One night is all it took. One night and my body no longer remembers how to function without Dustin making it feel alive. I want his teeth on my breasts, his fingers on my thighs, his mouth on my cunt, and his cock ready to drive into me.
This can’t last.
We both know it was probably poor judgement to give in so wholly, but I don’t know that we ever stood a chance. The chemistry between us has always walked the fine line of lethal. The temptation of sex between us pulls harder than heroin; it fuels an addiction that can only be felt by the two of us, and only by each other.
Dustin is my other half. He’s my good side, my bad side, my every side. I realize the trance I’ve been walking around in without him, but I’m not disillusioned. What we had can’t compare to what we need to become. We have to be stronger, for each other. Our faith can no longer be rocked. And my first test is staring me in the face in the form of a social media nightmare right now.
UP-AND-COMING CIRCUIT DRIVER FINALLY SETTLING DOWN? SEXY MAN DUSTIN BRIDGES SEEN IN LA LAST MONTH WITH MYSTERY BLONDE
She isn’t a mystery. I saw her less than a week ago. They were supposed to have brunch. Dustin explained their relationship. It’s a non-relationship. I know this in my gut. I know it in my head. But why is my heart aching?
“This holds no candle to your mom’s leftovers, but . . . my best French toast and half a glass of orange juice because that’s all that was left in the fridge,” Dustin announces as he carries a small tray to serve me breakfast in bed.
I sit up and work the smile back on my face, pretending it never left. But I’m a bad actress, and I did a poor job of tossing my phone to the side before Dustin got up here and slid the tray on my lap. He’s reading the post upside down while I pick at my toast with a fork. I have zero time to convince myself it doesn’t bother me.
His gaze leaves my phone as I take a bite, so I shrug and don’t bother grinning as I chew. Reading that sucked, even if there’s zero truth to it. Which I have to believe. I have to believe Dustin, for us.
“That’s Chelsea they’re talking about,” he begins.
I nod and mumble with a full mouth, sheets pulled around my body and knotted at my chest.
“I remember. She’s very pretty.” A sloppy smile results in crumbs but my nerves make me dive in for another bite. Best to keep eating.
Dustin plops down on the bed next to me and tosses my phone out of reach. I follow it with my eyes while my cheeks puff out from too much food stuffed in my mouth.
“Hannah?”
I shift my wide gaze to him.
“Uh huh?” I hum between chews.
He takes a napkin from the tray and dabs at the corner of my mouth as I swallow then pulls the fork from my hand. I puff out a short pouty breath and lift one side of my mouth.
“That post was your brother’s idea. He thought it was a good idea for me to look tied to someone else.”
I nod, vaguely remembering that subject coming up during our mad brainstorm session for throwing Alex off.
“Tommy’s super smart,” I say. My fake enthusiasm seems to amuse Dustin, and his mouth puckers, trying to hold in laughter.
“What? It was a good idea. I’m totally fine with it. Not jealous at all,” I keep going, and his hold slips even more.
“Nope, not me. In fact, why don’t you drop me off at the bus stop and jet on over to Chelsea’s for another photo shoot?” I contort my face while I take my joke too far, and even though I’m playing up the fact I’m not jealous, the root of the matter is, I am.
“Hannah Banana. Do I need to remind you what we did last night?” He scoots the food tray to the side to crawl over me, forcing me on my back. I giggle nervously.
“Maybe,” I say, blushing. That jealous knot is still there, but it’s quickly vaporizing.
“It started here,” he says, nuzzling my neck and dropping a kiss at the base of my throat.
“And then there was this,” he continues, wrapping my arms in his grip and holding them against the bed above my head as he trails his kisses lower. He pushes the sheets down with his chin, exposing my breasts, and passes his tongue over my instantly hard nipple. He peers up at me as he blows it to a cool pebble.
“These were definitely involved.”
I gasp at the ache. Somehow, my center pulses again, willing to take more of him.
“And then—”
He’s sliding the sheet out from between us when a harsh knocking sound pummels against his door. He freezes and my pulse races to a thousand beats per minute.
