Dustin said Alex’s dad no longer owns that company, but I had Bailey help me run a few searches through the public records, and their family name shows up in a lot of important places, including a board position that one of them filled three years ago. If Dustin loses to a plant Alex put there to spite him, I think that would be worse than every threat and loss he’s endured while being held under that mad man’s thumb.
“Pace car’s on,” my dad says, bringing me out of my head and into the present.
I lean forward, feet together and on the floor, hands under my thighs, and I scan the screen for the Nine car. Bristol finds it first.
“Right there! Right there!” She runs up to the screen, knocking over a few of her furry friends on the way, and points her finger to the Miller Trucking car swerving about six cars back.
“Good job!” my mom says, calling Bristol back. She leaps onto the ottoman, wrapping her arms around some of her animal toys, and brings a handful to my mom before sinking into her lap.
“It’s a lot like boxing, this part,” my dad says, leaning to the side. He’s trying to calm me, like when I was a kid.
“I remember. You always said the pace lap is how you get your feel for things, an early negotiation for position.”
“That’s right. See how smooth he looks?” My dad grins at the screen. I think he would be at the racetrack today if it weren’t for me and Bristol. Dustin asked him to stay behind, wanting someone here to stand between us and whatever threat—real or imagined—might manifest.
“They always looked like bees to me during this part. They buzz around that circle, jerky moves while they try to find the grooves in the track.” It’s the one thing I miss about the kart days—no pace cars.
“I can see that. But in the midst of those bees is one smooth-ass butterfly,” my dad says.
I chuckle at him.
“All right, Ali. I see you.”
Dustin’s on the last turn now, still locked in the tight spot between last week’s winner and Lamont, a perennial favorite in Texas. The new kid is in the back of the pack, but I don’t let myself take too much comfort in that. Position doesn’t matter after twenty laps.
The cars are up to about eighty now, and the pace car is getting ready to peel off. The clouds seem to be opening up, a hint of sunlight and blue sky poking through the blanket of gray, and with one dip into pit row by the world’s most powerful Ford Focus, the drivers are cut loose, and those bees? They begin to roam wild.
“He’s already moved up. Atta boy!” My dad stands from his chair, fist in the air, to pace around the room. Honestly, I’m not sure why he even bothered to bring both chairs in here.
Bristol raises her hands like my father did, and she keeps an eye on him as he moves around the room. I fall into my usual habit, or at least the one I picked up when I started watching Dustin race when I was in Omaha. I lean with every turn, imagining I’m in the car with him, watching his hand work, his foot heavy on the gas. He’s a master at matching the speed to the RPMs, slipping the gears up and down with the smoothest strokes.
Ten laps in, and Dustin has settled himself into sixth place, a comfortable cushion for him. He likes the chase, and he’ll need it when he nears those middle laps. That’s the great equalizer, my dad says. The endurance part of a two-hundred lap race is what separates winners and losers. It becomes about managing the car, negotiating distance remaining with the need to get there. It comes down to Douglas and Tommy, and Dustin’s willingness to listen to them.
My dad takes a seat on the floor near Bailey’s parents for a while and explains the intricacies of race strategy. Bailey’s mom does not seem interested, but her dad? He’s hooked. He’s a shrewd man, and this sport is all about calculations. It’s nice to see him and my father bond over something. Maybe, if Bailey’s lucky, they’ll find a good rhythm to get along well for the wedding.
“Psst!” I nag at my friend. She glances over the back of the couch and I nod to my father’s abandoned seat. She offers my dad her place and joins me in the back.
“How long before our moms bail, you think?”
We both laugh, but no sooner does she suggest that than her mom is talking my mom into moving into the kitchen to look at wedding magazines.
“About that long,” I joke.
Bristol goes back to arranging her stuffed animals, and I take advantage of the lull in the race to catch up with my friend.
“Did you pick a dress?”
She grins and pulls out her phone.
“It’s down to two.” She slides through a few pictures for me but there’s one she pauses on a little longer than the others. It’s simple, with beaded straps that crisscross in the back over a scooped open section that rests at the small of the back.
“That one’s elegant,” I say, giving her that nudge.
“It is,” she coos, pulling the phone into both of her palms and admiring it. “I think it’s the winner.”
“Me, too.”
I can’t believe my friend is getting married. To my brother. There was a time in my life when I wished for this so Bailey and I could be actual sisters, but I never thought much about the part that she’d have to kiss Tommy to make that happen. Now, though? It seems natural that the two of them are one.
“I’m so happy for you,” I say.
She reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it.
“You still have to wear the ugly green dress.”
I laugh.
“I couldn’t imagine a ceremony where I wore anything else. Now . . . let’s talk bachelorette party.”
My friend’s eyes light up and she swivels her head to check on our mothers, two women who would not approve of the kind of party I’m thinking we need to throw.
“I’m going to cross Vegas off the list if that’s okay,” I whisper.
She turns her head back to me and nods in agreement.
“Have you heard anything from . . . him?” She means Alex.
I shake my head.
“Not since the note.”
