Chapter 15
15
FORD
P ulling up to Dulce’s house, I notice the same mailbox leaning to the side like a pole after a hurricane. The vinyl stickers remain faded, but the numbers on her street have nearly peeled off.
When I think back on her car situation, I press the brake to stop the car and turn to face her before she gets out. “I can rent you a car,” I offer.
“That’s not necessary,” she rushes out.
“Why not?”
She needs a car. She has a business to run and needs to get to and from work, plus I’m sure she has deliveries. It’s the least I can offer right now.
She turns to face me in her seat, her voice shaking slightly. “Why are you doing this?”
“What?” I frown. I'm not sure if she’s asking why I’m offering to rent her a car or why I keep showing up.
She stretches her hands out wide. “This?” she says sharply. Her face is splotchy from crying, but it doesn’t diminish her gorgeous appearance. I instinctively want to protect her, which brings out my possessive edge to ensure she has no reason to cry.
I play dumb. “Are you upset at me for taking you home?”
“I could have called a cab.”
“It’s late and expensive,” I reason.
“I’m not your responsibility, Ford. I appreciate you helping me the other night, but...”
“I am responsible, though.”
She shakes her head. “You weren’t even in the country when it happened. It was my own fault. I was stupid and na?ve…” She closes her eyes, struggling to say things she doesn’t want to.
It’s not like I expect her to open up to me and tell me her innermost secrets, but I have to help her with anything she needs.
After a few seconds, she opens her eyes and stares out the window, and it feels like the first time I took her home four years ago. It felt good when I did it, the same way it does now.
The tension lingers in the air.
In her mind, she believes that I'm just like everyone else in this town. I may not know her very well, but considering everything she’s been through, it’s clear that Dulce is strong. Resilient. Honest. She is determined and kind, putting all her dreams on hold. A human being who doesn’t deserve what life has thrown at her.
“Stupid to think what?” I ask after a while when it’s evident she’s not going to say any more without being pushed a little. I don’t want to say goodbye yet. Not without finding out what is going through her mind right now.
She sighs in defeat and opens the door. “Nothing. I-I…thanks for the ride, Ford.”
I reach out just as she is about to get out but hesitate and grip the steering wheel, not wanting her to be afraid of me. “Dulce, wait. Wait, please.”
She pauses and looks over her shoulder with an unreadable expression, giving me hope.
I’m sorry, Dulce, for everything,” I say honestly. “I know you might not believe me right now, but... I want to help you.”
Her chin jerks up a little with a determined expression. It triggers my instinct not to let her go, but I want her trust more than anything.
“No one can help me, Ford, and you’re the last person I expect anything from.” She gets out and shuts the door.
I watch as she walks on the little path of broken pavers toward her house, skipping every few steps to avoid the potholes. It takes everything in me to keep from going after her. My fixation with her erased everything else going on in my life, leaving nothing but her.
Trent’s confession probably brought back memories she’s been trying to forget for the past four years. But I think it's important for her to share what happened to her with someone. I can be that person. I know I can, but I don’t think she’s ready to believe when I tell her she’s not stupid and it wasn’t her fault.
Guilt runs through me like venom. Back in high school, I did nothing. I was a coward. I stood by and watched her endure the bullying. I believed I protected her by ignoring the bullying, hoping it would eventually stop.
But I wouldn’t have stood by and allowed what happened to her on prom night. Would she believe me if I told her that, though?
If we’re assigning blame, Trent and Chris are at the top of the list. But someone else was involved, too. Someone who did something way worse.
For four years, no one has helped her get justice. The money and power of Chris’s and Trent’s well-connected families have made sure of that.
Dulce Webster may not be important to anyone in this town besides her dying grandmother, but she is to me.
I place the car in first, peeling out as the back tires kiss the pavement. The adrenaline rush as the car hits one hundred and ten does nothing to calm the storm brewing in my veins.
By the time I make it back to Trent’s garage, the sun is setting with purple and orange streaks in the sky. The red neon sign outside the building shines brighter as the sun disappears. The two young guys constantly bickering outside seem to have left for the day. When I park, the only car in front is Trent's GTO.
I walk in and hear Trent muttering a curse, followed by metal hitting aluminum with a clang. He must have sensed my approach because he looks around the raised hood of Dulce's van, caked in dirt and grease.
“I said not to fix it,” I tell him tightly.
“Well, I never listened to my parents, so I’m not going to start with you,” he says, turning around to grab a tool.
“I’m buying her a new one,” I state.
He snorts. “Yeah, like she would take it coming from you. Why would she want anything from us, anyway? To be honest, you can’t blame her.”
“Not from you.” I pause, hating him for what he did. The broken look in her eyes at his confession is killing me inside, making my anger boil and causing my fist to clench and the tic in my jaw to run rampant. “She could have died!” I yell.
I wanted to confront him as soon as I found out, but I had to wait because I want to kill him.