“Stay up here. Do not move. And have your phone ready.”
He doesn’t have to tell me why. I know. If that’s Alex or one of his guys at the door, I need to call the police.
Dustin grabs a T-shirt from his floor and puts it on before sliding his bare feet into a pair of running shoes. I sit up on my knees and pull on my clothes quickly as he flies down the stairs, taking them two at a time as the pounding rattles the door again. Dustin pauses by the kitchen and reaches into one of the drawers, pulling out a gun that he shoves into the back of his jeans. My body pours sweat. Guns aren’t a new part of Dustin’s life. His dad had them around constantly and even pulled one on Dustin a few times when he was drunk. I can’t help but worry that this moment might require Dustin to use one on his own. How did our lives get to this point?
I bring my phone to my chest, the call screen already primed to dial nine-one-one. Dustin looks over his shoulder, his eyes piercing mine as he nods. He won’t let anyone near me. He’ll die first. That’s what that look says, and while I know he means for it to give me comfort, it only drives me more mad with panic and fear. I can’t lose him. He can’t die.
He steps up to the door and peers through the hole, his body rigid as he looks out to see who it is. He rocks in place, and his hand stretches to his back, feeling for his gun before falling limp to his side. His feet stumble backward a few steps and his shoulders sag just before his hands move to the top of his head.
“What the fuck?” His voice is clear. His anger obvious.
“Is it him?” I ask, fairly sure by the instant shift in Dustin’s mood that whomever is on the other side of that door isn’t a threat as much as they are unwelcome.
He turns in place, hands still threaded together over his head, his jaw slack and mouth frowning in what looks like exasperation.
“It’s Trisha,” he says.
I fall back on my ass and hug my phone. It takes my mind a second to decipher that name. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it, thought it even. It’s been that long for Dustin, too, other than the emotional baggage he’s had to work through in terms of his fake mother.
She pounds on the door again, her knock manic, the kind a desperate creature delivers. My eyes hold Dustin’s gaze as he shakes his head. He doesn’t want to do this. He finally found his real mom, and Alysha is everything he hoped she would be. Alysha is forward. Trisha is backward. She’s the past, one meant to be left where it ended. Sure, it turns out she had some form of heart in that empty cavern of hers and did leave Dustin a connection to Alysha. She drove him to a drive-in movie once when he was four and let him see her. And then she took him back to a trailer riddled with smoke stains and meth and let Colt beat him senseless.
She’s no hero. She’s a junkie looking for a fix. It doesn’t matter what costume she’s wearing on the other side of that door. We know who she is inside. Some forgiveness doesn’t deserve to be earned.
I slip into one of Dustin’s sweatshirts to stave off the cold before padding down the stairs to his side. I hand him my phone and place my palm on his chest before looking him square in his wild, lost eyes.
“I got this.”
I turn to the door and slip it open enough that I can step outside but keep Dustin hidden behind it.
“Can I help you?” I doubt she’ll recognize me. She barely did when she saw us as teenagers. Even when she worked at the gas station convenience store I think she was high most of the time. Dustin
said he found out the only reason she was there was to pass money to people for Colt so they didn’t have to come far off the highway. She wasn’t so much a wife as she was a middleman. About as much as she was a mother.
Trisha looks up to the numbers above the door, confused probably that a woman is answering and not her estranged fake son.
Her body is thin, arms nearly bones and skin blotched from drug abuse and years of alcohol and smoke. Her dirty-blonde hair needs a trim, and a shampoo, but it’s clear she’s trying to present herself as more than she really is deep down. She’s wearing a dated business suit, a white blouse with ruffles that puff out between the lapels of her black jacket. The pants pucker around a red belt she’s cinched tight to keep them on her frail hips. Her shoes are black leather, shiny with tiny silver buckles on the toes. She’s dressed for a job interview.
“I was looking for Dustin? Does he live here?” She doesn’t remember me. I figured.
“No.” The lie comes easy. I hope Dustin is smiling behind me, behind the safety of this door.
