Wreck (Fuel Series Book 2)

by Ginger Scott

“Hannah,” I croak out her name. My eyes close as I spin us, tethered together. There is nobody I would rather experience this moment with, nobody who could possibly understand the gravity of it all the way she does.

  I’m not sure who moves first; perhaps we do it together. Whatever gave us permission, it happens equally and with abandon. My lips find hers; hers mine. A thousand days lost disappear in one kiss. Four years of suffering—of trying not to want and trying to forget—disappear in a single press of the flesh. Teeth graze familiar places on lips. Tongues remember how to caress. Hannah moans and I hold her tight.

  I did right by the life that made me. And now the universe is rewarding me by giving me back the love I lost. The one that matters. Hannah’s.

  This is more than a big break. It’s more than that call.

  This is the pivotal moment in my making. How I walk this path will dictate my future, and there is no way in hell I’m not coming away with it all.

  8

  What am I doing?

  I knew the minute I got in that car with Dustin that it would end up like this. If I’m honest with myself, I wanted it to. Every piece of me misses every piece of him. It’s been like this since he left, and I’ve tried to cut the feeling off. But Dustin has infected me. He’s in my blood, a poison and a cure.

  It would be so easy to give in completely. My inner voice, though, is somehow still loud enough to remind me why I can’t. When this chapter of his life is done, when the chapter on Colt is closed, he’s going to leave. It’s what he does. What he did. And now that everything he’s ever wanted is on the cusp of happening, he’ll have to.

  So while I hold his hand as we turn down my street, I’m overcome with the sense that I am a fraud, to him and to myself. I pretend nothing is wrong in my heart. And as good as it felt to be the one to hold him up and to celebrate with him, it is literally killing me right now, knowing none of this is real.

  It helps to find my parents leaning on Dustin’s rental car with their arms crossed as we pull into the driveway.

  “Why does it look like they want to ground you?” Dustin jokes.

  I unwind my hand from his and note the way his palm turns up, lost and wondering where I went. He must realize how temporary this all is.

  “Because they do. They hate that I’m an adult now and they can’t.” I unclick the seat belt and lean forward enough to see my parents in the side mirror. They haven’t moved, but damn, are they staring at me with fire in their eyes.

  “I’m pretty sure I’m the one they have a problem with,” Dustin says as he shifts to park and kills the engine. His eyes linger on the rearview mirror and a cold, distant frown takes over his mouth.

  “They don’t have a problem with you. Seeing you makes them feel terrible about who they are . . . how they treated you.”

  His eyes shift to me, and the temptation is there to take his hand again. I don’t. If I keep giving in, it will be harder to stop.

  “You get why I left, don’t you?”

  My muscles twitch at his question and I instantly fall into one of my many rehearsed reactions. Instead of being cold, this time I will be flippant.

  “Yeah, sure. I get it. It’s . . . fine. That was forever ago. It’s fine.”

  Fine.

  “Hannah—”

  Before he can launch into the root of our end, I climb out of the car and ready myself to face my parents instead. Somehow, in the moment, this feels easier. The truth is, no, I don’t get why he left. I mean, on the surface it makes sense. His dad was a danger and Dustin was a connection between me and his dad. But why he left the way he did, in the middle of the night without explanation? Without a word, or a note, or any form of contact for four long years? No—I don’t get that. And hearing him try to explain it will only rip open the wounds I worked so damn hard to close.

  My mom’s face is stern, a far cry from the tortured worry lines she usually wears on her forehead and around her mouth. I’ve learned the way to disarm her is to cut her off before she can get started.

  “It’s taken care of. Colt had his send off, so you can all quit worrying about that.” I want to remind them that while they’re in the midst of being angry with me over who knows what, I went to support someone they once treated like family deal with the death of his actual family member.

  “When were you going to tell me you gave a statement for a police report?” My mom flings a small stack of papers at my chest. They don’t make it all the way to my body and land at my feet. I recognize my signature on the bottom of my statement and let out a breathy laugh.

