Page 20 of Dirty Mechanic

He pats his jacket pocket, like reaching for something that isn’t there. “Damn. Left my wallet.”

Classic.

I grab a rag, ready to send him off, but something flutters from his pocket—green lace with pink apple blossoms—my brain stutters.

I know those panties.

I’ve undressed her from those panties.

He snatches them up, and shoves them deep in his pocket. “Just a keepsake,” he says. “Plenty more where that came from.”

My fists curl and knuckles crack. Rage licks up my spine like fire in dry brush. He’s not just circling—he’s marking.

But I keep my voice steady.“No charge. But you’re running on borrowed time.”

He climbs into the Chevy like he owns the world, tosses me a smirk, and drives off—leaving a crater where my calm used to dwell.

I yank my phone. Call Annabelle.

No answer.

Try again—still nothing.

Jaw tight, I pocket the phone, grab my Swiss Army knife, and head into town.

At the Sheriff’s office, I collect Annabelle’s suitcase. Misty’s behind the counter—strong, centered, every bit the woman she’s become. A survivor.

“George brought it by last night,” she says, rolling the suitcase over. “Heard Annabelle’s back. She staying with you?”

“She is. Hoping she sticks around.”

“Need help making that happen?” She grins.

“Wish you could,” I say—then add a wink. “But I’m working on it.”

Misty’s smile fades. “Have you met Mike? New guy in town. Saw him at the coffee stand this morning, and he gives me the creeps.”

“Stopped by the garage, and the feeling’s mutual. Keep your distance, Misty. I don’t trust him.”

She stands straight. “I can handle myself.”

Says every woman just before she’s kidnapped. I lay my palm over hers. “I’d rather my family were safe, so keep your distance.”

She nods.

Back home, I drop the suitcase at the stairs and slip into the garage. Every floorboard creak sets my skin on edge and every gravel crunch raises the hairs on my neck.

An hour later, I hear the faint scrape of her bicycle, but she doesn’t come find me—so I go to her.

Upstairs, the scent of soap hits me first, clean, sharp, intoxicating. I raise my hand to knock just as the bathroom door swings open. There she is, wearing only my shirt.

I forget how to breathe.

“Derek!” She grips the frame. The shirt rides up, and my brain flatlines.

“I was just—” My voice dies.

“Checking for spiders?” A smirk teases her lips.