by Ginger Scott
“Look, Virg. I promise I’ll get everything taken care of. But right now, I need you to do two things for me. Life or death things.” I might be being a bit dramatic, but it gets Virgil to calm down on the other end of the line.
“Okay, yeah. What do you need?”
I swear I hear him click a ballpoint pen and rip off a paper from a notepad. I love this man.
“Sell the truck.”
He audibly gasps at number one. I sorta expected that.
“I know, I know. Nothing is guaranteed, and one Series race doesn’t mean I’m leaving the truck circuit behind blah blah blah. But Virg?”
He gulps.
“Yeah, Dust.”
“I’m not going to fail. I’m leaving the truck circuit behind. And this thing you’re in with me? It’s about to get big. Real big.” I probably sound manic to him. Hell, I might be manic right now. But this thinking—manifesting a destiny—is what got me where I am. I’m not about to give up on the only method that seems to have worked.
“Sell truck. Got it. What’s number two.”
I grin, loving that even though he probably thinks I’m nuts, he’s all in for the ride. If he’s still this committed after my second request, I’m giving him the first piece of real hardware I win.
“I need you to talk Mr. O’Keefe into coming to Arizona with you this weekend. Oh, and he’s gonna have to pay for your flights because I’m about to be broke.”
My second request is initially met with silence. I lean my head against the window, ready to knock it against the glass a few times, when Virgil finally pipes up.
“About your sponsor. . .”
Shit.
“Let me guess. He’s not my sponsor anymore.” I commence with the head banging.
“I’d prefer ya focus on that positivity you were spoutin’ a second ago. Remember? How it won’t matter because bigger and better things, and you’ve got bigger sponsors lining up already.”
Just like Virgil to throw my own words back at me in such a damn nice-guy way. I grit my teeth and fake a grin, not that he can see it.
“You’re right. Well, then, how about you drive down here. We’ll sell the truck in A Z. Get a better price for it.” I keep the chipper tone up for Virgil’s sake, but the second he hangs up I pound the steering wheel and growl out, “Fuck!”
As if somehow she knew I would need it, a glimpse of teal blue leather catches my eyes where the passenger seat meets the console. I feel in the crevice and tug on what turns out to be the strap of Hannah’s small backpack. She must have forgotten it under her seat. I pull it free and rest it on the seat, leaving my hand on it as if I can somehow draw power and encouragement from it. Hell, maybe I can.
Ridiculous or not, by the time I exit the freeway in the heart of downtown Phoenix, I’m renewed with hope. Virgil is right. I’ll find someone better—deeper pockets. Sometimes, all it takes to get someone to believe in your dream with you is simply to ask. And I’m good with people. I mean, not the ones I think are dicks. I’ve got a long history of juvenile delinquency in Arizona, and young adult bar fights in Oklahoma that prove contrary to my people skills, but those were truly almost always the other guy’s fault.
I fill my chest with the swagger power of Hannah’s purse one last time after I finally find a spot in the hospital garage, then tuck her bag back under the seat and head inside. One thing that has always surprised me about hospitals is the complete lack of security. It’s easy to walk just about anywhere as long as you keep moving and don’t look too much of anything—happy, distraught, lost. I navigate my way to the intensive care unit, park my ass on a chair, and pull out my phone. The rest of my afternoon is going to be spent observing everyone who comes and goes.
I used to play this game when I waited for my mom after an overdose. The woman I thought was my mom. Given enough context clues, you can usually match visitors to patients in a hospital. This trick is harder in an ER, mostly because of the constant turnover. Up here, on the third floor of one of the nicer hospitals in the Valley, the puzzle pieces are few and well-matched.
The first couple to pass through the visitor doors is too old to belong to Kyle Procter. I got his last name from the report, and I know his mother’s name is Myra. There wasn’t a father’s name on the report, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there isn’t one in the picture. He showed up at the track. He came and left with his kid. My fake mom never put Colt’s name on anything when she was sober enough to take me to doctors’ offices or appointments. Maybe this is a lot like that.
