in this room catches up to me, and I sob. It’s a quick falter and I suck it in almost as soon as it happens.

  “I’m sorry,” I utter, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head.

  “It’s fine.” Bailey is purposely cold. She’s been like this with me before, but never for long. When we were younger and I danced with a boy she had a crush on, she gave me the cold shoulder. Rightfully so. And in college, when I somehow scored better than her on our political science exam, she was short with me. That one’s on her. This time is different, and the cold war is longer.

  “How long are we going to do this?” I drop the pants and fall to the floor, sitting and staring at my friend who is picking at her nails while sitting on the edge of my bed. She looks about ready to bolt.

  “Do what?” She shrugs.

  I tilt my head and wait her out, and she finally sighs and falls back on her hands.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding the conflict. I don’t like it. I’m just . . . so angry with you.”

  I look up and bat the tears from my lashes, sucking in and nodding.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  I lower my head and meet her gaze, and seeing her eyes as red and watery as mine somehow satisfies me.

  “I’m really sorry, Bailey. I’m sorry I shut you out.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted that to her—to myself, really.

  “I would have been there for you. I would have helped. I wouldn’t have pushed.”

  A short laugh puffs from my mouth and Bailey rolls her eyes.

  “Fine. I might have pushed a little.” She leans her head to the side as we stare at one another and we both reflect crooked smiles.

  “I should have trusted you could handle it. I was tired of being your burden, I guess.” I’ve felt like that for the last seven years. Ever since I got together with Dustin, I’ve been Bailey’s mess to clean up. I couldn’t do it anymore.

  “You have never been my burden, Hannah. You’re my best friend.”

  “Am? Or was?” I hold my breath after putting that question out there.

  “Are. You are my best friend. You always will be. Even if I want to bully you and make you feel bad for making me feel bad, you’re still my girl. I even got you a damn dress.”

  I perk up at that confession and my friend gives me a wry smile.

  “Are the sleeves puffy?” I quirk a brow. Bailey and I always joked that our bridesmaid dresses would out-ugly one another and be as stereotypical and grossly vintage as possible.

  “The puffiest,” she says, leaning to her side to pull her phone from her hip pocket. She thumbs through a few photos and turns her screen to face me. I crawl over and take her phone in my hands.

  “Is that olive green?” I glance at her over the screen.

  She nods.

  “It is.”

  “And that belt—it’s really that thick and black? And the skirt has a hoop? And the sleeves . . .”

  “Like I said, the puffiest.”

  I laugh and return my eyes to the picture. As ugly as the dress is, resembling something from an old square dancing video, it’s absolutely perfect. I give her back her phone, but when our hands touch, I hold on until she looks me in the eyes.

  “I love it,” I say.

  She lifts the side of her mouth and looks to the side.

  “I figured.”

  Her hands move to embrace mine and we sit in peace for a few seconds.

  “I’m really sorry, Bailey. And I know it isn’t fair, but I need you now. I need you more than I ever have.”

  My plea hangs between us, and I draw in a slow breath.

  “I’m here,” she finally says, and I exhale, feeling one less weight that had been burdening my shoulders fall away with her two simple words.

  “Now, about the jeans . . .”

  We both laugh and let go, breaking up the hard moment with something near normal for once. I slip off my sweatpants and manage to wriggle my way into my old jeans, albeit with the help of a hair tie to extend the button an inch or so. Bailey helps me sort through my old tops, looking for one that might make me slightly appealing to the father of my child. I have a lot of work to do, as does he, but tonight I simply want him to think I’m beautiful, if even for a single glance.

  We settle on a tight long-sleeved black shirt with a low-cut neckline. My boobs are about twice the size they used to be, thanks to childbirth, so I may as well accentuate my attributes. I do happen to have packed a sexy bra. It wasn’t because I had hopes of showing it to anyone, but rather that I had to return some pajamas right before we left Nebraska and the place would only give me store credit. Maybe it was karma looking out for me. Because karma totally plans for a messy-ass reunion with your soulmate where you may happen to need stellar-looking tits.

  Paired with my black leather boots and my best blow out, I manage to whip myself into decent shape by the time the boys come barreling through the door. Bristol went to the event early with my mom because she heard there would be candy. My mom may have helped that temptation along so Dustin and I could ride to the trailhead together and alone.

  “I’m nervous,” I admit to Bailey as she picks at my hair and spritzes it with something she brought over in her bag of tricks. When did my sheltered best friend become the one swimming in beauty supplies and the best shades of lipstick?

  “Don’t be. You’ve had a baby with that man. Kinda not a lot of surprises left,” she jokes.

  I shoot her a forced smile, but it falls apart quickly.

  “Hannah, you two will get through this.”

  I nod, hoping she’s right.

  We did make a baby together. But he wasn’t there for the birth, and the first two years of Bristol’s life feel like a tightly woven lie. The guilt I feel over it all tears at me, and I fear it will for years. But the threat that pushed me to lie in the first place still
exists. And he sent me a letter to make sure I don’t forget.

  “Ready?” Bailey searches my eyes, brushing something from my cheek that I hope isn’t a gray hair. I have a small handful of those. They’re new. Stupid stress!

  Before I can catch her hand and beg her to tell everyone I’m not feeling well, she slinks away and practically skips down the stairs, announcing to everyone—to Dustin—that I’ll be there in a minute. I hover just outside my door, listening to the rest of them gather keys and coordinate who rides with whom, eventually carrying their conversation outside. The door closes behind them. The click of a lock follows, and Dustin clears his throat. He’s keeping me safe.

  My breathing is rapid, a bit like I get before a panic attack, so I flatten my hand on my chest and count to four for every inhale and exhale.

  “Be right there,” I shout, not wanting him to worry and bound up here looking for me.

  I give a quick downward glance to the girls to make sure they’re pushed up and showing their best selves, and when I decide this is as good as I’m going to get, I fold my sweater over my arm and move toward the stairs. Dustin’s back is to me as I trail down to the first floor, and I manage to make it only two steps away from him before he turns to face me. He glances up from reading something on his phone, and before his mouth forms whatever first word he intended to say to me, all that slips out is a slowly drawled “fuuuuccckk me.”

  My mouth automatically moves to form an impish grin as he shoves his hands into his back pockets, along with his phone. He steps closer at first but then rocks back, eyes roaming my full length. As much as I feel as if my thighs are popping through the threadbare holes in the denim of my past, I also think maybe I’ve still got some sex appeal in the tank.

  “I don’t get to dress up often. Is it too much?” I bite my lip, completely on purpose and to be coy.

  “For a Santa hike?” He lifts a brow, his gaze glued to my cleavage before flitting up to meet my eyes. “Not at all.”

  I blush. It burns my cheeks, and while it’s been awhile since I played the flirt, it’s also a bit like riding a bike. My comfort picks up fast.