Bailey rushes back and I note the amount of time Ava spends talking to Dustin’s passenger, probably reviewing the details I expect. After a few minutes, she sashays around the car and runs her hands along the frames of the Supra and the Dodge, cutting between until she’s lit up by both sets of headlights. Their engines kick in, the sound reverberating in my chest, and my smile slides into place.
Home.
I help Bailey up to the roof and Tommy climbs up to stand behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders because even though he knows the outcome, he can’t help but get nervous. I chuckle quietly to myself, glad he didn’t try to race. He would have been embarrassed.
We’re too far to hear Ava’s words, but we all know her actions by heart. Her hands go up and she pulls the bandana from her hair, her hair falling free. The cloth whips in the wind as her gaze moves from one driver to the other and then it’s down, and the cars are off.
“I swear our exhaust smells like banana. I’ve always thought that,” Tommy claims. Bailey and I laugh, but now that he mentions it, there is a faint note of banana bread in the air.
I visualize everything Dustin is doing inside that car right now, my hand twitching with each shift, my palms sweating as they fight to grip an invisible wheel. I shift my weight from one hip to the other when I know the flip is coming, and I count as the headlights coming toward us grow bigger, brighter. All told, the race lasts less than a minute, but it feels like slow motion in my world. I made it last, wished I was inside that car, and wondered at the boy I fell for. I never stood a chance.
Without caution or care, I leap from the roof of my car and jog to the Supra as Dustin rolls up, his passenger a bit shell-shocked and definitely wide-eyed. He pushes his precious set of wheels into park and saunters out of the driver’s seat, and suddenly, every word he said to Dale for his story—how this is a whole new Dustin, and things are going to be different now—comes into view.
This is an unparalleled level of confidence. This is a man ready to take on the world.
“I fucking love you,” he says when our bodies meet, and in the next breath, his lips are on mine and Ava’s whistle lets the gods know that Dustin and Hannah are back, and devils be warned. We’re coming.
20
I’m used to making the trip to the track alone. Most of the guys on the circuit fly in with their entire family in tow, or they have some tricked-out RV that gets to live right next to the hauler all week. I’ve got a hotel room I’ll share with Tommy waiting for me on the other end of this flight, which I am boarding alone.
I tried to say our goodbyes at home, but Hannah insisted on coming with me. Bristol made me a gift and Hannah said our daughter wanted to give it to me in person and watch me get on the plane. I’m not so sure how much of that was Bristol’s insistence rather than Hannah’s, but I find it increasingly hard to resist the demands of either of them. Hannah had their escort passes ready to go by the time I checked in.
Terminal three isn’t as massive as four, but I still feel we’re too exposed. I’m shocked security hasn’t already flagged me and hauled me into some back room for questioning by the way I’m constantly scanning and memorizing faces in the crowd. It terrifies me. What could I do? In Alex’s world, I am powerless.
“He has no reason,” Hannah says, sliding her hand in mine and stepping up on her toes to whisper in my ear.
I relax, a little. She’s right. As long as I’m delivering on my promise and Alex is getting what’s his, he has no reason to send someone to an airport to hurt any of us. But the man does like theatrics and intimidation, and the thought of someone scaring Bristol fuels me with protective papa wrath.
Truly, though, it’s what happens after the race that has me knotted and sick. I’m done paying for doing the right thing. Hannah kept me out of a bad business marriage with a criminal, and he turned around and took me hostage instead. No more. Texas will be the race where everything changes.
“You have the key for the house?” I’ve asked her this maybe forty times since we left for the airport. Bailey’s parents have a cabin near the New Mexico border and if I’m able to pull off a win—when I win—Hannah, Bristol, Bailey and Tom are heading there to wait until it feels safe. It might never feel safe. She pulls the key from her pocket and flashes it to me, grimacing.
I exhale and run my hand through my hair before plopping in one of the seats by my gate. Bristol runs to the nearby window and plasters her palms and nose on the glass to watch the planes take off and land.