Twenty minutes into my wait, a woman in her early forties with shoulder-length blonde hair steps into the lobby where I sit, her cell phone pressed to her ear. She fits the profile physically, her traits match up with Kyle, but I’m going to need more before I know for sure.
“Maybe if he had a father who gave a shit—” I catch the last bit of her gritted words before she slips through the lobby door and into the hallway. Her bitterness is familiar. Sometimes, fake mom showed glimpses of that kind of fire.
I follow her into the hall and hover near the lobby doors until she finishes her call. She jumps when she turns and sees me.
“Sorry.” I hold up my palms.
“I’m just frazzled. I didn’t hear you come out,” she says, her hand on her chest, fingers gripping the puckered center of the blue T-shirt she’s probably been wearing since she had to rush her son here. I’m guessing dad, who refused the ambulance ride, didn’t think Kyle needed to get checked out. I wonder if Kyle has other injuries his dad doesn’t want people to see.
“I swear to God I’m not being creepy . . .” I trail off because that intro, in and of itself—it’s creepy. She rightfully takes a step back.
“I’m from Camp Verde. I’m the one who pulled Kyle out of the car? I’m . . .”
Before I can utter another word, the woman slings her arms around my neck, her hand clutching the back of my head and her body trembling.
“Dustin. Oh, my God, you’re him!” Her voice is already hoarse from sleep deprivation, but the new tears she’s shedding on my shoulder make it worse.
“I am. Hi.” My arms instinctually hug her back, and a warmth soothes my chest. I recognize the withdrawals of affection as soon as they hit me. It’s been a while since I’ve felt someone need me like this—like family. Like a parent. A part of me instantly needs her back.
“I wanted to call you and thank you, but the police said you were only in town for a few days. Everyone seems to know you, though.” She pulls away from our embrace and we both take a step back. She’s comfortable with me. I can tell by her relaxed shoulders, and that sets my nerves at ease.
“I grew up there. I had some family stuff to take care of and I’m thinking of sticking around.”
“Dear God, why?” She cups her mouth, realizing her gaffe.
I chuckle and wave off her apology before she can fully articulate it.
“I get it. Unless you grew up in Camp Verde, or really like small towns and nature and, well, nature, it seems like the worst place to live on Earth.”
She nods in agreement.
“My husband’s family left him land. He wants to stay.” Her eyes tell the rest of the story. She would give anything to leave—to leave him.
“I’d like to help out however I can. I mean, I don’t have much, not yet. But I’m racing in the Series race in a few weeks—”
“You’re . . . you’re a driver!” Her eyes light up more than a woman with a kid suffering from car crash injuries should at the news of meeting a race car driver.
“I am, yeah.”
“Come with me,” she says, taking my hand and leading me back into the lobby with her. We’re through the unit’s doors seconds later and soon inside Kyle’s room. She presses a button on the main monitor, turning down the regular beep.
“I finally had to ask the nurse how to do that. I’m always staring at that thing when I’m in here, so I don’t need to hear it. The sound—”
“It’s th
e worst,” I finish for her. I think back on the times my fake mom was in a hospital bed with machines making the exact same noise. It’s weird how it both haunts you one moment and you’re used to it the next.
She moves to the opposite side of the bed, where she’s made the chair more comfortable with blankets and a pillow, and takes her son’s hand.
“I’m Myra, by the way.” She glances up and gives me the softest smile. I don’t tell her I already know her name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Myra. Not under these circumstance, but . . .” My cheeks flush from the massive foot-in-my-mouth moment, but she quickly laughs it off.
“It’s very nice to meet you.” I can tell by the calmness that seems to relax her cheeks and slow her breath that she’s being earnest. Sometimes, it’s simply nice to not be alone in moments like this—in rooms like this.