  “Um, when it’s your business. Which it isn’t, since I’m an adult, and I wasn’t the one getting a citation. I was only a witness.” I flutter my eyes as I speak, a tell that seems to accompany my lies. I wish I could break the habit.

  “Hannah, your mom is up for re-election. This is the kind of thing her opponent is going to climb all over. You know how his constituents feel about the drag-racing problem in this town,” my dad explains.

  Dustin spits out a laugh that he quickly stifles when my father’s glare moves to him.

  “Sorry,” Dustin says, holding up a hand.

  “I’m sure you are,” my dad grunts back. He paces toward the house and back again, his eyes hovering between the front door and the Supra, which he helped tinker with when the boys were in high school. His fingerprints are all over the racing scene in this town as much as Dustin’s are. So are mine and Tommy’s, for that matter. Hell, I’ve become a bit of a legend out there on Friday nights.

  “That’s not necessary.” Dustin’s response to my dad catches me off guard. It must needle at my father, too, because he pauses mid-step and jerks his head up until he’s staring Dustin in the eyes. He stomps close to him, his hands balled in fists at his side and his nostrils flaring.

  “What was that?” My dad’s head tilts and Dustin’s does the same. While my father’s mouth is a hard line, Dustin’s shifts into a soft smile. His eyes flit to me, and my hand twitches just from his look. It’s already becoming hard to let go.

  “I should leave.” Dustin reaches into his pocket, everything about him calm and not at all like the teenager he was before he fled this place. I wonder when his last fight was. He always respected my dad, but it didn’t stop him from talking back to him when he was provoked.

  He holds out the Supra keys and I wrap my hand around them while his grip lingers for an extra second. The ache in my chest grows, and when he relents and tucks his hands in his pockets, my hand is left hovering in the space between us.

  “Dustin, you don’t need to go,” my mom says, taking us all by surprise, Dad especially.

  “He doesn’t?” my father snarks.

  I crane my neck and glare at him, and though my dad tries to ignore my scornful expression, he sees it. Our eyes meet, a few times, and I hold steady with my gaze, not willing to let him off the hook.

  “No, Tom. He doesn’t. It’s been a hard day for him. For all of us. I’m just . . . stressed. That’s all. And the police report was a surprise. My assistant brought it over, and I’m just glad I saw it before they put a story in the paper.”

  “Wait, there’s a story coming out?” My heart is picking up speed. I don’t want to be a part of some controversy. Even though only seventy people read our local press, that’s seventy people I don’t want in my business.

  “They want to shut down the Straights. There’s a motion to install roundabouts every half mile.”

  This time, Dustin and I both spit out a laugh.

  “I’m sorry, but they can’t do that,” I protest.

  My mom’s easy-going façade tightens, and I can tell I’ve worked her up again.

  “Actually, we can. I’m part of the council, you know. It’s hard for me not to support this measure when some kid flipped his car there a few nights ago and is in a coma.”

  “What?” My eyes fly wide and I rush to pick up the police report from the ground. It’s only been a couple of days, less than forty-eig
ht hours, but from what I last heard, the kid was going to be fine. What changed?

  I scan the various notes and flip pages, noting additional information added to the report yesterday and again this morning. “Internal bleeding?” I shift to look at Dustin and hold the report out for him.

  “Don’t worry, they mentioned your heroics in there. I’m sure you’ll get a call from the reporter. Should be great for your image,” my dad says.

  Dustin doesn’t react to my father’s tone, and frankly, I’m impressed at how well he’s holding back. I don’t know what my dad’s deal is, but this has to be deeper than some overprotective fatherly bullshit.

  “They flew him to Phoenix yesterday?” Dustin glances up to get confirmation from my mom.

  “I believe so,” she responds.