“Oh, I must have gotten the wrong . . .” She struggles to pull open the purse tucked under her arm and slung around her shoulder. She rummages through papers, pulling out a half-smoked pack of cigarettes and random one-dollar bills, all crumpled. “Here it is,” she announces, handing me a small paper with terrible handwriting on it.
I work to read the near illegible scratches and match the numbers to the one above my head. I hand it back to her.
“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.” I grow firmer in my position between her and the boy she fed to the wolves. Her face twitches with panic, or maybe withdrawal. It’s hard to tell with her.
“Oh. All right. I just . . . I need to find him. He’s my son, and it’s been awhile.”
“Well, I don’t know him. He isn’t here.” I lift my shoulders and smile with tight lips. I will never give him up to her. I’ll carry this lie to my grave. She shoves the paper back into her purse along with the cigarettes, then takes a step back, opening more space between us as her red-stained eyes stare at mine.
“I understand,” she says after several wordless seconds.
“Good.”
“When you see him, please let him know that his mother is home. I’m better now. And I . . . I miss my Dusty.”
Even though I am prepared to tell her fine and call her crazy on her way off this front stoop, apparently something about her desperation grinds into Dustin’s skin. I feel the air rush out behind me as he flings the door open with enough force that it crashes into the wall inside.
“You are not my mother.” His body slides in front of mine in a blink, and I reach to hold on to him, to keep his temper low, knowing the fire this woman has the power to ignite.
“Dusty—”
“Don’t!” He holds his palm in her face then points at her, his finger close enough to touch her nose. “That is not a name you get to use. That’s a torture technique you leveled me with when I was a kid, when you wanted me to feel sorry for you, and I will not accept it. I am not your son. I’m not your Dusty. I survived you. You left my life and it was the best thing you ever did for me. You walked away. You should have stayed gone. Now, get the fuck away from my house!”
His hands are fists at his hips, his biceps pumped with blood, muscles filling the sleeves of his shirt. His back grows with every breath as he paces a few steps left then right, like a tiger protecting his cubs. He practically growls as he breathes, a deep-seated hate simmering behind his chest and growing more dangerous with every beat of his heart.
“I’ll go. But I’m living in town now. I . . . I know I don’t deserve your time, Dust . . . Dustin. I did terrible things and I can never make up for the damage of it all. I was sick.”
“Excuses,” Dustin shouts at her face.
She flinches, but somehow remains where she stands, determined to finish this step in her own personal amends.
“They seem like that, yes. And maybe I used them as excuses. But it’s true. I was sick. I may never be fully well. But I am sorry. I would like to be a part of your life if you’ll let me.”
Dustin rears back with a deep, throaty laugh that stops abruptly as he steps closer to her.
“You do not get that. Any of it. I have a mother. That’s right. I found her. On my own. I met her.”
“You . . . you talked to Alysha?” Her voice wavers, and I swear there is a tinge of joy to her tone.
“No thanks to you. Yes, I talked to her. If I’m building a relationship with anyone who deserves to be called my mother, it’s her—my actual mother. You? You’re just some ragged tramp who sucked off my father’s drug habit to feed your own fix. I can’t believe I ever cried, afraid you were going to die in some hospital after an overdose. I would have been so lucky.”
The vile remarks seem to cut through her armor this time. It cuts me as a bystander, as a witness. She shrinks against his words and her eyes flinch, filling with tears. Before they fall, she runs her hand over her face and sniffles.
“Okay. That’s . . . okay. I understand. Thank you for your time.” She lifts her chin and backs away from my broken man. From the father of my child, the man I love more than my own life. He has so many things to overcome, and Trisha Miller is barely the beginning of the darkness inside his soul. He battles it with light every minute of his life. And I will never again doubt his resolve to win.
Dustin turns and our eyes meet, his full of warning—don’t. He needs time to process, to cool down from this unexpected assault. I let him pass by me, but before he steps inside his hand reaches for mine and our fingers hook together long enough for me to run my thumb along his skin and reassure him that I’m here to stay. I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard this gets.
He steps inside and I wait on the stoop until I hear the water rush inside from the shower. He’ll wash this away, renew his focus. We’ll see Bristol soon. And Alex, he won’t be forever.
