by Ginger Scott
“Oh, shit!” I hop on one foot while grabbing my injured one.
“Dustin?” Hannah comes rushing out of the garage, earbuds stuffed in her ears. She reaches me just as I’m able to lean my weight on the back of the Supra and pry the hook from my sole.
“Weird time for a garage sale,” I say, wincing from the wound that’s probably soaking my sock as I speak. I’m pulling off my shoe as Hannah’s dad wanders toward us from the house, two lemonades in his hand.
“Did you hear him? Garage sale,” Hannah says.
“Yeah, yeah. I heard him. I’m sorting. Can’t you all tell the difference?” Mr. Judge shoves one of the lemonades into my chest, splashing me with a third of it, then pushes the nearby scattered lures out of our way with his work boot.
“Let me see.” He grips my shoe in his palm and my toe throbs from the sudden movement.
“Toughen up, son. You think the eleven car is going to be gentle with you out at the speedway?” He slides his glasses from his head down to his nose and removes my shoe. In his distraction, I let myself study his face.
“No, sir,” I say, not able to help the grin forming on my lips. “Hannah told you, huh?”
“Uh huh,” Mr. Judge grunts.
My gaze slides over to Hannah, and when our eyes connect, I swear I hear her thoughts. My dad is proud of you. My chest warms. He hasn’t called me son, other than his one slip up, in a really long time.
“Han, can you run in and grab the first aid kit? Oh, and the alcohol?” He glances sideways to his daughter.
“Oh, that’s not neccess— Oh, wowawow!” He’s barely squeezing my toe and I’m literally reeling.
“It’s necessary,” he emphasizes.
“Gah!” I let my head fall back and my arms fold over my face. I can take a punch. Heck, I’ve been stabbed! Why is it that a toe injury can literally cripple me?
Hannah rushes toward the house, leaving me alone with her father for the first time since we met in a diner and he told me I needed to leave. His focus is tunneled on my foot, despite that there isn’t much for him to do until Hannah comes back with bandages and alcohol. He’s avoiding eye contact, which is fine with me because I’m still not sure how to fit in here. It used to be so natural and easy, but life fucked everything up.
“How was the drive?” he grumbles.
“Oh, you know, your typical landscape of sedans and minivans all holding steady at sixty-five.”
Mr. Judge coughs out a laugh, but he still doesn’t look up. He pulls my sock down and folds it over my toes to soak up more blood.
“That sucker went right through, huh?” I twist my ankle in his palm and he grips it steady, holding me still.
“That lure and hook was for big fish,” he responds, pulling his glasses from his face and hooking them on the collar of his shirt.
“Welp, caught one,” I joke.
His lip tugs up on the side I can see, but he doesn’t laugh. That’s okay. It was a pretty stupid joke. I’m uncomfortable and can’t think of anything to say.
“Dustin, listen—”
“It’s fine. Really,” I cut in. “Whatever it is, don’t worry about it.” My chest is so tight. As uncomfortable as it is to sit here in either silence or forced banter, I don’t know if I can handle whatever direction Mr. Judge is planning to go. Unfortunately, I don’t know that I have a choice as I look down and into the eyes of a truly broken man.
“It isn’t fine,” he says, the corners of his mouth drawing down, his shoulders falling.
Sucking in my lips, I breathe in through my nose and widen my eyes as I shake my head at him. A short laugh slips out, and the dam I’ve worked so hard to build cracks in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, then lean my head back when I open them. The sky is purple, caught between sunset’s pink and dusk’s blue. This sky . . . it makes me think of the Straights, of rolling up and seeing Hannah there, of winning.
“It’s not fine. You’re right. But what does that matter? It’s done. All of it. I can’t go back and get the last four years as a do over, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to put your daughter in danger. I see the mess Colt left behind. It wouldn’t have been good here. Who knows what kind of man I would have turned into. I would have felt obligated when he got sick, and then I would have felt even more cursed than I already do. So yeah, Mr. Judge. It isn’t fine, but it’s also over with. I’d kinda like to focus on the future now if that’s all right with you?”