  His fingers massage his forehead as he reads and I step to his side to follow along at his shoulder. Under his long sleeve is a bandaged arm, a dressing that probably needs to be changed again. Dustin’s heroics are the story. That’s what people should focus on. The council should name that road after him rather than plot to destroy its nature. But the powers that be in this town don’t get it. The Straights is a part of Camp Verde’s story. It’s a part of Dustin’s story. And one day, when people come from far and wide to see where the world’s greatest driver came from, they’re not going to be impressed with a bunch of well-landscaped roundabouts.

  My mom is worried about her legacy. Being the mayor of this town is what defines her, and I used to think it made her so special. I bragged to my classmates and reveled in the fact that when I was sixteen I got to drive to city hall to have lunch with her, in her very important office. Now I see how empty the title is. She wants to cling to this job because that’s what my grandfather did for thirty years. It’s a town without term limits, with a handful of families who have been here for decades, and a budget that has finally started to grow as the state gobbles up land and development looks northward. But what is a legacy if it’s not one that fights for things?

  “I’m going to go visit him today, in Phoenix. I’ll come back, though. I have an idea I’d like to run by you, but . . . I need to make some phone calls.” Dustin hands the papers back to my mom and meets her gaze as her mouth hangs open. He’s being vague, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes that seems to fill my mom with hope.

  “You should take the Supra,” I say, holding out the keys for him. He stares at them for a second, hesitating, so I jingle them emphatically. “Damn it, Dustin. The damn thing belongs to you anyway. Always has.”

  A smirk peels up the corner of his mouth and after another second or two, he gives in. While technically my dad pays the insurance and the tags, and the title is in his name, that car was merely being babysat at this house. I’m not stupid. The only reason my dad let me drive it was because it made me feel better after Dustin left.

  “I can fix this. All of it. I promise,” Dustin say, skipping backward toward the driver seat. I’m tempted to rush to the passenger side and ride off with him . . . again. But I can feel the unfinished business here, the conversations waiting to be had. The air is thick and vibrates to the same beat as my heart, pumping blood behind my ear drums.

  As soon as the Supra fires up, I turn to face my father. He’s usually not the one I have a problem with, so confronting him doesn’t come as naturally as it does my mom.

  “What happened?” It’s the only question I can think of starting with. It’s what comes out. My dad ignores it as I expect him to any other thing I asked, with a grumble and a wave of his hand.

  “Don’t do that,” I demand. I catch up to him as he marches toward our house and tug on his arm, jerking him around.

  “Hannah, now’s not the time,” he says.

  Vague, like Dustin.

  Mom scurries into the space between us, her palms out in front of her chest, motioning as if trying to calm sparring children.

  “Don’t defend him,” I shout to her. She drops her hands as her forehead divots. “Your behavior I can at least understand. You were afraid of your daughter dating a ‘bad boy’ and now you feel guilty for labeling him. But you!” I spin and poke my finger in the center of my dad’s chest. “You actually used to be the bad boy. I know about the cars you drove, the motorcycle, the fucking weed down by the river when you were in high school. And you loved Dustin. You would have done anything for him. And ever since we dated in high school, you’ve been so hot and cold. First you want to help him, then you want to block him out of our lives. You say you’re his lawyer, then you want to erase his existence and give away his car.”

  “Hannah, there are things you don’t understand.” Before my dad can pull out his lawyerly smooth talk, I counter him.

  “Oh, I’m aware, Dad! That biggest being the fact I can’t tell whether you love Dustin or hate him.” I step up on my toes and while my hands ache to push against my father’s chest, I keep them balled at my sides. We’re too close to look him in both eyes at once, so I shift my focus, left to right. My teeth grit, and I feel like that seventeen-year-old girl again, trying to force her parents to accept that she’s growing up and has a boyfriend. Only, I don’t have one.

  I’m too grown up to think anything with Dustin is easy. And I’m too scared he’ll hurt me again. It doesn’t mean I don’t love him, though. And it doesn’t mean I’m not proud. I believe in the man he’s become. I’m just terrified of being left wondering where he went and why.

  I swallow hard as my father’s jaw relaxes, his eyes falling. Shame, or perhaps guilt, settles in.