“Don’t you think I know that?” he roars, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes. “Do you think I go to sleep at night knowing what I did to her?” He lets out a strangled cry of frustration, but I don’t feel sorry for him. Not him or Chris. Not even me. We all destroyed Dulce in some way.
“I broke her fucking phone, man.” He shuts his eyes. "She couldn't call for help. I…”
Something snaps inside me. I continue raining blows on his face, and he takes it. I’m losing control, but he deserves it. They all do. I’m surprised he doesn’t fight back. Trent is not one to back down from a fight, even if he deserves it.
His back is against the front of Dulce’s van, trying to keep from falling. “Don’t stop,” he manages to say through a bubble of bloody spit. Some land on my chin, but I don’t wipe it off.
I land a few more punches. I split his brow. His lip. I’m out of breath. My arms feel like lead, so I drop them. My knuckles are split open. Sweat drips down my face, but I welcome the sting in my eyes. I watch his face swell in the scorching heat like a dead body would. His face is almost unrecognizable.
“Give me Chris’s address,” I demand between breaths. He attempts to spit on the concrete, but instead, a glob of blood-tinged saliva slides down his chin. Through the tiny slits in his swollen eyes, I can see that he understands.
I walk to the driver’s side of the Porsche, and I’m surprised he can get inside the passenger seat after locking the side door. He presses an app on his phone. The garage door automatically closes.
I reach behind the seat. “Don’t get dirt, grease, or blood on the car,” I tell him, tossing the towel in his face. “It’s a rental.”
I program in the address Trent gives me to Chris’s place.
“I’m sorry, man. I swear I didn’t touch her. It wasn’t me,” he says as I speed down the road.
It doesn’t take long before the GPS has me turning down a road with a large two-story house at the end. The grass looks three weeks overdue for a cut. The windows don’t have blinds. It looks like a family moved in but didn't have money to cover the windows and decided to put sheets in different colors so no one could look inside.
I get out of the car, not bothering to wait for Trent. I don’t care if he comes with me or not. As I walk up the steps to the front door, it sounds like a small party inside, with loud music blaring. In the dim glow from the outdoor light that’s half full of dead bugs, I see a doorbell with a missing button. I bang on the wood door with scuffs and peeling paint.
I’m about to knock on the door again when the door opens a bit. A woman's head pokes out, looking like a bird. A bad dye job on the woman's burnt hair has resulted in mottling between dark brown and green.
Her eyes widen, her pupils dilate, and she blinks like a lizard a couple of times. It takes her a few seconds for her eyes to focus on me.
She gives me a once-over. “Who are you?” she asks.
“Where’s Chris?”
She leans on the door and smiles. Her yellow teeth and the black tartar surrounding her gums make me want to throw up.
“Around, inside, outside,” she says, and then lets out a drug-induced laugh, causing her to shift on her feet. The smell of stale smoke, beer, and rotten wood makes my throat thick with bile.
I swallow it down. “Get Chris,” I grind out, barely restraining myself from charging the door and pushing the bitch out of my way.
“Chris!” she yells as loudly as her raspy smoker’s voice can manage.
“Who is it?” he fires back, stumbling toward the door.
A hand with dirty fingernails grips the door above her head, and he comes into view. His armpit hairs are inches from her face, but she doesn’t move. From the looks on both of them, I’m positive they haven’t showered in days.
I have never seen Chris in this state. It almost makes me feel sorry for him. If it weren’t for what he did to Dulce, I would try to figure out a way to help him.
When he recognizes me, his eyes widen, glassy and unfocused. “Look who decided to visit!” he says with a wide, crazed smile. “Ford Keller.”
The woman’s eyes go wide like she won a prize. “The racecar driver friend you told me about,” she says, then cackles.
“The one and only,” Chris says, moving to the side. “Come in.” A shadow runs over the wall, and I know it's Trent standing behind me. “Holy shit, Trent. What the fuck happened to you?”
I don’t turn around because I don’t need to. After staring at Trent some more, Chris raises his brow at me. “You did that?”
I don’t respond, and neither does Trent. After a few tense seconds, Chris nods.
“Because he owes you money, Ford.”
I wish it was that easy.
“What do you think?” I ask, looking at him with a hard expression.
He shrugs his shoulders like a little kid. “I don’t know,” he says and then laughs. I watch as he scratches the meth sores on his arms, near the faded tattoos on scraped skin that looks like they were homemade from a tattoo kit you ordered online.
“Do they want to come inside?” the woman offers suggestively.
I would rather eat my own shit.
“That’s okay. Maybe some other time,” I reply, staring directly at Chris. “I just came to see how Chris was doing.”
“He’s doing fine, ain’tcha baby,” she says, cupping his junk over his dirty blue jeans.
With a gleam in his eyes, he smiles. “Yep. I’m mighty fine, Ford.” Chris nudges his head. “You and Trent should come hang out with us. I don’t mind sharing.”
“We’re good,” Trent says in a muffled voice.
When I get in my car and Trent shuts the door, Trent asks, “Now what?”
“I come back. Alone.”