Wreck (Fuel Series Book 2)

by Ginger Scott

  “Cops are taking statements,” Ava says as she steps up to me. Her eyes shift over my shoulder to where Dustin is still waiting in his rental car.

  “They can start with him. He’s the big hero who pulled that kid out of the car. They know where to find me. Tell them to stop by the mayor’s house if they need to talk.” I pull down my T-shirt and tuck the front in my shorts, avoiding Ava’s returned stare. I can’t ditch her glare forever, though, and since she’s not the person I’m trying to prove something to, I finally give in and look her in the eyes.

  “It’s fine. I’ll talk to them. I just don’t want to do it here. I can’t be here any longer.” I let the ache make a short appearance on my face and Ava pulls her mouth in tight, breathing out her nose as she nods.

  “Okay. I’ll tell them the smoke was getting to you. They’ll want to talk tonight, though. Don’t screw me over and not be where I say you are.”

  I cross my heart and maintain our stare. When she gives me a slight nod, I move toward the Supra and signal to Bailey that she can drive us home. My body is too unpredictable right now. Just like my heart.

  3

  Perspective is funny. When I’m out on the tracks, busting my ass, trying to get respect from some two-bit hot wings king, I don’t feel I’ve climbed very far at all. But Ava was right. In terms of Camp Verde, I guess I’m “famous.” At least, famous enough to keep tonight’s crash off certain radars.

  That Kyle kid’s car is totaled. He’ll get slapped with reckless driving charges and his parents will probably forbid him from driving—as soon as he can—because his insurance is going to be stupid expensive. But besides a lot of cuts and bruises, he’s going to be fine. By the time medics cleared out, he was refusing an ambulance. Seemed a little like his dad didn’t want people in their business, But maybe that’s just me reading into things.

  Almost everyone was gone by then, except me and Ava and a few old-timers, and the cops we have known for years. I’ll give the Kyle kid this much—he took the blame and protected the Straights by saying he was only showing off for some car that passed him. Maybe, in a way, that’s all he was doing. Because Hannah smoked him, and can’t blame a kid for trying to save face in front of a girl as hot as her. He got in over his head, lost tread, and spun out.

  It happens.

  I did it once when I was a kid. It’s actually the only time I’ve done it. The Tucson kart race, when Colt showed up. First time I cried my ass off in front of Hannah. That’s when I realized she was special.

  Pulling into the motel lot, it’s hard not to feel like a loser again. The high from having a few people fawn over me and ask about tracks back east and in the Midwest wore off about a mile away from the Straights. Now, I’m back here, in this temporary hole in the wall, alone.

  My lungs feel the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest. I haven’t been able to breathe quite right since Hannah’s eyes met mine in the reflection of the mirror of my rental.

  I always knew she’d be angry with me. I even expected the hate. It’s that it’s so raw, so full of revenge and heat. I could see it in her eyes. The way she said that word, abandoned. That’s how she feels. That’s what I did.

  I had to, though. I couldn’t stick around only to drag out an inevitable good-bye. And knowing now how fast they got Colt out of prison so they could use him as bait, me lingering around would have only made a dotted line between Hannah and the trouble that is my birthright.

  I know it was all for the best. But it hurts so goddamn bad anyway. Best or not, it’s hard not to question whether it was worth it.

  My hand feels in my front pocket as I limp out of the car, searching for the room key. The cuts on my leg are starting to bleed through my jeans. There’s still a lot of glass in my arm, too. I refused to let anyone check me out on the scene. That’s the last thing I need is some medical report floating around that keeps me off the track for a month. It means this is going to be a long night, though, because I’m going to have to take care of my own sorry ass, and as far as I can tell, the only tools at my disposal are a few complimentary tea bags and a motel pen.

  With my body leaning against the jamb, I finagle the key into the lock and manage to get the door open. Stale cigarette smoke permeates the entry, bringing me back to my youth. I asked for a non-smoking room, but I guess they don’t have those at this place. When I complained, the front desk guy politely pointed out that if I wasn’t smoking in it now then it’s not a smoking room. Pretty sure that’s not how that works, but again, I don’t need to be making a scene anywhere. The only thing worse than a medical report would probably be a viral news story about some diva wannabe circuit driver throwing a shit fit over his motel room.

