Shift

by Ginger Scott

  “Oh, uhm.” He pauses, his lips tight. He shoots a gaze to Tommy and I look to my brother as well.

  “Dude, I want no part of this decision.” My brother holds his hands up and wanders to the other side of Dustin’s car, kneeling down to look at the tires.

  I wait for Dustin to drop his gaze back to me; I sense his worry and hesitation in the tightness of his jaw.

  “Please?” I ask, drawing my hands to the center of his chest and bunching his shirt in my palms.

  “Oh, man. I mean, what’s one more round of ego-pounding with your dad, I guess,” he relents, and though it makes me a little sad to hear him put it that way, I’m glad he’s staying. It wouldn’t be a family dinner without Dustin at the table.

  Not wanting to spar with my dad too early, Dustin takes a step back to put distance between us when he catches a view of my dad’s truck making the turn down our street. I decide not to push things either and fall back a few steps so I’m standing closer to my brother than my boyfriend.

  My dad’s focus remains straight ahead as he navigates his way up the driveway, parking between our cars and the house. He takes extra time getting out of the truck, wrestling with his cooler in the passenger seat and sorting through something in his center console. When he’s out of distractions, he finally gets out of his vehicle. His shoulders lift and fall in a big exhale before he turns around. Unlike my mom, Dad doesn’t have the ability to fake his emotions. It’s clear from the stiff jawline and straight-lined mouth that he’s not looking forward to interacting with any of us. With the way I left this morning, I guess I’m the last person he really wants to see. But my dad has never been the type to ignore elephants in rooms. And that’s what Dustin and I are—one big-ass elephant.

  “Gentlemen,” my dad says, nodding in the general direction of Dustin.

  “Hannah.”

  That’s his greeting for me, along with a quick glance in my direction.

  “You, uh, staying for dinner?” My dad rubs the back of his neck as he asks, only flitting his focus up to Dustin once before bringing his attention back down to the driveway.

  “If that’s all right. I’d like to, Mr. Judge.”

  It kills me to hear Dustin sound so formal with my dad. He shouldn’t have to.

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s family dinner. I’m sure Amanda made plenty of roast. And there’s those mini potatoes you like, so . . .” My dad’s words are stilted. He’s clearly uncomfortable, and Dustin shoots me a quick glance, probably hoping for a life raft. I’m not sure what to say that won’t be mean or snarky.

  “You see the new treads?” Tommy finally pipes up, changing the subject to one the three of them are always comfortable with—cars.

  “An upgrade, huh?” my dad says, moving closer to the back passenger side. He gives it the preverbal kick then squats down to admire them closer. “You went with the Mickey Thompsons. Pretty sweet.”

  For a tiny slip, my dad is being genuine.

  “Yeah, I’m swapping out the front two tomorrow,” Dustin says, kicking the worn front tire near him.

  My dad stands, nodding and admiring the rubber. He pops his head up suddenly, meeting Dustin’s gaze, and there’s a shift in his mood. His brows draw in and his lips part but hang open, as if he’s carefully choosing his words.

  “Those aren’t cheap,” he finally settles on.

  My dad knows Dustin races for money. Hell, that’s part of the culture in this town, and my dad raced on the Straights back when he and Mom were in high school. But it’s never been big money out there, not the kind that can front Mickey Thompson radials.

  “Yeah, good thing someone taught me how to save,” Dustin says, his delivery convincing enough to appease my dad. For now.

  “Tommy could learn a thing or two about saving,” my dad teases, patting my brother’s chest as he turns. Tommy overexaggerates the impact, coughing as if his wind is knocked out.

  “I know how to save. I just know how to spend too,” my brother says, winking at me.

  “Yeah, how many cell phones have you busted? What is it, four? You’re good at spending on those,” my dad throws back at him.

  We follow my dad’s lead toward the house, and this walk that we’ve done so many times, all four of us tumbling into the kitchen after talking about car stuff while my mom has food ready for the table, suddenly feels strange. As normal as my dad pretends everything is, I’m very aware of how much it isn’t. I want to fast-forward to a time when my parents are good with me dating Dustin, when they see how wrong they were about everything, and when I can walk into my house proudly holding his hand, knowing they won’t stare at it as if it’s impending doom.