I give in to the silence and for once, it isn’t hard. It actually gives me time to think. Virgil’s news about O’Keefe pulling his backing threw a hiccup in what felt like a fairly plausible plan, despite the fact that most of it is dependent on me winning my ass off this weekend. I have a back-up option. It’s been a while since we talked, but I’ve remained in contact with the guys I know in Vegas. It’s one thing to make some bets with them, maybe fix a desert race or two, or hit the strip hard with them over a weekend. But getting into business is a lot like getting into bed, and I’ve always had this strong suspicion that Alex Offerman sleeps with a loaded gun.
I tuck that option to the back of my mind and focus on what’s present. I’m not sure whether it’s the fact I’m in a hospital and getting pummeled with memories or if I’m nervous about how to approach my next conversation with Myra, but I’m suddenly sweating my ass off. I lean forward and pull my arms free from my hoodie, forgetting the bandage wrapped around my arm that looks as if it’s been through a war on its own. Before I can hide it to my side, Myra notices and reaches across her son toward my arm.
“You were hurt? Is that from helping Kyle?”
I grimace because the divot in her forehead is undoubtedly from guilt.
“It’s nothing,” I lie. I’ve already caught a glimpse and saw that the blood soaked through pretty good. It honestly doesn’t hurt that bad anymore. Redressing this thing is going to be a bitch, though.
“Dustin, that is definitely something. Let me get one of the nurses to take a look—”
“No. It’s fine,” I cut in, standing to match her posture. She stares into my eyes for a few hard seconds, and my eyes pain. Truth is, I don’t like doctors. And I’ve gotten good at healing on my own. This isn’t even the first time my arm’s been cut from glass.
I don’t have to say it out loud. Sometimes, when you’re a victim of abuse by someone who is supposed to love you, you’re given this superpower. It lets you look inside others and see how you’re alike. Myra, Kyle, and me? We’re alike.
“Can I at least take a look at it?” She reaches forward with both hands and for the first time in a while the skin on my arm burns.
After a deep breath, I relent, holding my arm out so she can inspect it more easily. Her hands are gentle, stripping away the loose end of gauze and unwrapping my wounds enough to get an idea of what’s underneath.
“Dustin.” She sounds like Hannah’s mom.
“I know. I’ll get it cleaned up.” I try to pull my arm away, but her hold on my hand tightens. I lift my chin to meet her parental stare. She’s cleaning this up, and she’s doing it now. I sigh but laugh a little through it.
“Okay. Let’s go to the bathroom.” I follow her lead toward the small bathroom attached to Kyle’s room and slide into the space between the wall and the sink so she can stand opposite me. When she steps out to search the small nursing station in the corner of the room, I unwind the gauze and wince when it sticks from the dried blood. By the time she comes back into the bathroom, I’m nearly done. The arm looks better than I thought it would, honestly. Probably because someone else cared enough to help me with it the first time.
“Can we clean it up?” She nods down toward the sink and I relent. She tests the water, finding a temperature she deems “luke,” then guides my arm under the stream. The sting isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be, and I relax my weight into the wall behind me, letting her take over. She rolls my arm slowly and runs her fingertips a few times over the deep scratches.
“You really should get some antibiotics on this,” she says, turning the water off and pressing a hand towel on my arm in sections to dry it off. I nod, knowing that Hannah will insist on it too.
Hannah.
My chest suddenly burns. This is the first time I’ve thought about Hannah in a future sense in so long. We kissed. She kissed back. It was so sudden and I was lost in this euphoria over my news. I haven’t had a chance to process what it means, but it has to mean something.
Hannah will want to take care of my arm—take care of me. I shiver, and I know Myra thinks it’s from the new wrap she’s affixing to my arm, but it’s not. That shiver was from my lack of control. I want Hannah, all of her, forever. But I’d be a fool to think that one excited moment in reaction to some big news meant more than it probably does.
“Myra, I have a favor to ask, and it’s uncomfortable and probably . . .” I pull my lips in tight and brace myself for the shitty thing I have to ask. “It’s definitely inappropriate, especially here in this room, where your son is recovering.”