  I leave the door open behind me and drop the key to the door along with the one for the rental car in the center of the burnt orange bedspread. I feel around under the lamp shade for the switch, eventually clicking it on and casting a dark yellow glow throughout the room. I pause to take it in and laugh to myself.

  “Just . . . perfect,” I mutter. The aesthetics of this room could not match the way I feel more perfectly.

  I tug on the back of my T-shirt on my way into the vanity area, lifting it over my head and dropping it on the countertop. My palm finds the switch for the harsh bulb lighting. It flickers on and I go to work inspecting the wounds on my arm.

  “Shit,” I breathe out at the first touch of a shard of glass. There are dozens in my skin. That one looked like the easiest. I’m half-tempted to leave them be, let my skin grow over it all and form some weird supervillain trait that can become my calling card. I know that’s not an option, though, so I lean forward until my forehead rests on the mirror and I stare at the oozing wounds to give me courage. Rather, to give me motivation. I spend about thirty minutes mostly staring and little else, though.

  “Ava said you refused care.” My heart beats once at the sound of Hannah’s voice, hard enough to wound my ribs, then stops completely. I leave my head where it is and train my eyes on my arm.

  It’s three in the morning. I have no idea how she found me or why. But I could cry I’m so happy she’s here.

  “You finish talking to the cops?” My voice echoes off the sink below me.

  Keys clank on the dresser top behind me, followed by the sound of something being tossed on the bed. Her purse, I’m guessing. Her shadow mixes with the soft light behind me and the hard glare from above, but it’s when I smell her apple-scented shampoo that I accept she’s actually here and not a figment of my imagination.

  “I did. I wouldn’t burn Ava like that. They didn’t have a lot of questions, though. Seems they got a good story from their favorite driver and needed me to button down the details.” She coughs to show her sarcasm.

  “I know, we all lied. To be fair, though, it’s the story they want to hear.” I roll my head just enough to see her hips. She’s wearing dark blue sweatpants rolled up at the waist. They look like men’s pants, which has my fist instinctively curling to pummel whatever guy gave them to her.

  “Ava stopped by right after the cops. She said I should probably come help you since you’re basically helpless.” She sets a bottle of alcohol on the counter and I wince at the sight of it.

  “She’s not wrong,” I utter through a pathetic laugh.

  Ava could have come instead. Hannah could have refused. Neither of those things happened, which has my head swimming with hope. Though I’m in too much pain to do more than simply accept Hannah’s help.

  “Don’t be a baby. Sit your ass on the counter and let me see,” she orders.

  I stand up straight and catch a glimpse of her eyes on me through the reflection. I twist and slide my body up to sit on the countertop as she walks over to her purse. She dumps the contents on the bed and gathers up a roll of gauze, some ointment, and a small first aid kit. I smirk at the familiar red box as she carries it toward me.

  “You remember this thing?” She hands it to me then goes to work arranging the other items on the counte
r.

  I run my thumb over the three faded initials written in black magic marker.

  T.H.D.

  “Your dad fixed a lot of messed up shit with the stuff he kept in this box,” I say. I lift my chin briefly and our eyes meet. My chest hollows and my body rushes with the same sensation I get on rollercoasters.

  “He still keeps it well stocked. He mostly uses it to fix his own injuries now.” She takes it from my hand, our fingertips barely meeting. It was on purpose. I could tell.

  “I require a bigger box nowadays.” I chuckle.

  “Yeah, I can see that.” She stands up straight, hands on her hips and eyes focused on my forearms. “But . . . this is the box I’ve got, so we better hope it gets the job done. Otherwise, I’m hauling your ass to the ER.”

  “No ER.” I’m adamant, and she studies my face for a second, trying to read me.

  “I’ve gotta drive next week,” I explain.

