Wreck (Fuel Series Book 2)

by Ginger Scott

  Whatever the cause of his troubles, I can’t imagine the scene he’s about to walk into this morning is going to make it any better. It’s definitely not doing much for me.

  Right now, I could do without my mom’s passive aggressive line of questioning. She keeps trying to get at the root of why he’s here. I don’t have answers, and that infuriates her—like most of my choices since the day he left. She should be glad I’m going to the school she wanted and getting the degree she pushed me toward. That’s enough.

  “So are you and Dustin . . . talking?”

  This one actually makes me roll my eyes, like my teenaged-self kinda roll. My mom uses that special tone, as if she’s an insider on the way youth talk these days. I had told her there were a few guys at the university I was “talking” to as a way to get her off my back about dating. I went on four dates. Four, and they were all awful. So awful they made Michael Bosa, my senior prom date, seem suddenly appealing. My mom’s big takeaway from my dating recap, though, was that hip term—talking. She has dropped it at least a dozen times since I’ve been home for the summer.

  “Mom, stop,” I reprimand her, lifting my focus from my phone long enough to hit her with my dead-serious eyes.

  “I’m sorry, honey. It’s just . . . I don’t understand. I thought you never wanted to see him again, and now he’s suddenly sleeping in your bedroom? I think your father and I are being pretty cool under these circumstances. That boy—”

  “Amanda.” My dad stops her free flow, shaking his head. “He just buried his father. Lay off.”

  A suffocating quiet fills the room, eating up all the oxygen. It makes my skin itch, and both my dad and I shift in our chairs at the kitchen table.

  “I’m pretty sure he was cremated.”

  I cough out a laugh at my brother’s remark. My dad moves his scornful look from my mom to his son.

  “What? I’m right,” Tommy adds.

  “He is,” Dustin affirms.

  My dad skids his chair across the tile as he darts to a stand. I think our collective pulses are probably drumming in sync at Dustin’s sudden entry into the room.

  Dustin has his hoodie pulled up, his messy hair peeking out, and his Vans are on his feet, though the laces are undone. My guess is he just woke up and can’t wait to get out of here. I’ve been up for an hour, and I can’t wait to leave.

  “That lawyer I met yesterday gave me instructions on where to pick up his ashes. I guess I have to or they charge the next of kin some sort of fee. I’ll probably throw them in the garbage.”

  Dustin’s mouth forms the briefest and tiniest of smiles. It’s gone in an instant.

  “Son,” my dad says, stepping toward Dustin. His endearing approach catches us all off-guard, Dustin more than any of us as he jerks back and drops his hands deep into his pockets. His head tilts to one side and his eyes narrow.

  “Dustin, I mean,” my dad immediately coughs out, trying to recover from his misstep. He hasn’t called Dustin son around me since we started dating in high school, despite that he used that term often and affectionately when we were growing up.

  “I should actually get to the funeral home. Apparently, it’s going to cost me two hundred and seventy-five dollars to pick up a bag of my dad’s dust.” Dustin makes a wide path around the table toward the door. My eyes connect with Tommy’s as he does. I feel lost in this situation and I’m looking to my brother to help. We can’t just let him leave, but I can’t be the one fighting for him to stay. It can’t be me. It can’t. It can’t. It . . .

  “Do you need money, Dustin?” my mom stammers out her offer, trying to stop him before he reaches the door. Dustin’s palm flattens on the wood above the doorknob and he bows his head, his shoulders shaking with what I’m guessing is silent laughter. He stands up straight and drops his hand from the surface, turning slowly to face my father.

  “I’ve got my own money.” A straight, indignant line marks his mouth as he holds his gaze on my dad, almost as if he’s proving something to him. I’m sure Dustin feels he has a lot to prove to everybody. He’s making it on his own, despite who he is and where he came from. Broken-hearted or not, I can’t deny that he has persevered beyond anyone’s expectations. Anyone but me, that is. I knew he would become exactly the man he wanted, down to his own design. I didn’t know he would have to break my heart to get there.

