Shift by Ginger Scott
7
Idon’t know why I was so calm.
I should have been screaming, begging to be let out of the car.
Instead I sat there, eyes locked on the lines in the road, the distance shrinking, the milliseconds remaining for Dustin to make a move all flying through my mind in calculations. My body felt the same way it always does when I watch Dustin race. Or at least, I thought it did.
When my brother punched Dustin in the face, I peeled my hands from my legs and realized how hard I had been holding on. I don’t think it was fear of dying, though. I meant what I said. I do trust Dustin with my life, probably more than I trust Tommy. It would hurt my brother to hear that, but it’s the truth.
No, I wasn’t afraid for me. I was afraid for Dustin. I knew he wouldn’t lose, but I was willing him to win just the same. I was anticipating the big cheat, waiting for one of Alex’s guys to break the rules. I was waiting for fate to steal this from him with a blown tire or gasket. That’s what gripped my chest and held on tight. That’s why I cut my fingers deep into my skin. I didn’t want anything to take this from Dustin. I wanted him to get what he earned, what he deserved.
I always do.
I always have.
I knew he’d come to my house tonight, even if he didn’t have to. Bailey and I watched a few more races and I filled her head with what I thought she wanted to hear about: what it was like in that car, the intensity, and how close we were to losing it all. The entire time, though, my thoughts were on that kiss. And I knew Dustin’s mind was there too. I saw it in the glances he gave me from across the road where he leaned against the side of his car, hands deep in his pockets, relaxed. The only time he is ever relaxed, at least fully, is after a big win.
His headlights illuminate our driveway from down the street, the familiar growl of his engine music to my ears. I draw my legs in and hug them as I wait, barefoot, on the hood of my car. The air is a mix of warmth and the cool that drifts up from the river. It feels like summer.
Dustin isn’t in a hurry. It may be because my brother is on the verge of vomiting in his passenger seat and he doesn’t want to push him over the edge. Or maybe he’s thinking about what comes next, after he gets my brother inside, when we talk about the night.
The Supra’s lights dim as the car crawls into the driveway, and Dustin flicks them off before killing the engine. I stay where I am, coiled on my car, chin balanced on my right knee and gaze locked on Dustin’s through the windshield. I see him so clearly, even through the blur of reflected stars.
When Tommy pushes against the passenger door, Dustin leaps from his, jogging around to finish opening it before my brother gets sick inside. Tommy rolls out onto his hands and knees, heaving the cocktail mixed in his system onto the pavement. I roll my eyes and let go of my legs, sliding down the car to help. I move to Dustin’s open door first and reach in to grab his keys before closing it. By the time I get to the passenger side, Dustin’s managed to get my brother to his feet. I tuck myself under Tommy’s right arm to help keep him steady.
“Sorry about this,” I say, knowing how much Dustin hates this kind of stuff. My brother usually doesn’t get shit-faced. He has a good time, but that’s as far as partying goes. He did this to be a jerk.
“This isn’t your fault,” Dustin says, glancing at me as he leans forward and kicks the passenger door closed. I press the lock button on his key fob then stuff the keys into my pocket.
Thankfully, Tommy isn’t out enough to not be able to walk. He isn’t steady on his feet, but he’s at least able to prop up most of his own weight as we help him amble toward the front door. It’s two, maybe three in the morning by now, and our parents will be up by six for an event my mom is hosting at Town Hall. Thank God my mom quit trying to make Tommy and me volunteer for her craft fairs and bake sales. It’s mostly older ladies who help out, and they always want to teach us lessons. I don’t know that the good word can be heard when you’re seventeen and eighteen in a small town. Temptation comes in the form of nothing better to do out here, as my brother is so gracefully proving right now.
Dustin and I manage to get Tommy through the door and up the stairs before he nods off, his head slumped forward and body instantly a thousand pounds heavier.
“I got it from here,” Dustin says, sweeping my brother up in his arms. I pull my phone from my back pocket and snap a quick photo in case I need to hold this image over Tommy’s head sometime, then pull the comforter back on his bed before Dustin sets him down.
“Think we should take his shoes off?” He steps back to stare at his friend, my brother, as he inchworms into the covers and instantly begins to snore.
“I don’t think he cares,” I say, flipping the cover over half of his body. “I say we leave him.”
I move to the door and flick the switch for the ceiling fan. Tommy’s always liked the noise it makes; helps him sleep like a baby. Maybe he’ll make it late into the morning and avoid the massive hangover waiting to move in. Dustin stares at his bed for a few seconds before pushing his hands into his hair and blowing out. He rocks on his feet and spins to face me, our eyes meeting automatically.