  Hannah’s mouth twists up in understanding. I can’t be damaged goods. My sponsor might pull out.

  With tentative movements, Hannah reaches for my arm, taking it in her cool palms and holding it over the sink, twisting it gently until she can see most of the gashes and glass bits. Her hair is twisted up in a knot on top of her head and I find myself staring at the strays that float around her face, like dark webs around her pink skin. A light sunburn kisses her nose and the tops of her cheeks, bringing out her freckles. Her lashes are sun bleached too, almost speckled with gold.

  “This might hurt,” she warns.

  I hold my breath and acknowledge the tweezers in her right hand. Our eyes meet again, and there’s a thick dose of silence that accompanies the seconds-long pause. I swallow hard, and the slight movement in my throat draws Hannah’s eyes toward my bare chest. I draw in a sharp breath under her view. Her initials are like a time stamp on my left pectoral, small but definitely visible. Especially under this harsh light.

  “You can look away if you need to,” she says, returning her gaze to the job ahead of her.

  I nod, knowing I’ll watch everything, a part of me enjoying the pain. It feels like something I deserve, like a penance for hurting this absolute gift of a human here with me now. Hannah bends down, bracing her body on her elbows so she can look closely at my skin as she picks out the first piece of glass. It’s tiny, like a crushed diamond, and when the tips of her tweezers grab hold it sends a zap through my arm and into every nerve ending in my body.

  “Oh fuck, that hurt.” I fall back a little, my head hitting the glass. I blink rapidly and mentally calculate how many more of these I have to endure.

  “I said you could look away,” she reminds me, glancing up with wide eyes and a wry smile.

  “I know. You did. I need to see it coming.” I tuck my chin so I can maintain my view but leave my body weight against the mirror in case I pass out.

  Hannah shakes her head and mutters “stubborn” under her breath.

  My mouth ticks up on one side. There’s an intimacy to her slight insult. It’s the kind of name girls call the loves of their lives.

  She goes after the next two shards faster, probably trying to catch me off guard and make the ordeal less traumatic. It doesn’t work, though, and by the time she’s gotten five pieces out of my arm, I’m begging for a short break.

  “You’re a pussy. Just so you know,” she teases.

  “I’m okay with that.” I shield her from my arm for a minute. I hold it close to my body and pull up a leg, propping my knee up to help take some of the pressure off my arm.

  Hannah takes a few steps back, resting her back on the opposite wall. She crosses her feet at the ankles and clutches the tweezers and the small ball of alcohol-soaked cotton in her palms at her stomach. I recognize the shirt she’s wearing. It’s one of her dad’s, from his dirt bike days. It’s torn in a few places from a life well-lived, and she cut off the bottom two-thirds of it so it barely covers her breasts and shows off the slope of her mid-section.

  Rather than be embarrassed when she catches me staring at her, I dive right into questions and let my eyes continue to roam. I’ve missed so many changes to her body.

  “How’d you find me?” I ask, only half interested in her answer. I’m lost in the milky skin of her stomach, the small silver hoop accenting her belly button, the slight breeze that flirts with the very loose bottom of her shirt.

  “There are only two hotels around here, and this one had that lame ass car parked outside,” she says.

  I nod and laugh.

  “Excellent detective work. I think you’re overstating with the word hotel, though. This place isn’t deserving of the H. It’s barely a motor lodge.” I let my eyes trail back to her face, and I’m pleased to see her taking the same inventory of my body.

  “I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I mean, clearly racing is going really well if this is what you can afford.” She’s always been good at talking shit with me. I’ve missed this too.

  “Yeah, well, maybe Colt left me a secret stash of cash and I can afford the casino seventy miles up next time I’m in town.” I laugh at my bad joke, but only briefly. Hannah didn’t seem to find that as amusing as I did. Her eyes have dipped to focus on her hands and her lips are pulled in tight.