  “Oh.” My mom’s meek voice breaks and she leans back in her chair. Her eyes dart to my dad, then to me. I see through her charade. She’s ridden with guilt. It’s never really been about the fact Dustin broke her daughter’s heart. She likes that he’s on the outs with me because it means she doesn’t have to own up to the horrible way she treated him before he left. This brief interaction, though . . . my God. It’s a little delicious to watch her squirm.

  The deafening silence overtakes the room again, and Dustin must feel it, too. His shoulders bunch up and his mouth pulls into a tight line as he nods and glances to the floor. We’ve all let him down. Probably as he expected. That’s what that nod is for.

  “I’ll go with you,” I announce, surprising myself along with my family. I stand from my seat and whip through the kitchen to grab my mini backpack with my keys, wallet and phone. I ignore the burning stare coming from my mom as well as the loud warnings inside my head, and move toward the stunned expression on Dustin’s face.

  “Hannah, I thought—" My mom suddenly stops her protest. I turn to understand why and see my dad has stepped into the space between me and them, his palm up, urging my mom to let me be. He shifts on his feet, glancing to me over his shoulder, and we share a silent pact, something we haven’t done in years.

  Dustin needs someone. You’re that someone. You need to be careful.

  I will. I promise.

  I walk out the door behind Dustin and make it only steps before my heart skips and a smile flirts with my lips. This isn’t a happy moment, not for Dustin. And I also shouldn’t feel soothed being the person he leans on through it. This act, it lets him in. It exposes me and risks my still-wounded heart.

  My scars aren’t nearly tough enough. And my heart . . . it betrays me. More than I ever thought it would or could. The thousands of times I imagined our inevitable reunion, I was always strong. In my mind, I was cold and stoic. That was always the plan, and I carried it out perfectly when I first laid eyes on him out on the Straights.

  There is no such thing as training a heart to behave, though. For me to survive this, I need to remind my head what to do, will it to be stronger. It’s the only antidote I have for my weak and all-too-willing heart.

  Being guarded does not mean I have to be cold, however, and as we near Dustin’s rental, a thought takes over my actions.

  “Hey,” I say, halting him before he reaches the driver’s door of his rental. He turns to square himself with me, eyes sagging with wear. He needs this. “Let’s take the Supra.”

  I toss him the keys. His hand swallows them from the air as if a piece of him has come home. I know it has. That car will never belong to anyone else, regardless of who drives it. It doesn’t mean I’m giving it back, though. Owning that set of wheels gives me power. Yeah, it’s a bit like revenge. Okay, a lot like it. But I need to hold on to something harsh. That’s how I remain vigilant and safe from ever feeling the way I did when Dustin left again.

  “You sure?”

  I like that he asks for permission. Good boy.

  “I’m sure.” I march to the passenger door and wait impatiently for him to push the unlock button on the fob. I tap my nails on the roof of the car as he stares at me, dumbstruck. Slowly, his hand raises and he presses the button that blinks the lights and makes the doors click. For a hint of a moment, the two of us mirror our crooked smiles.

  “Get in,” he says, and I shake my head, letting out a tsk.

  “You know I don’t like taking orders,” I say, getting in anyway. He’s still chuckling by the time he lets himself in the driver’s side.

  “I remember. I’ve got a permane
nt Hannah Judge’s fist-shaped bruise on my arm from all the times you told me to shove it.

  “To be fair, I punched Tommy way harder.” I buckle up and drop my backpack between my feet, folding my hands in my lap. I turn when I sense Dustin isn’t moving, and our eyes meet. His smile inches up a little more.

  “To be fair, Tommy always deserved to be punched harder,” he says.

  I pucker my lips, trying to hold my smile at bay, to keep it from growing. I waggle my head side-to-side and shift my gaze to the windshield. “You’re probably right,” I say. That grin, though? That fucker breaks through wide.

  I’ve heard my dad talk about the way certain things in life simply fit. I guess that’s where the “like a glove” saying comes from. I’ve never fully gotten the significance of that feeling until now. Dustin’s hands wrap almost tenderly around the Supra’s wheel. With the precision of a surgeon, he layers his fingers around the tightly bound leather one at a time, then rolls his knuckles forward, flexing his hands to feel the grip. I can almost hear the ahhh that I know he is saying in his head.