“What is it?” That dent is back in her brow. She’s finished dressing my arm and the space in this bathroom feels about a million times tighter. I hug my arm against my chest, my other hand feeling her handiwork. This is how a mother takes care of a child.
“That news article they’re writing on the crash, and your push for the town council— Don’t shut down the Straights. I know it’s a lot to ask. And you have no reason to trust me or believe me, but I’m working on a solution. But until I can, that road is too important to too many people. A lot of identities are made on that road, and for a lot of people, it’s the only place they have to feel, well, anything. So, while it’s a lot to ask, I have to.”
I meet her eyes for the first time since I began my ramble, and I’m not prepared for the confused expression pulling in her brow and flattening her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Dustin, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My stomach sinks while my chest breaks open. I’m both relieved and panicked by her answer. If Myra doesn’t know, then who does?
“Would your husband be pursuing—”
“Trust me, he doesn’t want to pursue anything that makes him have to talk to people,” she says. I get the secondary message; he doesn’t want people in their business, nosing around and giving Myra ideas about deserving better.
“Okay. Well, that’s good, then. I’m sorry I had to ask.”
“Dustin, I might not love that I was dragged out there, but I get the idea of wanting a place to escape. And Kyle? He’s going to absolutely flip when he wakes up and realizes he was saved by a real circuit driver.”
I bite my lip on instinct, overcome with this odd bashful sensation. I smile through it and look down at the blood-stained bandage left behind in the sink. I am a real driver. Not just any driver, either. I’m the best, the best that ever was.
I follow her back to the main room, tossing away my old gauze as she settles into her visitor chair for a long afternoon and night. I pick up my hoodie and slip it back on, reaching for her hand one more time before leaving. She gives it to me willingly, and for a tiny moment, I imagine she’s my mom, and that our hands are the same.
“Kyle’s a really lucky dude, and when he gets out of here I’m going to have a job waiting for him, if he wants it.”
Her smile spreads and tears prick the corners of her eyes.
“He would like that.”
We both nod a silent agreement and I let her hand slip from mine, then find my way back to the garage. I’ll make the call to my Vegas friends on my drive
home. I’ll get Tommy on board with the idea when I get to the Judge house. And then, I’ll win Hannah back completely, leaving my heart without ache, without question.
I’ll do it because I’m Dustin fucking Bridges.
10
I wonder how many hours of my life I have spent staring up at Dustin’s wind chime? The fact I’m having that thought while hugging my knees to my chest sitting in the center of my bed, my head tilted back, and my focus blurring in and out on the jagged twists of metal, is not unusual. And here I always thought I was the artist.
He was such a kid when he made this for me. I mean, yes, he was almost eighteen and on his way to independence, but he was also this scared boy who only showed his fears to me. His hands made that. Hands that have grown to match his soul. Dustin finally walks around in a body befitting the man he is inside.
My God, he’s glorious.
My mouth falls into a seduced smile as I close my eyes and think about our kiss, my fingertips trailing down the curve of my neck to my shoulder, my breast and between my legs. I swallow hard and stop myself, blinking my eyes open and dropping my chin to my chest as I stretch my legs out to rid myself of this growing need. It’s more than simple temptation when it comes to Dustin. It always has been.
A soft rapping at my door is followed by its slow opening. Bailey looks in with only one eye, exaggerating the way she peeks through the crack in an effort to make me laugh. I do, but not very hard. She’s gotten used to my ups and downs. I had a lot of them in the beginning, right after Dustin left. Fewer in recent years. I’m not sure what I’m riding right now, a wave or a dip.
“So, are you hiding from me in here because you’re getting back together with the guy who broke your heart? Or are you that in love with your bedroom?” She looks in now with both pleading eyes. I nod to the end of my bed and encourage her to come revel in my epic childhood bedroom with me.
“Definitely the bedroom thing,” I say, flipping around to look up at the ceiling while my legs dangle off the side of the bed.
“I miss our dorm room,” Bailey says.