  “I’m sorry about Colt, ya know. I mean, not for your loss, but for—”

  “I know what you mean. Thanks,” I say, saving her from trying to explain. She doesn’t need to. That’s why she’s Hannah, why she’s it for me. She’s the only person on this planet who truly gets what’s going on in my head in the wake of Colt dying. I’m so fucking happy and so fucking angry at the same time. I resent that he left me a mess, that he existed and had to be attached to me, and that he parted this Earth without me getting the chance to scar him up, as he did to me. The worst scars of all are the ones left by forcing me to leave my home behind—to leave Hannah.

  I hate him. I always will. I’ll hate his memory until I die.

  “I think I can handle more now,” I say, clearing my throat and sitting up tall.

  Hannah tosses the used cotton ball in the trash and douses a new one in alcohol before getting to work on my arm again. I hold in my reactions better this time. I don’t want her to feel as though I’m dragging this out, even if I want to. Every fragment she removes sears my nerves, and some pieces end up gushing blood in their wake, causing Hannah to stop extricating things and switch to pressing gauze into the wounds. It takes about an hour for her to remove everything, and another thirty minutes to glue the two deepest cuts and bandage my arm in a makeshift gauze cast.

  “I probably would have bled out if I had to do this on my own, so thanks,” I say, sliding from the counter.

  “Don’t mention it,” she says over her shoulder, a nervous waver to her voice.

  Guilt crawls around my shoulders and grips at my throat, but I know my words could never be enough to fix the hurt I’ve caused her. Regardless, I have to try. I have to say something.

  “Hannah.”

  “Hmm?” She’s busying herself, packing up to rush out of here. The door’s still wide open, so her escape will be easy. Clean.

  Her bag packed, she tugs it up her shoulder and straightens her spine, facing me with a deep breath and a heavy exhale through her nose. Her mouth forms a tight, forced smile, and as much as she’s faking everything is fine with her wide, blinking eyes, I see the tears welling.

  “Han,” I breathe out, my head falling to the side.

  Her eyes close and she shakes her head in quick movements.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.” She draws in another breath through her nose and breathes out more slowly this time. When her eyes open, the vulnerable side I saw before is erased, replaced with the hardened version, the girl I made her into when I left town.

  “Can I drive you home?” I offer, knowing she probably drove herself here, and even if she didn’t, she’d rather walk.

  “In that piece of shit? No thanks,” she says, a forced laugh accompanying her words.

>   I play along and smile, shaking my head. “Yeah, I get it. It’s pretty bad.”

  I bend down and grab my T-shirt, gripping it in my fist, squeezing to test my strength on my cut-up arm. It stings a little when I flex the muscle, but it’s not impossible.

  “I should go. I’ll leave the extra roll of gauze and the alcohol behind. I had one Percocet left too, from when I had my wisdom teeth out last year. I know you’re not into that shit, but maybe tonight you should take it.”

  If she only knew. Living in Oklahoma, I’ve taken those with gin some nights just to get to sleep. I’ve fallen from grace, breaking all sorts of promises to myself. I don’t need to shed light on that for her, though; she already sees a flawed man when she looks at me. No need to up the game.

  “Okay. Doctor’s orders,” I say, saluting her with my fisted T-shirt before I stretch out and move to put it on, pushing my hands inside and carefully sliding the cotton over my bandaged arm. Before I can raise my arms and duck my head inside, Hannah closes in, stepping inches from me and grabbing my wrists.

  My lips part automatically, and my eyes move to her mouth. Her plump bottom lip, pale pink and without the red from earlier, quivers and her breath comes quick. Her gaze is down, at the place where she’s locked my hands in place. She shakes her head, and I don’t think she realizes I can see her doing it. She’s warring with herself, and I feel like an asshole for standing here and letting her.

  But I’m selfish. I don’t want her to go. I don’t want her to let go.

  “I’m so mad at you, Dustin. Just . . . so mad.” Her lashes flutter, her eyes still down.

  “Okay.” It’s the only response that I can give her. I can’t apologize, and I won’t beg her not to feel the way she does. Hannah has a right to whatever feelings consume her. I’ve always promised myself I’d understand her summation of me after what I likely put her through. I accept it, whatever it is.