“Come on,” I call to him, urging him out of my brother’s room. Frozen in place, he stares at me for a few breaths, probably considering the hidden meaning in my request. Where will he go when he leaves this room?
I step into the hallway and a second later, Dustin follows. I close my brother’s door and turn to find Dustin near. His body looms over and around me, my face at his chest. I reach up and run my finger along the center of it, drawing a line in the cotton of his T-shirt. I lift my chin to find his dipped, his eyes locked on my face, waiting for me to tell him what to do. I tilt my head to my right, toward my bedroom, then let my finger trace down to the bottom of his shirt, hooking the hem briefly as I turn away.
He doesn’t follow immediately, but by the time I reach my door, he’s only a few paces behind me. I hold the door wide for him to enter, breathing in his scent as he passes. He is all the things I love—oil, leather, a hard day’s work, his coconut shampoo, spearmint.
I push my door gently until it clicks at my back as Dustin moves slowly through my room. He’s been in here a thousand times, yet everything feels intimate now. My things feel on display, as if everything I own is a representation of who I am, and I’m suddenly worried he won’t like the story they tell. But Dustin, he’s one of those things too. He’s perhaps the biggest piece of my story, owning more than even my own family.
“I heard you won two grand from tonight,” I say, my voice low so I don’t wake anyone.
Dustin’s shoulders lift and he glances at me over his left shoulder, his lips ticked up with pride. “I did, yeah.”
Our eyes flirt, and eventually I have to blink away. My gaze falls to my feet, but I can tell he’s still looking at me. I feel it.
“Han . . . I’m real sorry. Tonight, what I did to you—that was too dangerous.” There’s an ache in his hushed tone, and I hate that he feels guilt over the best night of my life.
“No, it wasn’t.” I lift my head to find his eyes waiting, as I knew they would be.
His head briefly falls to the side then he shakes it.
“It was stupid. Careless,” he continues as he backs up to sit on the edge of my bed. The space around him feels so childish—my wall covered in band posters and dumb drawings of hearts and flowers I made with Bailey. The giant pink teddy bear my mom bought me for Easter is propped in the corner of my bed, and my comforter is woven with pink and gold glitter thread. It’s hard to make someone see you as a woman when everything about your space screams baby sister.
“I wasn’t scared,” I croak out.
Dustin laughs out quietly before looking up at me from under his golden lashes. The faint smile tugs on one side of his mouth more than the other, that same sloppy grin he wore when we were kids and Mom gave us ice cream. I think I’ve loved him my entire life, but it took seeing that face—the mix of innocence and sheer elation that colors his features when he’s happy—to make me realize how long my heart has been tied to his.
“I mean it. I wasn’t scared,” I insist, ungluing my feet from the hole they’ve dug in my carpet. I step toward him, noting the way his hands move to his knees and his shoulders roll as he straightens his spine.
“No?” he whispers, lifting his chin as I come closer.
“Uh uh,” I say, shaking my head.
My heart is racing, the beats so fierce I’m sure my skin is pulsing. I can’t breathe, yet the air is coming in and out so fast. Hours ago, I flew through the desert at a hundred and sixty miles per hour yet the five feet I just slowly crossed were far more terrifying.
I reach toward Dustin’s right hand just as he lifts it from his knee and our fingers twine, our touch soft and timid. So many times he’s held my hand through things—through haunted houses and rushing across highways. This touch, though, it’s different.
Palm to palm, our fingers fold together as we stare at the way we fit. His bronzed skin marred by grease, my pale pink fingers ringed with twists of gold. Lady and the Tramp. I step in closer, raising my left hand to his cheek and skimming along the roughness of his whiskers. He leans into my touch as my fingertips dive into his hair. The curls wrap around me, soft and cool.
As Dustin’s eyes close, his free hand moves from his other knee to the belt loop on my shorts. Hooking two of his fingers through the denim, he tugs me close. I straddle his legs instinctually, and when I feel the slight pull at my waist followed by the gentle tickle of his fingernails along my bare midriff, I take his lead and lower myself until I’m sitting on his lap, my knees bent on my bed.
Our hands untether and as mine roam along his neck, his drift up my body to my shoulders, then eventually push into my hair, twining the strands around his knuckles with a forceful grip that echoes the feeling in my chest—the feeling of wanting something so badly yet holding it out of reach because you know you shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.
His eyes bore into the divot at the base of my throat. I let my head fall forward until it rests against his, my view of his lashes, the sharp angles of his cheeks, and the line formed by his jawline—a line that wasn’t there a year ago. Everything about Dustin is grown up and ready for the world. I’m convinced he’s going to leave a massive mark on this life—on anything he touches. On me.