I asked Jorge if he’d seen anyone or heard anything since he’d been home, and he said it was incredibly quiet. I asked him to tell me if he got anything suspicious in the mail, but I think if Alex is to provoke us again, it’ll be in person.
“He doesn’t have a reason to bother you, I guess. As long as he gets what he wants.” Bailey says almost the exact same words I told Dustin, and I probably feel as reassured as he did when I said them.
“Until Dustin wins.”
Her eyes grow serious. It isn’t a secret. Dustin told us all that he’s done being Alex’s bitch. Actually, that’s how Tommy put it. Dustin simply said he was done losing.
“No matter what, it’s all going to be okay.” My friend squeezes my hand again, and I suck the positivity from her body into mine, hoping it will last me for the next two hours.
I won’t leave this spot, but I don’t need to stare at the screen and analyze everything. That’s what my dad is here for, and apparently Bailey’s too. Instead of falling down the rabbit hole of worry, I build an idea folder on my phone for Bailey’s shower. She mentioned wanting to make the wedding a destination, but I think the parties should all be here where we can maximize the invites—aka the presents.
After an hour and a half, I’ve assembled the perfect balance that she seems to be on board with. A very tasteful brunch at a nearby winery for the shower, and a rodeo showdown up in Cave Creek with the girls for her bachelorette. The cowboys who ride the bull up there are real, and they are, well, often shirtless. Just wild enough for us but something we can probably get her mom to attend.
“Oooooh!” Both Bailey’s dad and mine are standing in front of the screen, hands on their head, blown away by Dustin’s latest move. I tuck my hands back under my thighs and give my full attention to the race now that twenty laps are left and Dustin has wrangled his way into third. The only way for him to come in eighth is to blow a tire at the last minute, giving five other cars time to edge in front o
f him before he crosses the line on rims.
“Alex has to know by now,” I say quietly, words meant for myself but that come out loud enough for Bailey to hear.
“It’s going to be okay,” she reassures.
I shift my weight, pushing my palms further under my body. I don’t bother nodding in agreement. I can’t lie about my uneasiness.
With fifteen to go, Dustin manages to slip into second, and there’s less than a car length between him and the leader. Unfortunately, the new kid—Quin—is only two cars behind him. With every move Dustin’s made, Quin’s made two, sometimes three. He had to pass most of the pack, and somehow, he did. He can’t be the novice everyone says he is. He just can’t.
At ten to go, Quin’s found a way into third, and I draw in a deep breath, one I can hold a lap at a time. This is where things get ugly. This is when Dustin usually goes black, where in the past he blocks out everything else and sees only the race, the competition—his target. Part of me hopes he’ll dig for that rage again now, not because I want him to give up on his pledge but because I’m afraid his new approach won’t be enough. I don’t want him to fail. I never want him to fail again. He’s had enough of that, and he’s earned this. He deserves it.
My dad turns the volume up so we can feel the anticipation live through the commentary and the hum of the crowd. Two hundred thousand people all pulling for one driver—my driver. Dustin’s the crowd favorite. He has been from Day One. He’s an everyman, and most people know his story. It’s been covered before, though not to the extent that Dale guy seems ready to write.
It’s hard not to root for the underdog, and even though Dustin’s God-given talent is undeniable, life’s always piled the odds against him.
But not today.
“Go! Go! Go!” My dad punches the air, and soon, Bailey’s dad joins him.
I squeeze my knees together and will away the tightness in my stomach as Dustin punches it on the back straightaway, the turn coming closer and eventually, too close. He has to fall back. Or . . . he should. But that’s not what he does. Instead of giving the lane, Dustin stays high, working twice as hard—putting his car through the bigger test—until he breaks out of the curve and is somehow in fucking first!
“Go!” I stand and shout too.
Bailey laughs nervously behind me, and Bristol races in from the kitchen where she’s been frosting cookies with my mom. She jumps on the ottoman and my mom and Bailey’s rejoin us in the living room.
My feet grind at the floor as if I’m pressing the gas right along with him. Every lap he completes is one less he needs to win—needs to hold.
We’re down to four when Quin makes his move and is in second. Dustin still has a car length on him, but my paranoia has me seeing Quin gaining on him.
I hold my balled fist to my mouth as we get to three, and at two, when their cars are neck and neck, I hold my breath and pray. It’s selfish to ask for Dustin to win, but it’s what I say in my head. I ask for any help that can be offered, for something good to come his way. I ask for him to come in first.
And then Quin clips the back of Dustin’s car, sending them both spinning out. The Miller Trucking car slams into the wall and flips twice. There’s smoke. A blur of color as the car spins, pieces flying in all directions, skipping along the track and up into the stands. The announcers gasp and the crowd screams. Sirens blare and a flurry of people in uniforms—emergency personnel—rush the track. It’s controlled chaos, and the response massive. Every single person seems to be heading toward Dustin’s car. So many people running to him. Except me, because I am here, pinned to the floor, my heart beating erratically.
“No,” I utter against my hand. My knees grow weak and I falter.
My dad steps closer to the screen, but he’s blocking my view so I wave at him.
“No, no, no, no . . .”
Bristol turns around and my eyes meet hers. I’m too scared to fake a smile. I can’t protect her from my terror. And that’s what this is—terror.