“If you let us come with you we’d always be nearby, you know.” Hannah leans her head to the side and I lift my gaze to look in her eyes. I breathe out a laugh and shake my head.
“I will literally not sleep if you come. I’ll put toothpicks in my eyes like those cartoons we used to watch and will sit around and simply stare at you.”
Her lips curl in an impish grin.
“That doesn’t sound awful.” She snuggles into the chair next to me, resting her head on my arm, and Bristol turns around, catching us.
“My turn,” she says, skipping toward us and leaping into my free arm.
“How’s my girl?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” That’s a new word for her. She learned it from her grandma. Hannah’s mom is always saying things are fine, that it’s fine if we wait for dinner, or fine, have it your way. I started testing out calling her my girl this morning. She smiled the first time, so I’ve used it twice more. I like it. Maybe it will ease her into understanding who I am.
Now boarding flight one-four-eight to Dallas.
I breathe in deeply, but the air doesn’t stretch my lungs completely. I’m anxious. I hate feeling this way, and I’ve been so good throughout my life at putting my stress to the side and simply winning. Everything feels too closely tied together, as if one part of my life is impossibly dependent on the other. It’s a lot to balance with my integrity.
“You ready to give him his present?” Hannah leans across my chest and touches Bristol’s nose. Our daughter nods vigorously and climbs down from my side, her tiny palm gripping my knee while she nervously kicks at my shoe. Hannah reaches into her purse and slips out a folded paper, handing it to our daughter, who quickly hands it over to me.
“I made it,” she announces.
I exaggerate the smile on my face so she sees how excited I am. I’ve never had anyone make something for me, other than a meal and an engine block, that is. Whatever’s inside this paper is precious.
“Open it,” she commands. I follow orders and unfold the yellow piece of construction paper. Inside is an oblong-shaped purple blob with four smaller purple blobs sort of attached to the bottom.
“That’s your car,” Hannah explains.
I nod.
“Ah, yes. I see it.” We both shake with silent laughter because it looks like a big scribble. I love it anyway.
Floating above the “car” is a stick figure with a line drawn through what I think is the head.
“Hat,” Bristol says, pointing to the line. I nod, getting the idea that this is me.
“My hat?” I question.
She looks up at me with a toothy grin and nods.
Around the entire thing is a circle that dips in the middle at the top. I think it’s a heart, so I ask Bristol to be sure.
“Is that a heart?” I trace my finger along the line.
“Yep. Cuz I love you.” She reaches around my waist and squeezes me with her tiny arms and I blink away the sneaky bastard tears that hit my eyes with the speed of lightning.
“Oh, wow. Thanks, baby girl. I . . . I love you, too.” I blink through the emotion that is rendering me absolutely breathless and meet Hannah’s eyes, which are tear-filled too.
I wrap my arms around Bristol and kiss the top of her head, wishing I could stay right here instead of getting on that damn plane. My eyes peer up over our daughter’s head to Hannah.
“I love you, too,” she mouths. It’s the final straw that ruins me. I nod and squeeze my eyes sh
ut hard.
This—my entire life—fits in two airport chairs and my arms. This is all I need.
I sniffle as Bristol pulls away, and I suck in a harsh breath to right my head so I can get on my flight and focus on the days ahead. I give one more look at my special drawing then fold it up and tuck it into the side pocket of my carry-on.
“I’ve gotta board,” I say, reaching forward so my fingers twine with Hannah’s as she stands.
“I know.” Her mouth is caught between smiling and sobbing, and it’s the perfect representation of how I feel right this second.
“Come here,” I say, tugging her toward me. I hold the side of her face and bring our mouths together, kissing her and sucking in her bottom lip, holding on to it because I like the way it trembles against me. My hand moves to the back of her head and our foreheads touch as my eyes close.
“I love you, too.” I drop a kiss on her forehead and turn, taking long strides toward the boarding zone. If I don’t go and go now, I won’t make it. My pull to stay home grows stronger with every breath.