“Hannah.” He breathes out my name.
I close my eyes at the feel of his chin lifting, our heads rolling against each other. His nose drags against my cheek as his mouth lifts to meet mine, and I let a tiny gasp slip through my lips as I pant and wait.
“We shouldn’t,” he says. His breath dances against my cheek, crawling around my neck and filling the slight space between us with his own intoxicating drug.
“I know,” I agree, both of us doing little to stop.
He takes a careful nip at my upper lip, and a small whimper slips from my mouth in response. The sound drives him in for more, this time his lips clamping around mine, sucking in with a gentle pressure that completely melts me into his body. The more I sink into him, the stronger his grip is in my hair until one hand trails down my spine, lower and lower still until it sinks into the back pocket of my shorts and pulls me into him.
There’s nothing subtle about his lips on mine now, and I hold nothing back either. We’re holding each other as close as we can without literally becoming one. His tongue works inside my mouth, tasting me and filling my mouth with his sweet spearmint aftertaste. All of this—his scent, his body, his mouth, his skin—is as I’ve imagined when I lie awake at night and fantasize about a world where I’m not his best friend’s little sister. And right this moment, that’s the last thing I am to him.
His fingers curl in my pocket, nails scratching against the denim as he grips my ass and holds me tight against his hard body. Hard everywhere. I find myself wanting to nudge him farther back into my bed so I can press into him even more. I roll my hips against him to release the pressure, but the only thing it does is make me crave more. I do it again, and Dustin tugs my hair gently to tip my chin up and release our kiss. His teeth grit as hooded eyes meet mine. He’s lost to this as much as I am. We passed the option to turn back long ago. The only choice now is to wring every last pleasure out of this forbidden indiscretion.
Dustin bites at my chin, his lips softening the cut of his teeth with a kiss that he trails along my neck. His tongue finds the tip of my ear and he tastes me there too, sucking in then gently biting. I tilt my head back to expose my neck, urging him to enjoy more of me, and he does, kissing down my neck and along the collar of my shirt. His hands have crawled to the small of my back and are slowly gliding up my bare skin, finding shoulder blades and a spine free of bra straps. I took it off when I got home. I did that on purpose, because I hoped.
Dustin notices.
His hands flirt along my sides, his thumbs edging closer to my front until they finally meet the curves of my breasts. I arch out of need and peel away from our kiss, wishing . . . hoping.
The familiar double beep of a car alarm outside my window forces us to freeze. I clamp my lips shut and drop my forehead to Dustin’s shoulder as we hold our breath and listen. The heavy clunk of my dad’s truck door comes next, followed by the click of the front door shutting, the deadbolt locking into place.
Footsteps pound against the wood stairs, my dad’s inability to be quiet the only thing that saved us from perhaps getting carried away.
Saved. Spoiled.
My parents’ bedroom door creaks open then shuts and we exhale. Neither of us moves for several seconds, though we both know that whatever this was—what was happening tonight—it’s finished, at least for now.
“I better sleep on Tommy’s floor,” Dustin says, his voice a gravelly whisper.
“He might throw up.” I’m only half joking.
Dustin breathes out a quiet laugh that dances against my skin, firing goose bumps at the back of my neck and down my arms and legs.
“I’d deserve it,” he says.
I nod, my cheek rubbing against his. We peel apart with a reluctant sort of guilt, and our eyes barely meet. My skin warms every tiny second they do. I’m not sure whether I’m embarrassed or still reeling from wanting him so bad.
It’s clear Dustin is still feeling the effects of our massive make-out session. His jeans bulge at his crotch, and I’m deviously satisfied that I made his dick so hard. I wonder if he touches himself thinking about me the way I do about him?
I twist to sit on the corner of my bed he just abandoned, the blankets still warm from his body. I smile at the sight of his twisted up hair, knotted in the back from my hands. His frame takes so much space, his chest wide, shoulders broad, and back muscular. I’ve admired his body so many times, so many ways, but now having felt it . . .
He pauses at my door, his forehead pressed against the jamb, one palm flat against the wood, the other wrapped around the knob.
He glances at me over his shoulder, his eyes drawn in, almost afraid . . . until he sees the coy smile breaking through on my lips. The moment his gaze dips, a smile of his own takes hold.
“Good night, Hannah Banana.”
I blink slowly, top teeth clamping down on my bottom lip before letting go.
“Good night, Dustin Bridges.”
He reaches to his left and flips the light switch, cloaking my room in darkness. In another breath, he’s gone.
He’s gone. But he’s also everywhere. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake him.