Page 31 of Dirty Mechanic

I sit. He wets a gauze pad and presses it to my lip. It stings like hell.

“Split right through,” he mutters. “Not the worst I’ve seen, but it’ll swell. Hold still.”

I wince as he cleans the wound, then he hands me a tube. “Antibiotic cream. Twice a day, unless you want to look like you sparred with a lawn mower.”

“Got it.”

He tosses the gauze and leans on the counter. “By the way… I offered Annabelle a position here.”

I look up, surprised. “You did?”

“Yeah. She’s over-qualified, but she didn’t bite. Said she’d think about it… Didn’t seem convinced.”

I roll the tube between my fingers. “Maybe she’s sorting things out.”

He nods, unconvinced. “Seems that way. She carries a lot.”

Tell me about it.

I swallow and pop off the stool. “Thanks, Doc.”

He watches me go. “You bleeding again?”

“No,” I lie as I step outside. “But someone else might be.”

Frustration carries me to the Rusty Lantern Pub, where George is polishing the bar as if scrubbed surfaces could stave off the apocalypse.

“You look like hell,” he says, setting down his rag.

“I want to rent every room at the Motor-Inn. For two weeks.”

He blinks. “You serious?”

“As a goddamn heart attack. I need Bishop out of town—fast.”

“He’s paid through three today.”

“Perfect.”

George nods. “Two weeks, paid up front?”

“Done.”

I transfer my last funds and walk out without another word. It’s only a stopgap, but if Mike can’t find accommodation here, maybe he’ll think twice about sticking around. I quickly pick up the dreaded mail and see Simon struggling with a May Day banner. He’s about a foot too short to fix it, so I step out and give him a hand, before hurrying back in the car.

I drive to Eric and Emma’s farm next, heart pounding, half–hoping to find Annabelle laughing over a pie or doting on baby Albert. Instead, Eric meets me on the porch, concern etched in his brow.

“She left fifteen minutes before you got here,” he says. “Said she was going home… but she seemed off. Refused my offer to drive her.”

Shit.

I thank him, then gun the engine, retracing my route. She probably doesn't have a phone, and even if she did, I doubt she'd answer. She never answers when I call.

Around the bend by the thick tree line, I spot Annabelle. Mike has her cornered in a ditch, one hand gripping her arm like a vice, his body angled aggressively toward hers.

I slam the gas, and the truck skids to a halt. Mike’s head snaps up. The second he sees me, he releases her, bolting over a fence and disappearing into the thick brush before I can get to him.

Annabelle stumbles to the middle of the road, trembling. I barely throw the truck into park before I’m out and running toward her.