I hold out my phone for the agent to scan my digital boarding pass and march through the gate down the jetway, not stopping until I reach the very end, right before I board the plane. I turn because I have to, because I need one more look before I go. Bristol is on her mom’s hip, and the two of them are waving. I hold up my hand and Bristol blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it and hold it against my chest. I keep it there for the duration of the flight.
* * *
From the moment I touch down in Dallas, the race becomes everything. This is the other reason I didn’t want Hannah and Bristol to be here. Race week is manic, my schedule filled with obligations to my sponsors and the press, plus qualifiers and practice laps. It’s overwhelming on its own, and if my girls were here, I would be too distracted to give them the attention they deserve.
There’s also a new element at this race, and it’s not my renewed passion for winning no matter the cost. This distraction comes in the form of a sleekly wrapped black and gold Toyota sponsored by Luka Oil. That company was a front for Alex’s father for years so I’ve done my homework. While he doesn’t own it anymore, the coincidence that a new driver, Quin Bastion, is on the circuit in a car tied, even loosely, to my nemesis is worthy of my attention. And my caution.
Tommy’s been keeping tabs on the kid’s results, and his times—they’re impressive.
“He’s a fluke,” my best friend says, obviously aware of what’s on my mind this morning. I’ve been thinking for days now about the hotshot twenty-two-year-old who seems to have come out of nowhere. It’s nearly all I think about.
“Probably. Yeah.” Tommy’s gotten used to my automatic response and rolls his eyes.
“Whatever, man. I can’t convince you so just lap him tomorrow and you’ll get over it.” Tommy empties the rest of the coffee from the hauler kitchen into his thermos and slides the empty pot across the table to me.
“Pots empty, rookie,” he teases on his way out.
“Fucker,” I mutter to myself. I get busy brewing a new pot, wondering if any of the drivers on the leader board have to brew their own coffee. I suppose I should thank my friend for keeping me humble.
There’s a rap on the hauler door while I’m dropping in the grounds, so I look over my shoulder and shout, “Come on in.” Dale pulls the door open and steps into the small space to join me. I invited him along for this race so he could get a better story. But I also need him as my safety net should something not go as planned. I thought this through my entire flight here, and I’ve lain awake the last two nights writing everything down and sealing it in this envelope. It might be stupid to gamble on a guy from the press to keep his word and act honorably, but I have a feeling about Dale. I think he’s a good guy, as in to his core.
“You said you had some info for me, for the story?”
I nod toward the small banquette by the door.
“Yeah, take a seat. Want some? I’m making it fresh.” I hold up the pot before pouring the water into the maker.
Dale chuckles and pulls a notebook from his back pocket, clicking his pen and scribbling something on a blank page.
“Dustin Bridges makes his own coffee.” He plops the period in place with a flourish and flips the notebook closed while I laugh.
“That’s a good lead. You should go with that,” I say.
His eyes squint and his mouth twists.
“Maybe I will,” he responds.
Once the brew is going, I hold up a finger and head to the lockers on the other end of the hauler where I’ve stashed my things. I reach inside my leather bag and pull out the yellow envelope that’s thick with details, all of them. I made a copy last night at the FedEx down the road. Poor teenaged worker had to help me. I can drive a half-mile loop at two-hundred miles per hour, but I can’t work a damn Xerox machine. I wanted the backup in case; I’ll give it to Tommy before the race. It feels morbid to have your demise penned out for posterity, but I can’t shake the feeling it’s also responsible to do so.
I walk back to the kitchen area and toss the envelope on the table in front of Dale.
“What’s this?” He lifts it and begins to pick at the seal.
“Ah ah. You cannot open that until the race is done. That’s the deal.”
He cocks his head, his finger frozen in place, nail dug under the seam while he reads my face, probably deciding how much of this is bullshit.
“It’s important,” I add.