  “Wow. You’ve never looked at me like that.” I can’t believe I uttered that out loud. I was openly jealous of a car, which—granted—I have been before. I’ve always envied the way Dustin loved this thing. I suppose that’s why I kept it. It was like forbidding him the one thing I knew could replace me.

  My face is hot and I continue to look away, waiting for him to rev the motor and move on from what I said. But instead, he brushes my bare shoulder, and I turn to look just in time to catch his thumb and index finger gently tug on the beaded tie on the sleeve of my shirt. My breath catches and gaze flits up as Dustin’s does the same. Our eyes . . . they dance.

  “You have no idea how many times, how many ways, I have looked at you.” Dustin rolls the beaded tassel between his fingers and his eyes dip to where his knuckles tickle against my skin. His lips part and he inhales a fast breath, but quickly exhales, dropping the bead and returning his focus to the car.

  I remain rigid, my heart racing, not even deterred by the roar of the engine as he starts the car. I don’t sink back into my seat until he plows into reverse and jets us down my street. That’s when an entirely new sensation takes hold of my body.

  It’s been years since I’ve seen Dustin drive. He was always a wonder to watch. But this? It’s different. This is art. With deft movements, he’s seamless in the way he shifts, taking us up to eighty then back down to ten for a quick turn on one of the back roads. He wants to really open it up, to feel the road that groomed him under the will of his hands and the pressure of his foot—pedal to the floor. He doesn’t have to ask. He knows I’ll say yes. And with a single breath, we’re flying.

  “I can never drive her like you do,” I admit.

  He shifts his gaze my way and smiles on the right side of his mouth, leaning in.

  “You drive her pretty damn well.” Our eyes flicker for a beat before his return to the road.

  My shoulders relax at what is perhaps the highest compliment Dustin Bridges can give a soul.

  We are in town within minutes. The coroner’s building to our left, Dustin shoots past it and cranks the wheel, drifting a one-eighty only to race back to the location on the right side of the road.

  It’s not quite eight in the morning, not that there is ever much traffic in our tiny downtown, but the streets are exceptionally empty this morning. Dustin kills the engine and relaxes into the seat, his hands slipping down to the base of the wheel as a satisfied smile takes over his face.

  “Show off,” I tease.

  Laughter pours from his lips like piano bar jazz, the notes full and drunk with whiskey. I feel my head slipping, my guard dropping. So much about Dustin has always been disarming. Even as a young teen, he had natural charm and charisma. He also had an innate compass for right and wrong, perhaps forged from his upbringing. He was so determined to be the opposite of what he knew, what he saw in Colt and his mom. I suppose while the dimples and hair and hazel eyes captivated my eyes, it was all that inside stuff that made me fall for him in the first place. I’m a fool to think it can’t overcome me again.

  “Ready to go get my dad?” Dustin points his thumb over his shoulder as he opens the door. He’s approaching this in a satirical manner, and I’m not quite sure whether it’s because it’s painful or because he really doesn’t give a shit. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

  “This might be the most pleasant interaction I’ve ever had with him,” I pile on.

  Dustin chuckles, then holds up the keys to toss back to me as I meet his gaze over the hood of the Supra. I shake my head, deciding selfishly to enjoy being his passenger a little while longer. Letting him drive is an indulgence I think I can handle.

  “If you insist.” He grins and pockets the keys.

  Dustin waits at the edge of the sidewalk for me to catch up, and I swear for a moment his pinky finger reaches out as if prepared to take my hand. Such a natural reflex that I almost give in and finish the connection. When he quickly sinks his hands into his pockets, I wrap mine around the straps of my backpack, holding it at my shoulders.

  “Ladies first,” he says, pulling the heavy metal door open for me.

  This building used to be the jail; I remember it from when we were kids. The county built a new one on the other side of the freeway, larger capacity to house more criminals. When this place was abandoned, the town seized the opportunity to get the coroner’s office out from the back of the police station. My mom was so proud of the move, since she led the charge of the town council to get it done. Tommy and I had to come to the ribbon cutting. Glancing around now, it looks like the same damn building as before, only instead of cots in the jail cells, there are metal tables and scales. I guess the big change is the freezer in the back for the bodies. It still amazes me that there are whole companies that do nothing but make freezers to store bodies in.