  Like they are now. At least, my mom is.

  I feel Dustin try to untether our fingers but I curl mine to urge him to stay with me, to hold my hand despite the judgement. Our time will come.

  A quick glance to the set table shows how little my mom was prepared for the additional guest, despite the fact we have set a place for Dustin for as long as I can remember.

  “Bailey, would you mind?” my mom says under her breath, handing a plate and a napkin wrapped with a set of silverware to my friend.

  “Oh, sure,” Bailey says, shrinking her head in between her shoulders. She makes eye contact with me as she rounds the table, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable by the way she doesn’t blink. Like, at all. I walk to the other side and take the plate from her.

  “I got it,” I say, purposely scooting the chair that is usually my mom’s seat to the side to make room for the one I’m about to add. I pull the spare chair from the closet and slide it between where I intend to sit and where my mom can choose to or not. I glance up as I arrange the silverware around the new setting and my mom looks away hurriedly when I catch her staring at me.

  “There. Perfect,” I say, clapping my hands together.

  Tommy snort laughs because he’s amused when I’m extra.

  Despite the rough start, when everyone is sitting at the table and shoveling my mom’s pot roast into their mouths, things actually start to feel normal. My mom amuses us all with stories about local politics, like the man who filled out forty-seven public comment cards and spent the entire council meeting reading excerpts from his science fiction novel that he’s been working on for twenty years to a captive audience funded by tax dollars. My dad complains about one of his land cases, but cuts himself off when he realizes Bailey’s father might become the lawyer for the other side. My brother dodges questions from my mom about when he’s going to commit to Northern New Mexico University, where he has a full ride waiting.

  I am on edge for his answer to that too, and I can tell Dustin is eager to say something to my brother about it. Tommy still doesn’t know that Dustin overheard him the night he admitted to having second thoughts about spending a year racing and putting off college. That’s, of course, a plan he never ran by my parents either. Funny thing is, I doubt my father would even flinch at the idea, and he’d be so supportive, he’d bring my mom around, too. Of course, all of that was before me and Dustin, and maybe that put a strain on all things in the future.

  By the time dinner is done and Bailey’s gone home, the five of us sit in our familiar places in the living room—Mom in her rocker, Dad in his recliner, and Tommy, Dustin and me piled on the couch. We keep with the routine, with Tommy in the middle, and it seems to keep the peace as we tune in the Diamondbacks game in time to watch them blow a four-run lead. I almost forgot things aren’t easy, but the evening reminds me, and when mom decides she’s tired and ready to head upstairs, the weight of expectation that Dustin now leave slams into my chest.

  “Right, well . . .” Dustin fumbles his words, slapping his hands on his knees then standing from the couch.

  “Just let him stay,” my brother says, waving his hand in my parents’ direction. It’s greeted with a steely, emotionless and silent response.

  “It’s fine, Tommy. I respect the rules of the house,” Dustin says. It stabs at my heart beca
use the rules have changed for him, and that’s because of me.

  “Thank you, Dustin,” my dad says, using his official voice. “Be sure you bring the Supra over when you get the other set on. Maybe we can take it out for some drifting, break ’em in right.”

  Dustin flashes a short-lived smile on one side of his mouth.

  “Sure, Mr. Judge.”

  Everyone exchanges these strange, stilted nods that seem to ink a silent agreement that it’s time for Dustin to go. I slip from the couch and take his hand in mine, tugging him toward the door.

  “I’m going to walk him out,” I say.

  My mom makes brief eye contact with me then fakes a yawn. I can tell by the way she hovers her hand over her mouth to accentuate it. It’s barely eight-thirty. She’ll be up reading until eleven.

  “Come inside soon,” she orders over her shoulder. Sure, her voice is syrupy sweet, but it also isn’t the real her. I don’t bother to respond, and instead salute my father, earning me a scowl before I head out the door to the driveway.

  “Why did you have to throw that in,” Dustin sighs when the door is closed behind us.