After a few more seconds, he drops his intention of tearing into the thing and flattens it on the table under his hands.
“All right. But if I’m going to sit on this for nearly twenty-four hours, I want something in return.” His smirk is a dead giveaway.
I chuckle.
“I’ll have Douglas hook you up.”
Dale raises his hands and feigns crowd noise in response.
“Ladies and gentleman, meet the new number-one racing champion of the entire world, Dale . . . Hawkins. Hooooorahhhh.”
I level him with a deadpanned, flat-mouth gaze and slide a cup of coffee his direction.
“You’re making me regret letting you take a lap during my practice time. And that commentary? I’m pretty sure it’s for boxing.” I slip into the bench seat across from him with my cup and blow on the steamy top.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s my vision, dude. Let me have it. I write about driving for a living. Nobody’s ever let me actually do it out here before. Only on practice tracks.” He sips his steaming liquid and pulls out his notebook, ready to get to business.
“All right. Hit me with it,” I relent.
We go right into the biggest question of the week, the one he’s been prying me with for days: what are my thoughts on the new kid, and what’s my plan to handle him?
“Plan hasn’t changed a bit. When that checkered flag waves, I’m the one crossing the line under it. Nobody else.”
He holds my stare for a few seconds, his mouth caught between a smirk of amusement at my cocky attitude and one of sincerity, finally buying into my confidence—joining my team.
“Next,” I say, setting down my coffee and leaning back, hands behind my neck.
Dale shakes his head.
“Okay, then,” he responds, writing down my last answer verbatim. He scribbles every word, and I lean forward to point out the two missing words of my manifesto. Nobody else.
And I mean it.
21
My parents invited the Tingles over for the race. My dad went out and bought one of those projection screens and turned our living room into this massive theater. It’s been awhile since I watched Dustin’s race on something other than an app on my phone.
Bristol isn’t sure what’s going on but she’s gathered her stuffed animal collection, one that seems to be growing by the day thanks to my mom, and gave them all a place of honor on the ottoman right in front of the screen. Bailey, her parents, and my mom have taken up the couch, and I could join them, but I h
ave my place. Dad brought in two pop-up chairs from the garage, and I swear these are the same ones he and I sat in when I was a kid and Dustin was racing karts.
“You think these will hold us?” I joke, noting the dust shedding onto the floor when I open mine. Mom’s going to be pissed.
“Meh, they’ll be fine. I take them fishing every month.”
That explains the slight odor.
My dad places his chair next to mine, and the only thing missing when we take our seats is a pair of binoculars. There’s a slight weather delay, and while that’s something that freaks out a lot of racers, I’m kind of rooting for it; the Texas race director has been known to call wet starts. Having to endure an entire race on a slick track is not a stress I can handle today, and I’m only watching the race.
It wouldn’t bother Dustin. I know it. He always loved speeding in the rain. It’s the only thing he could do to make me nervous, spinning out for fun in some open lot or out on an empty road. Tommy told me Dustin’s gotten good at doing donuts in the snow and on ice too. I think I’ll pass.
“Looks like we’re a go,” my dad says, checking an alert on his phone. Virgil has been messaging every five minutes, and in between we’ve been getting updates from Dustin’s uncle.
I sit on my hands to keep myself from biting at my nails.
“Team Eat My Dust, isn’t that what you guys always said?” My dad nudges my arm and holds up his beer, toasting bold confidence. I force a smile.
“That’s us, all right. Team Eat My Dust.”
My dad drinks to it then sets down his bottle and rubs his hands together, ready to get things started. I look on and let my mouth drop into the concerned flat line I’ve been wearing all morning.
I’m actually less worried about Alex showing up at our front door than I am about Dustin coming in second, or worse. I want this for him. He needs to feel success and have it fostered by the good things in his life. Today is a massive test, but I’m not sure any of us are prepared. And while I’m not concerned about Alex showing up at my house, I am more than a little on edge about the new driver in today’s race who seems to have a connection to him.
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 17