“Miss? I’m sorry, but—” Trisha’s raw voice pins me to the ground and my eyes fall closed. I don’t want to have this conversation without Dustin here. Trisha is not my demon. And it’s not that I don’t want to take her on, but I don’t want to betray him and have any connection to her without him knowing.
“I’m sorry, but Dustin told you—”
“I know,” she says, gripping the side of my shirt. I jerk, twisting to glare at her with disgust. That’s an invasion of my space. An absolute no.
She holds a note in her hand, along with a pen. My eyes dart to it in the middle of my ire.
“It’s my phone number, and the place where I’m staying. He doesn’t have to do anything with it. But if he needs me, or anything. Or changes his mind, which . . . I know he won’t. I need him to know where I am, though. Even if he throws this in the trash the second you give it to him.”
I stare at the paper and grit my teeth. I don’t want to take this. It’s only going to make Dustin angry.
“Please,” she says, thrusting it in my face.
I snatch it and turn my back to her, walking through the door and closing it behind me, latch and all. Shower steam trickles from the bathroom, the water like a rainstorm pouring down, and all I want to do is strip out of these clothes and step under the stream with Dustin, holding him tight. I shove Trisha’s note in my back pocket with plans to throw it away when I’m far from here, somewhere Dustin can’t come across it. Then I strip away my clothes and toe my way into the bathroom, stepping into the water along with Dustin so I can help him wash this from his life once and for all.
18
What gives her the right?
I can’t let go of her invasion into my life. Trisha Miller. Nothing to me. A placeholder. The person who signed my school forms when her arm wasn’t too limp to hold a pen. The woman who taught me how to hold a spoon over a candle when I was seven. The last defense I had in my life from the hands of Colt Bridges.
Useless.
I steel myself to forget about her completely the mome
nt Hannah and I walk through her family’s front door. This threshold washes me clean of all things Trisha Miller. The anger she brought out in me made my insides boil and my skin burn. I must have looked like the devil in her presence, and I hate that Hannah had to see me like that. That’s the man I fight against. Colt’s DNA.
I won’t drive that way and I won’t live that way. I haven’t since the day Hannah left, not that it matters since Alex won’t let me win. But that’s not my fuel in life. The pain will no longer drive me. Not for anything. I won’t let it.
The house smells of bacon and Hannah’s mom’s buttermilk pancakes. Since my attempt at breakfast was a major fail, both Hannah and I race for the open stool at the counter, knowing whoever sits there gets the freshest cakes, hot of the griddle.
I beat her there, but let her push me off because I want her to win. I want to give her everything. Might as well start with warm batter and pork.
“Please say I don’t need to burn my sheets,” Tommy says through a full mouth. Hannah snags the rest of the pancake from his plate rather than slapping him in the arm. “Hey!”
“I wanted Hannah to see the view,” I say, realizing how much that sounds like bullshit the second the words leave my mouth.
“Uh huh. The view of your—”
“Tommy Judge, don’t you dare!” His mom smacks his hand with her spatula before he has a chance to be utterly crass.
“I’d love to hear the rest of what Tommy has to say. Go on, son. Tell me, what view does Hannah need to see of Dustin’s—” The spatula raps Mr. Judge on the top of the head.
“Oww!” He rubs the spot while my head sinks deep between my shoulders. I’m not easily embarrassed, and I’m not sure it’s so much that I’m being called out, but that it’s the man whose permission I hope to get one day for his daughter’s hand that’s doing it. Yeah, I’m doing it all backward. But the order doesn’t matter so much as the final destination.
The next hour passes like the most normal morning of my life. The Judge house fills with my favorite people as Virgil, Douglas, and Ernie arrive to devour the world’s greatest breakfast before they hit the road ahead of me. It’s time to get to the track, and as much as I want to take Bristol and Hannah with me, it’s too dangerous to keep them close. I won’t leave until tonight, though, so we’ll have our day. A day I hope we can spend as a family, the three of us. That notion presses a permanent smile into my cheeks.
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 15