“Mommy?”
“Come here, baby,” I utter, opening my arms to her. She runs to me and slams into my gut. I hold her tight, tucking her face against my body so she can’t see anything—not the screen, not me.
“Virgil, talk to me,” my dad says, walking out of the room, phone pressed to his ear. I’m torn between following him and staying right here so I can watch them pull Dustin from the car live.
“I see Tommy,” Bailey shouts. She cups her hands over her mouth and stares at the screen without blinking. And from that point on, everything in my world moves at zero beats per second.
22
Twenty hours later
Massive swelling in his brain.
There are a lot of other medical terms floated around, but they’re the only words that make any sense. The only thing that matters. Dustin is in an induced coma because of massive swelling in his brain.
His ribs are cracked. Broke? Busted? Does it matter?
Lots of deep bruising. No burns, and his neck and spine checked out.
But his head—it’s in danger. His beautiful mind, our beautiful life—our future—is at risk. All because some asshole who drove a car for Alex fucking Offerman decided to take Dustin out.
There’s no proof. I know it in my gut, though. Dustin knows it. Wherever he is in his dreams? He’s screaming it.
I’m so tired of this hospital. I’ve been here for eight hours and I’m already sick of it. Bailey’s father was able to call in a favor from a client who flew us in on his private jet. I know Dustin wanted us to go to the cabin, but that was part of a different plan. Plans change.
My mom and Bailey and Bristol went along with Bailey’s parents. The people we care about are safe, but I need to be here. My dad needs to be here. Dustin needs us, to hear our voices. My brother needs us to anchor him to Earth.
Tommy told them I was Dustin’s wife. For some reason, his lie broke me and I started crying in the middle of the waiting area. Panic and shock had been holding me together, but the thought of only getting to pretend to be Mrs. Dustin Bridges is the thing that tore me in two.
It took me an hour to pull myself together. Now, I’m a circling lioness waiting to see my king. Every new hospital staffer who passes through those doors gets the brunt of my anxiety. I’m close to ripping one of their badges from their chest so I can race through those doors and shout Dustin’s name until I find his room.
Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that.
“Mrs. Bridges?” The doctor who said the words swelling in his brain calls my name. I bolt from my miserable chair and take several steps toward her.
“We’ve got him in his room now. You can come back, but only you.”
I nod.
“I understand.” I turn to my dad and he shoots a warning gaze my way. He’s willing me to stay strong, and I nod, knowing I’ll break that promise the moment I get into Dustin’s room.
“Come back out when you can. Keep us posted?” Tommy asks. He takes a seat next to Virgil and kicks his feet up on one of the tables, probably in an attempt to take a nap. I don’t think my brother has slept in nearly forty-eight hours.
Dustin’s Uncle Jeff is already asleep in the opposite corner, and I think if he were awake they’d probably let him in the room too, given that he’s family. The irony is that neither of us are in reality. But reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s a formality.
I follow the doctor through the doors and she guides me into a room at the far end of the hall. He’s in here alone, though there’s a second bed buried behind a curtain. It’s the ICU, and the echo of beeping coming from every room around us penetrates my ears. Dustin’s own machines blend right in.
“Thank you,” I say, dragging the chair to his bedside as the doctor writes a few vital statistics on a white board by the door.
“If you need to come and go, there’s a pass for that. I’ll have the nurse bring one in. Only you.”
“I understand,” I say.
&n
bsp; I wouldn’t let anyone take this time from me. I’m too greedy. I have to be here for him, to hold him close until his head is ready.
Swelling in the brain.
I wait until the doctor leaves. It’s hard to act crazy and heartbroken in front of people, and I’m about to do a lot of both. The tears come the moment the door closes behind her.
“You know I hate this crying business, you big jerk face.” I laugh through my tears and wrap my hands around his. His body is warm, but his hand is lifeless. It’s such a strange paradox.
I rest my head at his side and press my cheek to the back of his hand, counting the beeps. His rhythm is steady—strong.
“Your heart is fine.”
Mine isn’t.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his car spinning. I replay the moment of impact again and again. The hate I have for Quin Bastion is massive. He walked away unscathed, pulled from his car by his team, and is probably already in Vegas toasting with his asshole boss.
I want to kill him.
I actually want to kill him.
I’ve let myself visualize the slow drain of life from his face while my fingers dig into his throat and cut off his airflow. It’s sick that I’ve let myself feel relief in such dark thoughts, but I have. I go back to the same fantasy every time I feel like throwing up. If it means I’ve become a monster, then so be it. Alex Offerman made me one.
“Bristol thinks you’re getting Band-Aids,” I say in a low voice at his ear. I want to run my fingers through his hair, but I’m too nervous to touch anything near his head.
“I didn’t want her to be afraid. She understands Band-Aids.”
My eyes inspect his body. Every beep on the machine coordinates with something else happening to him—his heart beating, his lungs inflating. Everyone has told us that the signs are good for a full recovery, that his swelling is moving in the right direction. All I can contemplate is what that means for him a year from now. What is Dustin Bridges without his race? Will Bristol and I be enough?
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 18