  I take a seat in one of the yellow plastic chairs lined up near the entrance while Dustin steps to the window to tap the bell. He dings it twice and we glance at one another and quietly laugh. Such a cheery noise for such a dark business.

  “Yeah?” A small woman with short gray hair curled tightly against her head steps close to the glass and turns her ear toward Dustin. She looks to be in her sixties, maybe older. She wears scrubs and has a mask pulled down around her chin.

  “I was told to come here to pick up Colt Bridges’ ashes.” Dustin reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded paper. He slips it through the opening at the bottom of the window and the woman on the other side tips her glasses down from the top of her head to read it.

  “Ah, right. He was a well-check. Shame. Sorry for your loss. That’ll be two-seventy-five.”

  She slides the paper back to Dustin and rests on her palms, leaning forward enough to scan the lobby where I am the only person waiting. She nods toward me and Dustin glances over his shoulder, a wry smile on his lips when our eyes meet.

  “Oh, she’s with me,” he explains.

  “Good. I’ve got a body on the table,” the woman says.

  I can’t contain the distance my eyebrows travel up my head, so I look down at my knees and purse my lips, trying to contain my laughter. This woman has found her calling. I think it probably takes a certain level of detachment to work in a place that is about nothing but loss and finality. She has it in spades.

  Dustin unfurls two hundred dollar bills from his wallet, then counts out the rest in twenties and fives, sliding the cash to the woman. She doesn’t even bother to count it, instead typing in a key code that unlocks what looks like a cash box on the small front desk. She drops the money inside and closes the lid again before holding up a finger and heading to the back of the building, presumably to find the bag of Colt.

  “This is funny, right?” Dustin says under his breath, his chin tucked against his shoulder.

  I nod and pull my lips in for a tight smile. It’s good that he finds humor in the moment, because I have a strong feeling tha
t when we walk out of here with his father’s remains, the reality of this all is going to hit him. His father is dead. Hate him or not, it’s a dark milestone in anyone’s lifeline. It forces one to think, and Dustin doesn’t like to spend time in his past.

  “Here you go. Now if you’d like to look through our urn book, I can get you pricing on anything you might want.” The woman slides a clear plastic bag through the notch in the window, then moves to grab a binder from the desk. Dustin waves her off before she can dive any further into her pitch.

  “I think we’re good with the bag. Man lived his life in them. Seems . . . fitting.” Dustin holds the bag up, his fist curled around the top the same way a child holds up a bagged goldfish from a fair. The woman blinks at him, a blank expression fixed on her face.

  “Suit yourself,” she says, whistling as she puts the binder back in place, then dutifully heads back to work.

  Dustin turns toward me slowly, his arm holding the bag of ashes out and away from his body. His eyes meet mine then dart to the bag.

  “You wanna hold him?” He quirks a brow.

  “What, like a puppy? Nah, I’m good. But thanks.” I move toward the door and hold it open for Dustin. He keeps the bag out from his body and I find I’m giving it a wide berth as well.

  Dustin pops open the trunk and tucks the bag inside the spare tire well, then glances to me for approval. I step beside him to pay my respects and reach behind him to pat his shoulder.

  “Seems secure enough,” I say. I sure as hell am not holding that thing.

  Dustin drops the trunk lid and we climb back into the car. We both buckle up, and Dustin revs the engine. I’m settled in and ready for him to peel out of this strange place, but instead, his hands drop from the wheel to his lap as his eyes seem to haze out into the distance.

  “It’s weird how very little I feel, isn’t it?”

  This is what I expected.

  “Yes, and no. Colt was never much of a father to you. You shared an address, and the man abused you your entire life. So while it’s sad when someone dies, it maybe also feels like he deserved it?” I’m not sure if I overstepped with that last part, but it’s the truth. There’s a part of Dustin that believes it, and I think he needed to hear it said out loud.