  “I couldn’t help it. Besides, a salute is a show of respect,” I reply.

  He huffs out a laugh.

  “Yeah, I’m sure you were being real respectful just then.”

  I wrap my arms around his bicep and rest my head on his arm as we walk to his car. His lights flash as he unlocks the car with his fob and pulls his door open, sinking inside with his legs out the door. His fingers dance along the tips of mine as I stand between his feet, not even close to ready to go back inside.

  “How about we just camp out here in your car?” I lift my eyebrows, sadly hoping he’ll like my idea. I relent at how desperate it is when he chuckles.

  “I am pretty sure any time I spend with you alone when the moon is out is going to earn me very few brownie points,” he says through a laugh. “But . . .” He holds up his palm when he senses I’m about to argue. “I don’t really like brownies, so I’m willing to lose a few along the way.”

  He tugs me down to his lap, turning me so my back rests on his seat and my knees draw in so I’m curled in his lap. His arms circle me as his nose playful brushes against mine a few times before his gaze falls to my mouth. My lips buzz with anticipation in the few breaths before his mouth covers mine. I don’t think I will ever tire of the way Dustin kisses. He’s attentive, passionate yet tender, rough and soft all at once. His teeth nip at my upper lip and a slight growl vibrates in his chest as I wiggle against his lap, feeling how hard he is against my thigh.

  “Careful, Hannah. I don’t have many brownies to spare,” he says, breaking our kiss, his hand on the middle of my thigh.

  “Don’t you, though?” I tease, shifting my knees apart just enough to encourage his hand to slide toward my inner thigh. He holds my heated stare with one of his own, giving in to temptation after a few heavy, shared breaths.

  “This is a bad idea,” he hums as I move my forehead to rest on his. My eyelashes flutter, my core swollen and ready to fall apart just from the idea that he may let his hand travel a little farther.

  “I’m full of bad ideas,” I say, parting my knees a little more. Just enough.

  Dustin’s hand trails up the inside of my leg, under the ripped hem of my denim shorts to the very wet strip of cotton between my legs. His fingers run along the center, stroking my swollen skin underneath and I sigh, letting my eyes close and my mouth fall to his ear.

  “Touch me, Dustin. So I can sleep tonight,” I beg.

  His chest fills with a long draw of air, his hand still sticking to this line he’s drawn, that somehow the thin layer of my panties makes what he’s doing chaste.

  I bite at his earlobe, holding it between my teeth as a whimpered breath escapes my lips. That tiny sound seems to be enough to break his self-imposed rules, and in a breath, my panties are tugged to the side and his finger sinks into me, the entry sharp and sweet.

  I clutch him, gripping his shoulders and tasting his neck with my tongue as he presses against my insides. His mouth moves to the curve of my shoulder and his teeth graze along my skin as his finger slides out then back in, picking up a slow rhythm that urges my hips to roll against it. I moan, careful to keep it quiet enough that it’s only a performance for him.

  My hand slides down the tight space between us, down the center of his black T-shirt and against his stomach muscles until I find the snap of his jeans and tug them open. Dustin’s breath and movements halt, and he draws back slowly, gaining a few inches between us so his gaze can meet mine.

  “Hannah,” he says, shaking his head.

  I mouth the word please, and a fire burns behind his eyes as they flare wide, just for a beat. I move my hand lower, dragging his zipper down, then slip my hand inside until I’m met with the warm hardness of him underneath his boxers. His groan is unmistakable this time, and he’s unable to keep his eyes open.

  Running my hand along his length through the soft cotton, I feel him flex under my touch, and his hand moves again between my legs. With every pass of my touch along him, he reciprocates, and when I slide my hand under the band of his boxers, touching his bare, hot skin, his touch on me grows in a satisfying force. He presses into me with his thumb as his finger slips in and out, and I run my hand along his length, using his breath—or lack thereof—as my guide to let me know if I’m doing it right. My body surges with a rush of tingles and spasms as his finger slips out a final time and he rubs small circles along my swollen center. And just when I feel I may not be able to take the intensity much longer, my breath halts and every nerve ending that makes me fires at once. I bite at Dustin’s shoulder, muffling my heavy breathing and desire to moan as his cock flexes in my palm, followed by a pulse and the warm, wet proof of his orgasm.

