Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3

by Scott, Ginger

  This is a love story. Us. The highs and lows all lead to one final conclusion, and that is us. No matter what is thrown at us, we persevere.

  My eyes take time to adjust to the entirety of the room. I tuck my chin, though it’s not easy to hold my head up for long. I recognize Bristol’s drawing and it makes me smile.

  “Eat my dust,” I utter.

  She quirks a brow, and I realize she’s not in my head hearing my thoughts.

  “Nothing,” I laugh off.

  Her gaze narrows, and eventually she looks to her right, seeing the same picture. She echoes my words.

  “Eat my dust.”

  The quiet feels nice with her near me. I glance down the length of my arm and see that I’m wired to way too many contraptions, but they must have turned the beeping off. I swear I could hear that noise no matter how deep I was.

  “Think you can handle another visitor? Tommy has been dying to get in here.”

  I work up the energy to smile.

  “Sure.”

  Hannah slips out of the room and I stare at the doorway until she appears again. I don’t like being alone in here. I’m not sure whether it’s my mind playing tricks or the trauma, but I don’t think I will do well if Hannah leaves.

  Tommy files in behind her, and for once in his life, that loud-mouthed maniac actually whispers.

  “Dude. You had me shitting my pants.” So eloquent, always.

  He grabs my hand and turns to Hannah when my response feels weak.

  “His strength will come,” she reassures him.

  “Oh. Okay. So, like, if I punched him now, he wouldn’t be able to hit back?” He laughs at his own joke, but I get him back quickly.

  “Nah, I can still punch you.” I flinch and it’s enough for him to fly back a step. Tommy flips me off but Hannah laughs so hard she squeals, making the effort worth it.

  “Have you told him yet?” Tommy tilts his head toward me and my brow pinches.

  “Tommy. It can wait,” Hannah responds.

  “No it can’t. You can’t do that. Tell me what?” The doctor told me I was in a medical coma, but I’m not dead and I’m very irritable. Maybe I should have had Tommy wait to visit.

  “Dude, cartel caught up with Offerman. He’s— Tommy draws a line across his throat for dramatic effect.

  “What? That makes zero sense.” I wait for him to finish with a gotcha, but he doesn’t, so I glance to Hannah.

  Her lips are drawn tight but she nods. I can tell by the iciness in her eyes that she has more details to the story. I also get the feeling I shouldn’t ask questions in front of Tommy, and maybe not at all.

  “Wow. I mean, I guess the guy had some karma due.” I shift in my bed and my ribs push back. I wince.

  “You should probably get some rest. Let me get out of here. Hannah, are you staying or should I wait?” Tommy glances to his sister at the same time I do, and she must read the pleading in my gaze.

  “I’m here for the night. Maybe fresh clothes in the morning? And real coffee.”

  Tommy takes my hand again, closing it in both of his.

  “You got it. One coffee for the lady. You?” He lifts a brow to me, and while the idea of coffee right now sounds vomit-inducing, I have a feeling the morning may bring a different story.

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Done and done,” Tommy says. He hugs Hannah, and we both look on as he slips through the door, closing it gently behind him.

  When she turns back to me, I can read the nerves on her face. She’s never been good at bluffing, and the way her lips quiver as she shoves her hands in her back pockets and forces a tight-lipped smile reeks of classic Hannah Judge secret keeping.

  “Cartel?” I dive into the subject on a hunch.

  She sucks in her lips and lifts her shoulders.

  “Guess so.”

  “Hannah.” I level her with what I hope is a serious—albeit fairly doped-up—look. She holds my stare for a few seconds but since I have no intention of blinking, she finally has to break.

  “Gah, fine,” she groans, sinking back into her chair. She balls her fists and rests them on the mattress by me, her eyes fixed on her knuckles.

  “Your uncle called Trisha.”

  I laugh at first, and it hurts, but I have to. That’s the most absurd statement in the world. Yet, as she flits her gaze to me, eyelashes batting slowly, my opinion shifts.

  “Wait, seriously?”

  She nods.

