Page 28 of Dirty Mechanic

Lap after lap, I tame the beast, dialing in suspension and feeling each vibration under my gloves.

I make a mental note to stiffen the rear sway bar before qualifying; that extra bite could shave off crucial tenths.

By the time I roll back to the pit lane, sweat cools on my brow.

Richard—the “rookie” I coached at sign-up night—kneels beside a gleaming, emerald-green 1968 Shelby GT350 under a flickering floodlight. That car could smoke my Mustang flat. Rookie? I’m not so sure anymore.

His hands are stained with oil. He looks up as I kill the engine. “Nice run,” he calls, his voice quiet with a dark undertone. .

I slide from the cockpit. “You putting in a practice run?”

He snaps the hood closed. “Figured I’d get in before the crowds.” He wipes a smear of grease across his cheek. “Nothing like the track to teach you life lessons.”

I nod, catching the flicker in his eyes. “Feels like more than racing.”

He shrugs, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Sometimes tracks settle old scores,” he says, voice tight. “And when you’ve got nothing left, you learn to race ghosts.”

I drop a hand on his shoulder. “See you in the next round.”

Rick’s gaze drills into mine. “Count on it.”

He offers a half-smile, slow and knowing, then steps away before I can ask what he really means. I chalk it up to early-morning nerves. I watch Richard disappear into the shadows, but his words echo in my skull like a curse: “Race ghosts.” I shove down the tremor in my gut and head for home.

As I drive, my mind flicks to Annabelle’s cheer at the tracks. She used to jump and wave like my number one fan, then be the first one to run into my arms. How her mouth sated me when exhaustion and her presence were the only fuel I burned.

God, I’m running on half a tank of adrenaline and a full tank of need right now.

Back in the driveway, I scrub the Mustang’s flanks with warm water, each sweep releasing this morning’s grit. The sun climbs higher as dawn’s adrenaline fades into morning chores. Water beads on the flanks, carrying away yesterday’s skid marks and my lingering doubt. The metal gleams under my palm, cool and reassuring. I breathe in the scent of wet rubber and soap, letting it ground me. Every swirl of the rag reminds me: I’m in control until that rag slips from my hand in a single thought of her.

For a heartbeat, I feel Sarah beside me and hear her laughter. The memory slices through like a blade. I scoop up the rag and press harder, forcing the ghost back down, driving it back into its grave. After the wash, I tighten the rear sway bar, then roll out from underneath the beast—and find Annabelle standing there, curious and endearing.

We chat in the garage like it's the old times, her forgetting she didn’t have the coffee she offered, and me catching every glimpse of her wall, slowly crumbling away. Then Caroline’s beat-up pickup growls down the drive. That truck’s rattle sounds like a drumroll. Dust kicks up in our faces as she eases to a stop. For a second, the only thing I see is Annabelle’s jaw dropping, and her shield cracking wide open.

I step beside her, rag in hand, ready to jump in. But Caroline’s first words—“Surprise!”—land like a warm hug around the morning’s tension, and we all exhale together.

Everything freezes in that sweet, domestic pause. Pie in hand, Caroline’s sunshine and apology and OG drama all at once. For a second, it feels normal, until Annabelle mentions heading to town for her missing panties and cream.

Suddenly the air sharpens to steel.

My body snaps, and my hand tightens on the rag behind my belt, testing the threads. I strip off my grease-stained tee in one swift motion.

“I’m driving you,” I say, voice low enough to cut glass. She wants to argue, but it’s pointless.

I barely register our conversation after that, because I’m so fucking focused on Motor-Inn, I can’t breathe. Ten minutes later, I drop Annabelle off at the clinic and head straight for the motel down the road.

The midday sun blazes off Mike’s rusted Chevy, turning the metal into a damn furnace. Heat waves ripple off the hood as I circle the car, instinct prickling along my skin.

The truck’s been bothering me since he pulled out of my driveway. And under the relentless glare of the motel parking lot, I see why. The VIN plate looks new.

Too clean. Too precise for a clunker this old. Fraud.

I trace the scratched registration beneath the windshield.

Son of a bitch.

My fists clench, fury rising, but smashing my own hand won’t tell me what Mike’s up to. I yank out my phone and snap photos of the VIN plate, then march to the motel room where Annabelle stayed. The door is cracked open, warm air carrying the stale stink of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

Mike leans in the frame, arms crossed.