I don’t meet his gaze until my last few words, but I can tell by the way my anguish is reflected in his eyes that he understands. I see the respect. He hasn’t looked at me like this in a while—like a son.
His brow draws in slowly, the lines on his forehead growing deeper with each breath as his eyes flit from our connection and away again.
“Whatever it is you think you need to say to me, Mr. Judge, don’t. You don’t have to. I don’t really want to know. Unless you truly think it’s a matter of life or death, my safety, Hannah’s safety, Tommy’s? If it’s not, then seal it up and forget it yourself.” There are a lot of things I’m locking away and forgetting when I can.
Torment clouds his eyes, and for a moment his lips part as if he’s going to counter my request and force me to listen. Eventually, his teeth clamp down and he grits out a forced smile, nodding his acceptance.
“How about you start calling me Tom again. That work for you?” He looks up at me, one eye squinted.
Everything in my chest aches to call him Dad, like I used to when we were little. I tried that name out for a while and I liked it, but using it only made it harder to go back home to my real father. Tom came easy, though. I suppose it could again.
“I can do that,” I agree as Hannah rejoins us. She wrinkles her face when she spots the state of my sock.
“That’s a lot of blood,” she says, her lips soured.
“Nah, it’s nothing. Right, Tom?” Her dad chuckles and shakes his head before going to work on my injury.
“I’ve seen worse,” he says, tossing my blood-drenched sock to the ground. He pours the alcohol on my wound and I brace myself from the burn of it before leaning forward enough to get a good look at the piercing on the outside of my big toe. If it didn’t hurt so much I’d think it was pretty cool.
“Maybe I can put one of those septum rings in it,” I joke. Hannah lightly smacks the back of my head, but her dad laughs. It’s a genuine, unfiltered, unforced response, and this little glimpse into a possible future where life could be normal is what I need. It gives me the courage to ask my big question.
“Hey, Tom?”
Hannah’s gaze snaps to me. She’s probably surprised to hear me call him that. I shrug and give her a half smile before returning my attention to her dad.
“Yessss?” He drags out the word teasingly, knowing I’m having fun with his name, but also perhaps suspecting I’m going to hit him up for help with something. He’s not wrong. And what I’m about to ask? It’s a big deal. From a guy like me to a guy like him.
“You think Hannah, Tommy, and I could borrow your truck for a little road trip to Vegas along with my mechanic Virgil when he gets to town?”
I’m not surprised when his first reaction is to laugh out loud. But after several seconds of me not letting him off the hook, his hands still where they press a square patch of gauze to my wound. His head pops up, and I can tell by the way his eyes pull in that he realizes I’m dead serious. He also knows that after that big speech, he can’t say no. I may not know the details of his burning confession, but I’m savvy enough to get that Hannah’s dad feels guilty about a lot of things having to do with me. Maybe it makes me a jerk, but I need a better vehicle to make that drive to Vegas. One that can comfortably hold the four of us and some luggage.
He’s about to say yes.
“This have something to do with this grand plan of yours to fix things for Amanda? This about the Straights?” He’s no dummy.
I tilt my head and lift a shoulder, pulling my bottom lip up o
ver the top to let him know he’s in the ballpark. He studies me while his hands go back to work rolling gauze around my toe and foot. At this rate, I’ll be in a full body cast by next week. I really hope that thought isn’t prophetic.
“You the only one driving it?” He lifts a brow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hey!” Hannah protests. Her dad waves his hand and chews at the inside of his mouth, keeping his focus on me.
“Honey, I love you, but you’ve taken off that passenger mirror twice now,” he says. I smirk and Hannah not-so-playfully punches my arm.
I rub it and hold my breath while Tom looks down at my foot to finish his treatment of my injury, tearing off the roll of gauze and clamping the end down with a small metal fastener.
“She doesn’t go over eighty. And you scrape the bugs off and give her a nice hand wash when you get back.”
I smile and nod when he looks up, accepting his verbal contract.
“When you going?”
“As soon as Virgil gets here with my race truck,” I say, news that sparks a glimmer in Tom’s eyes. “Maybe I leave those keys behind in case you need to take it somewhere?”