  “When she came to see you? She left a note with me, after you went inside. It was her phone number, and I swear, Dustin, I only took it so she would leave. I didn’t think twice about it. I shoved it in my pocket and then life went on without her.”

  “Oh-kay,” I utter. It’s a lot to digest, but I believe her. And I’m glad she didn’t give it to me. But that begs the question—

  “You gave it to my uncle?”

  Her head wiggles from side-to-side.

  “It’s not totally that simple. He and I were talking, and he said I needed to update Alysha. She called the hospital. She’s flying in tomorrow, by the way.”

  My eyebrows rise.

  “I know. It’s a lot. But you can’t tell a woman not to see her son when he’s in the hospital.” Hannah unfurls her fists and takes my hands. I decide she can be right about this part. It is a lot, but I’m happy I have my mom in my life again. This must be torture for her.

  “I asked your uncle if we needed to call Trisha. I was really more thinking out loud, but it was in front of him. And that led to the whole me telling him about her showing up bit, and then I pulled the number from my pants pocket. Damn it, Dustin, I was wearing the same fucking pants.”

  My forehead wrinkles and our eyes meet. It is weird, the coincidence of it all.

  “Your uncle said things like that are signs, and he asked for her number. I figured he was going to call her, maybe check in on her and update her. They’re siblings.”

  I nod as much as I can. Hannah doesn’t add anything after that, though. It’s silence, just her eyes on mine, sagging, almost hinting.

  “Then what?” I wait for her to finish the story.

  “Then . . . I never asked him about it. He never told me anything. But Dustin, according to reports, someone told the same cartel Colt was mixed up with that Alex Offerman stole their money. It’s not in the papers, but the AG’s office has those details. My dad called.”

  Holy shit.

  “You think—?”

  “That Trisha took that money years ago and finally framed Alex for it? Yeah, Dustin. I do.”

  My mouth hangs open wide. I’m knocked speechless, and a little awed. If that’s how things really went, then I can hold Trisha “fake mom” Miller in a slightly better light. I still want nothing to do with her, and she will never be family to me. But, I can smile about her, the tiniest smile, right now. And maybe later down the road.

  “There’s one more thing.”

  I chuckle then wince. Fucking ribs.

  “How could there be more?”

  “I know, right?”

  She chews at her lip this time, and that means this news isn’t the kind she’s nervous to tell me. She’s excited about it.

  “Dale’s turning his story about you into a book. You’ll get full rights, split the royalties. He’s already got offers.”

  “Wow! Was it the dramatic ending where the bad guy sent in another bad guy who tried to kill me?”

  Hannah shakes her head, but her expression is solemn.

  “That’s another thing.”

  “So there are two more things, not just one?”

  She rolls her eyes at my teasing.

  “Sorry.” I chuckle. Ow. Ribs.

  “You were right. Alex’s family only had honorary roles in that company. They weren’t involved in decision-making at all. The sponsorship for Quin? A total fluke. He’s a nobody. Well, I mean, he’s somebody, but he’s a legit driver. Something about not reading the draft right when he bumped you or . . . I’m su
re you understand what that means.”

  I blink at this sudden reality. I think I stare at her for a full minute while she continues to tell me details, something about him actually being a young driver, following in my footsteps. She says something about how I’m his idol, and then I snap out of it.

  “Wait, so that means Quin Bastion might have beaten me for real, not with malice for some revenge plot?”

  “I mean, I guess.”

  She’s not understanding me. It takes every grain of strength in my body to push myself up, and I might be undoing a lot of medical work on my ribs by doing this, but I sit up, completely. It hurts like hell.

  “Dustin!” Hannah scolds.

  “That means he’s better than me, Hannah. And he’s going to be back out there, this season. Probably going to grab all the headlines, and—”

  I lay down fast, dizziness catching up to me. Hannah steps in, hovering over me, her face contorted in that disappointed look her mom sometimes gets.

  “I thought we weren’t racing on rage anymore.” She purses her lips.