  “He got the call, by the way. Dustin Bridges is racing in the Series. In Phoenix. There was a time when you would have been in his corner. But don’t worry, Dad. I got this one on my own. Me and Tommy will cheer him on. Team Eat My Dust and all.”

  I shake my head and leave my dad stunned with the news. I caught the smile trying to break into his hard features before I turned my back to him. He might even be tearing up by now. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m sure he’ll be rooting against Dustin by dinner time. Seems to be what he does.

  Fickle motherfucker.

  9

  I have no clue whether I’ll be able to pull any of this off. But if there’s a shot—if I can fix things for Hannah, for the Judges, and maybe make something special while I’m at it—I have to try. Something that is mine, that I can leave behind, that will make me feel proud to come home, to tell people where I’m from.

  Something that isn’t about being Colt Bridge’s kid. A timeline beyond that trailer, and that pathetic bag of ashes I scattered on a dry river bottom because I literally have nowhere to call special when it comes to my dad.

  My heart kicks with excited energy at the potential brewing in my head. Building a real track in Camp Verde, a place for young people to train and forge memories, has always been a fantasy of mine. I would go there in my head when was little and things at home got bad. The old Carney Raceway, an abandoned structure and tumbleweed-filled oval on the outskirts of town limits, has been deserted since the sixties. In its prime, horses ran up there. Some of the most storied thoroughbreds in the history books pounded the dirt track at Carney on their way to triple crown glory. As modern tracks became more appealing, Carney was converted into a dog track. In the nineties, someone bought the property and attempted to pave it. They got halfway around before running out of money, and it’s been falling apart a little every year since.

  In my young mind, the place was magical. I envisioned grandstands filled with fans all chanting my name. Fuel-soaked air and a constant rumble of engines. Smaller tracks for kids on the inside, ringed by a banking roadway for the big boys. I could almost talk myself into believing it was real before Colt jarred me back to real life with a knuckle to my face or a jerk to my arm.

  Something clicked when Hannah’s mom talked about shutting down the Straights. It’s as though my fate and fortune aligned and I knew in my gut that this is the time. It’s a crazy plan, really. I hardly have a savings account, and
while I’ve made a pretty tight amateur name for myself, I’ve got a lot to prove. Hell, I could burn out in this first race and never get a shot again. That narrow window, though? Those odds? I thrive on that shit. And that’s why I have to try.

  Carney. That’s how we save what makes Camp Verde special. It’s how Hannah’s mom gets her legacy. And it’s how I build my dream. I’ll need Tommy’s help to make it work, but I’ll cross that bridge of begging once I get that far. Step one, before anything, is to make things right for Mrs. Judge.

  And for Hannah.

  That means making sure Kyle wakes up and that he’s taken care of completely. And, as heartless as it sounds, it also means ensuring he and his family don’t torch everyone who has ever raced out on the Straights as a way to get even. It’s part of the code one accepts when they burn rubber out there: racing is dangerous, but it’s never the road’s fault.

  I’ve missed the ease of cutting through traffic in the Supra. I’ve had a few cars come close to this feeling over the last four years, like the Honda I traded in for the last stock truck, but this car, my baby? It’s special. Maybe it has something to do with being my first. I lost my hundred-mile-per-hour virginity behind this wheel. I’m making better time than I expected, which means I have to get my thoughts in order and quick.

  About thirty minutes out from the medical center, I slip my phone from my pocket and put it on speaker in the passenger seat, pressing Virgil on speed dial. I figured he would answer quick. Today’s news is still fresh in both our veins, and being the overly organized type that he is, he probably wants to know if I’ve taken care of the nineteen bullet-point items he texted me the moment we hung up. I won’t let him know that I haven’t yet read his full text.

  “Dustin, thank God. I’m spinning in circles here. I don’t know what to do first.” I love how genuinely excited Virgil is for me. I will keep him on my team for as long as my ride lasts, shitty mechanic or not. I simply need his energy.