  Several seconds pass as we hold each other, our hands still touching our most private parts, our bodies damp with sweat.

  “Holy fuck,” Dustin finally says, and his blunt, adorable compliment draws a slightly embarrassed laugh from me.

  I recoil my fingers from him and close my hand into a fist, both proud that I was able to make him feel as amazing as he did me and embarrassed that this boy I’ve known my entire life has now done things with me—to me! We did things to each other.

  “I should probably get off your lap and maybe get inside before my dad murders you,” I say, burying my hot cheeks in his chest.

  Dustin wraps an arm around my head and kisses the top of it.

  “I would very much like to remain alive, so we can continue doing things like this,” he says, and I giggle and squeeze my eyes shut harder. I can’t believe Dustin Bridges has now seen and touched so much of me.

  I bite my lip as I slide from his hold, my face burning again when I see the tip of his dick poking out of the top of his boxers, his jeans still unzipped and open. He must notice my blush because he links his fingers with mine before I can completely slip away and he tugs me close for one more kiss.

  “Hey, don’t be embarrassed,” he says, sweeping a few stray hairs from my face before dropping a soft kiss on my nose and then my mouth. He leaves his hand under my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

  “When you feel like we do about each other, physical expression isn’t something dirty or to be ashamed of. I want to admire every beautiful curve of your body, inside and out, Hannah Judge.” He ends his words, lips parted, and I hold my breath waiting for more—waiting for him to say the L word. He practically did, and I know it’s not a term he’s familiar with. After a few seconds pass, I accept that feelings is as close as I’m going to get from him for now, and it’s enough.

  Body buzzing, I step into him one last time, pressing my lips to his, tasting his tongue, and memorizing his scent.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dustin Bridges,” I say, before stepping away from his door and wishing him good night.

  22

  I’m drunk on Hannah. All of my blood has been drained and replaced with
her essence. She owns me completely, and the more time we spend together—just us—the more I realize she always has.

  I trust her. I give her my entire heart, completely. I never thought I would find anyone who wanted it as wholly and completely as she does.

  Hannah.

  Just Hannah.

  I can’t stop smiling, and I don’t even feel the itch to speed down the dark, empty highway as I head home. I’ll sleep in my car tonight, happily, and I’ll find a way to make things right with her parents, to show them I’m worth their daughter’s love and attention. I’ll be her advocate, her pillar—her motherfucking hero.

  By the time I pull off the main highway and onto the hidden side road that leads to my trailer, my body is teeming with energy and my heart beats with a will to fight for this. As much as I love the thrill of racing, that’s how it is with Hannah. I love her more.

  I love her.

  I love her, I love her, I love her.

  “I love you,” I practice saying out loud, laughing at the ridiculous way I must look and sound. God, if anyone were able to see or hear me now, they’d see a young man so absolutely whipped and owned.

  I’m dizzy with her memory, the smell of her—of us and what we did—still clinging to my body. It drives me wild, fills my head with dirty thoughts and my own mental slideshow of how she looked shirtless and lying on top of Tommy’s car, how her legs parted in my lap, how her voice broke with pleasure in my ear.

  The fantasy takes over so much of my mind that I don’t register what I’m looking at for the first several minutes I sit, engine off, in the gravel driveway of my parents’ trailer. The front door is askew, the top hinges ripped away from the frame, a direct line of sight to the inside of my family’s home staring me in the face.

  I blink.

  My pulse picks up, the drumming in my chest so hard its reverb takes over my muscle control. I snap out of my daze enough to check my mirrors and sink down in my seat, aware that anyone could be outside watching, waiting for me—for Colt. This is extreme damage, even for him. He’s not strong enough to cause destruction like this on his own, even in a fit of rage. The porch light is smashed, which makes the stream of light slipping through the open gaps in the doorway that much brighter. It’s a yellow-tone, probably my mom’s lamp.