  “Hannah, that’s not rage I was rattling off. That’s fucking envy and jealousy. Totally different. Call the doctor. I need to speed this up. Seven races left this season, and I’m not letting that little prick take them all.”

  She doesn’t move out the door to find anyone. She doesn’t rush to press any buttons. Judging from her expression, she’s not thrilled with the idea of me racing again, but I’m sure deep down she knows I’d make her staple my ass to the seat and hands to the wheel before I gave up racing.

  But maybe she’s right. A day won’t matter. I’ll give her this day, what’s left of it. I’ll eat the shitty hospital food and thank her brother for coffee in the morning. And then? Then I want my ass out of this hospital, back in Camp Verde and on that track.

  24

  Five weeks.

  Thirty-five days.

  That’s how long Dustin was away from the circuit.

  Sixteen days. That’s how long he was out of a stock car cage.

  Nothing about this is a good idea or safe, but hell if I know what’s good for that man anymore. Besides me, of course. And Bristol.

  It seems fitting that his big comeback is here, in our home state. There’s a lot of press clamoring over this race, and it would make the book Dale’s working on a true Cinderella story. But she’s a very pretty princess, and our road? It’s been kinda ugly. Still, I think Dustin’s got this in the bag. I feel it. In my gut.

  “You sure you don’t want a short stack before you head out?” My mom has been hard selling Dustin on her breakfast all morning.

  “Mom, soon he has to drive for three hours straight. No. He does not want to have to unsnap his pants after cleaning his plate.” I shift my gaze to Dustin after rejecting my mom for him and he mouths, “Thank you.”

  “Fine. They’ll go to waste, then—”

  “No, they won’t.” Virgil takes the plate from her hand and slides into the open seat, eating his second plate of pancakes. We all quietly stare at him.

  “What? I’m not driving the damn car.”

  My dad finally ponied up and bought the damn RV of his dreams. I think my mom wants him to move all of his shit into it after this race so she can have a clean garage again and maybe park in there.

  I personally look forward to borrowing it this summer and taking a long trip up through Wyoming with Dustin and Bristol. He has four weeks off on his schedule, and I want us off the grid.

  “I guess I’m off. Virg, I’ll meet you at the track.”

  Virgil mumbles a response that sounds like “okay” while chewing, and the rest of the room hollers good luck. Tommy’s already waiting for him in the pits. Douglas too. Bailey and her parents will sit with me in the stands. Bailey’s dad went to scout our spots. And Bristol will enjoy this race from the simulcast my dad set up, while she hangs out with my mom.

  She’s the spawn of a racing family, but she’s still not quite ready to endure three hours in the spring heat while thousands of idiots guzzle beer and teach her more bad words. I take full credit for the S-H one. I’m working on it.

  “We’ll walk you out,” I say, waving my hand to call Bristol to me. She slips from her seat at the banquette and runs to my purse, pulling out her latest piece of artwork.

  “Ah, another one? These are lucky, you know. Although the last one—”

  “Shhh,” I interject, holding my finger to my lips.

  Dustin chuckles, cutting off his poor joke.

  Bristol and I follow him outside to the golf cart waiting to drive him to the track. He turns and bends down so he’s at Bristol’s level and she sways side to side, holding her paper behind her back.

  “Can I have my drawing?” he asks.

  I haven’t seen this one. She said it was a real surprise. I just hope it doesn’t somehow look like a penis.

  “Close your eyes,” she demands.

  On command, Dustin does, holding his hands out and ready. Bristol whips the drawing around and sets it in his hands. It’s upside down, and she doesn’t really know her letters, so it’s hard for me to read.

  “It kind of looks like that last one,” I say.

  Dustin draws his finger along what seems to be a word.

  “Is this me? Did you write Dusty?”

  Bristol shakes her head. And suddenly, I see it. I cup my mouth as our daughter leans in and presses her hand on the scribbled word.

  “Uh uh. It says Daddy. That’s you.”

  The fat tear that falls from Dustin’s eyes lands on the paper. He scoops Bristol up and holds her tight, looking at me over his shoulder. I leave my hands over my mouth because I’m so in shock. Wonderfully amazing shock.