He simpers then leans back rubbing his hands together, no doubt already imagining the donuts he’s bound to do out in the desert. Finally leaning forward, he holds out his hand and we shake.
“She’s yours.”
Hannah squeals at the news, and I’m not sure whether she’s excited about Vegas, a road trip with me, or both. But I note the subtle clue her dad just said there, and I’m kinda glad she missed it. He’s giving me his blessing to try again, to try to win Hannah’s heart completely. And he can say she’s mine all he wants, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing until she declares it herself.
12
My brother is still pissed that he was the last to know Dustin’s big news. It’s all he griped about during the three-hour drive to Vegas. Thank God for hot strippers and showgirls, because he seems to have moved on from chirping about it now that we’re on the strip and his eyes are being assaulted by flesh.
“Maybe I’ll get a job here. My parents would love that,” Bailey says, picking up a card from the sidewalk with a topless woman pictured on one side. She flips it over as if she’s really reading the phone number and considering giving this place a call.
“I’m pretty sure they would hire a hitman and take me out of your life for good,” I joke, knocking the card from her hand and back to the ground. I loop our arms together and hold my friend close as we all make our way into one of the casinos.
I begged Dustin to let Bailey join us for the trip. She and I haven’t had a lot of time together since the whirlwind of getting home and Dustin crashing back into my life. I can tell she’s off, too. We had talked a lot about this summer, about her maybe staying up at school and getting a job. I toyed with the idea of doing that with her, but it was the Straights that lured me back. I missed the vibe. The culture. Dustin’s ghost.
There’s a part of me that’s always looked for him out there, and it’s why I picked coming home over cutting the ties a little more and trying full independence. I’m ready for it, to be my own woman without my parents’ input. But Amanda Judge is running for mayor. Again. And “family is family, and we support each other” blah blah blah. My dad’s rah-rah speech has grown truly tiresome. I quit pointing out that nobody seems to support my desire to study art. All I get is the polished line “art is more of a hobby; you don’t need to go to school for that.” I don’t even paint for fun anymore. I have a useless portfolio of work buried in one of the boxes I brought home from college. My parents and their weird penchant for practical life goals ruined it.
Practical. As if there is anything practical about me graduating in a year or two and then going to work at some hedge fund, or in human resources at some company, or whatever the fuck it is I’m supposed to do with a business degree. I have the distinct feeling I will be fetching coffee. How inspiring.
The five of us pile through a huge set of heavy glass doors. Virgil holds one side open and insists Bailey and I enter after him. I like Virgil. I’m not sure he appreciated being stuffed in the back seat of my dad’s truck with two college girls and their playlists blasting through the speakers, but he took it like a champ. He’s got this gentleman quality about him, and I can see why Dustin trusts him. Too bad Virgil couldn’t have been Dustin’s father. I guess Dustin wouldn’t have been Dustin then, and I like him as he is. I like him a lot.
“You guys hang here and I’ll check with the concierge, see if Alex is here yet.”
Dustin keeps rolling then unrolling his sleeves. I can tell he’s nervous, but I have faith in him. I know Alex does too. They have history on the track, back to our high school days. He’s one of the very few who never treated Dustin like he was some punk kid. He’s far from a kid. Always has been, really, but looking at him now—he’s so mature. He put on a black button down in the truck when we pulled into the garage. It looks nice on him, fitted to his chest, the top button open, the silver chain he’s worn since he was a high school freshman reflected in the casino lights. My parents bought him that chain, and I remember feeling embarrassed that it wasn’t gold; it was silver—cheaper. But Dustin loved it instantly. He’s grown up with it and grown into it. “Silver,” he always said, “is faster. Like a bullet.”
It’s crazy how such a tiny outfit change can shift an appearance. It’s the same black jeans, the same skate shoes. Even his hair is the same. But those arms, that chest, his waist and hips, his jaw—his lips. Maybe I’m intoxicated by the lure of Vegas as a twenty-one-old. The last time I was here I used a fake ID, and Bailey was too scared to cut loose. Perhaps I’m looking forward to a night at the clubs, dancing with Dustin’s eyes on me. I’m flirting with danger, but my body is drunk on allure.
“Better pick your chin up before you drool on the floor,” Bailey teases at my ear.
I glare at her, but I know my cheeks are red from getting caught. My skin burns when I’m embarrassed.
“Doesn’t he seem, I don’t know, older to you? Like, gah! Sexy older?” I fidget with the small metal tag hanging from my chain, pressing my thumb into the Latin stamped on the surface—Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. I bought this for my eighteenth birthday. I liked the sentiment, and on some level, I liked that it made me feel superior to Dustin. It let me be angry at him for not being faithful. For leaving. But standing here now, seeing the man he’s become, the effort he is putting into a really crazy plan to create something for a town that’s never been very nice to him, I realize what perhaps drew me to this charm in the first place.
Always faithful.
Maybe this is what that looks like.
“You forget, Hannah,” Bailey says at my side, bringing me back to the present. I turn my head to meet her eyes and concentrate on her cunning smile. “You’ve grown up a lot too.”
My friend winks at me and steps away to join Tommy and Virgil on the set of chairs nestled around an ornate fountain. I linger on my brother, my friend, and the man who’s become an anchor in Dustin’s life for a few seconds before turning my gaze back to Dustin, to the near future playing out in my mind—when his hands are on me. Yes, I have grown up. So much.
I hardly recognize Alex when he slips out from a door behind the desk. He was always a few years older than us, but that gap seems greater now. His beard-covered face and clearly expensive suit scream of a man who has moved beyond street races and daddy’s money. But I trust Dustin, that he knows what he’s doing. It’s clear Alex is in a position to invest. What’s not clear is why he would want to.
“Guys,” I say, waving the rest of our crew over as Dustin waves to me.
I feel the heat from Alex’s eyes as we stroll up, and I think Dustin does too because his hand finds mine in the space between us. I manage to mask the flinch in my reaction and play along, weaving our fingers together and letting Dustin go as far as to bring our tethered hands to his mouth to kiss the back of my hand. The gestur
e makes Tommy roll his eyes, but it seems to do the job in warding off Alex’s unwanted attention.
“Welcome, welcome!” Alex stretches his arms wide, then greets each of us with a handshake or a kiss on our cheeks for Bailey and me. His breath is warm, tainted with expensive cigar and whiskey, and something about him feels predatory. My eyes meet Bailey’s and I catch the small flash she gives me, lifting her lids in warning. She feels it, too.
“I’ve reserved a table for us for seven. And I have your rooms in the tower. We can talk business over drinks and dinner, but I’m sure you all are tired from the drive. I mean, except this guy, right?” Alex slaps Dustin’s chest with a heavy hand, his palm stretching across his heart in a possessive, dominant way. Dustin’s jaw ticks, but he forces his tight lips to smile through it.
“Actually, I’m pretty tired of weaving through hungry gamblers,” he says, cracking a wider smile. Alex plays along, laughing. Still, this all feels scripted, as if there are things not being said.
“Do you need help with your things? Hannah?” Alex’s attention turns to me and I instinctively squeeze Dustin’s hand, relieved he’s still holding on to me.
“We’ve got it. Thanks,” Dustin answers for me. He puts his hand on Alex’s shoulder, fingers wide as he pats with that same show of strength Alex used. The testosterone fumigating the air around me is toxic.
“Excellent,” Alex says, playing out a mini stare-off with Dustin that ends in the both of them chuckling. It’s less humorous when you’re the prize of some male pissing match.
“Are those our keys?” I say, nodding toward the five separate cards laid out on the concierge desk. Alex glances over his shoulder.
“Yes.” Before he can reach to take control over them, no doubt taking pleasure in doling them out to us—to me—I grab the two on top and unravel Dustin’s hand from mine, replacing it with Bailey’s.
“Great. We’re going to freshen up,” I say, pulling my friend from what feels like seconds away from becoming a sword fight. I’m glad Tommy doesn’t pipe up. He’s less nuanced than Dustin, and would kill any possibility of convincing Alex to invest in Dustin’s idea. As it is, I’m not so sure I like the idea of Alex being involved.