  “Oh, my God,” he mouths.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  We have been talking about this for so long, trying to find a way to teach our daughter about her relationship with Dustin. Nothing about the way it formed is natural. Most of that was my fault, and the guilt I feel from it clawed at me for weeks—years.

  Turns out we didn’t need to teach her at all. She just knew. Like the way Dustin knew in his gut that Colt wasn’t his father. He may have his blood, but he isn’t a single part of the man who stands in front of me now. My dad? He’s more Dustin’s father than Colt. And Alysha is his soul. As are we.

  Family forms in the strangest ways, and sometimes you get lucky and fall in love with your best friend.

  “I love you,” I say as Dustin stands and hands Bristol to me. Our girl clings to me like a monkey and I lean in to kiss her daddy on the mouth. His kiss lingers, long enough that I get to experience the joy of his stretching smile.

  “I’m winning today,” he says against me.

  I suck in his bottom lip and let go of it with a snap, backing away with a smile.

  “I know it. Eat my dust.”

  He winks then boards the golf cart, a little banged up but so much wiser.

  25

  Quin Bastion is a motherfucker.

  I don’t mean that as a compliment, either. He’s three years younger than me, but that little shit drones on and on as if I’m an old man. He’s an arrogant little punk. He’s also really fucking good.

  “You’ve got twenty-six laps left to lose him, Dust, but you’re gonna need tires.”

  Fuck.

  Douglas is such a pragmatist. I hate that car parts don’t magically regrow during a race. I know I have to pit, but I can’t. Not until Quin fucking Bastion does.

  “I got it. Let me push it a little more.”

  Douglas grumbles and I’m pretty sure he just ripped of his headset. He’s also dramatic. Over the years, he’s pulled that sucker from his head to make a point and pretend he’s walking out on me about twenty times. Maybe thirty. He’s not bailing over an extra lap or two on spent tires.

  “Fine, but you’re going to lose traction.”

  There he is.

  I smile, and I’m glad the camera can’t pick up my smirk.

&nbs
p; “I know,” I say.

  My body aches something fierce. I’m probably down another rib, too. I’m not sure whether they can pierce things on the inside, but that might have happened. Twenty-six more laps and I can worry about that.

  Quin and I have separated from the pack. Third place is a sweet distance behind us, and fourth even more. But my hold on first is iffy. I can’t seem to break away. It’s like every move I make he copies exactly, as if I’m carving trenches in my wake for him to simply roll along in. It’s maddening!

  “You gotta chase.” Tommy’s voice breaks through. He rarely talks to me during a race. Mostly because his ideas usually piss me off. Like this one.

  “Just get the tires ready,” I fire back.

  I’m hitting the turn, the blur of red and white filling my periphery as I hug the line. I lean in, gaining every inch I can. And still, Quin is right fucking there.

  “He’s gonna take you on a straightaway. Be ready. He won’t now, but when it’s time,” Douglas shouts.

  I check my mirrors and watch Quin’s hood. That’s the tell, how much it wavers from side to side in my lane. He’s tight with me. He’s not moving. Not now.

  “You need to chase!” Tommy’s insistent with his shit idea.

  “Right, I heard you. That’s what second place does.” Fuck. I get ready for the next turn and hug close. This side is longer. Thank you, Phoenix, for the awesome egg-shaped track.

  My routine is the same, and once again, Quin is on my tail, his hood in line, his movement from the line nonexistent. I hit the gas in an attempt to pull away and gain a foot or two of space, but it’s no use. I’m getting nowhere.

  I slam my palm on the wheel.

  “You’re right, Douglas. I’m coming in. I need tires.”

  I pull in for pit and mentally imagine the commentary happening for everyone else right now between Bill and Calvin Walters, the two brothers who call every race. They’re wannabe experts and when I was a kid, I loved them. Now, I wish they would retire, or lose their voices. One or the other.

  Not sure of this move, Bill. Feels risky to me.

  Me too, Cal. The world had high expectations for Dustin Bridges, but it looks like he’s blowing it, yet again.