Page 40 of Dirty Mechanic

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I murmur into her hair, holding her like I can glue her back together. She smells like vanilla and fear. I press my lips to her temple and breathe slowly, hoping she’ll catch my rhythm.

Time stops. Or maybe it drags. All I know is her knees start to buckle, and I catch her before she hits the ground.

She doesn’t resist. Just tucks herself against my neck.

I carry her to the truck, keeping my voice steady. “Was it him, Annabelle? Was it Mike?”

She doesn’t answer with words. She doesn’t have to.

“You know him?”

She flinches, nods, then shakes her head like both options burn.

“Not here,” she croaks. “Please. Just… Not here. I’ll tell you. Everything. Just get me out of here.”

“Okay,” I whisper, already opening the door. “Okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

Her knees and dress are streaked with grass stains and cuts, and a red mark blooms on her neck. Seeing it guts me. I sweep over the scrapes on her hands and legs, and the blood stain on her temple. There’s no wound there. As I buckle her in, gently as I can, she reaches for my wrist like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.

“Don’t leave me,” she breathes.

God.

Every part of me screams to turn this truck around and end him. But I can’t. Not with her like this. Not yet.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I brush my thumb along her cheek. “You’re safe now.”

But he’s not.

I shut her door and quickly search the grass for her missing shoe and purse, as if returning them might make the world right again. It doesn’t.

I slide into the driver’s seat, rage burning so hot, it makes my hands shake. I start the truck and aim for home.

“I’ll kill him,” I whisper to the dash.

Deep breath. Hold. Release. Let it out before I do something reckless.

I stare straight ahead, white-knuckling sanity. “Should’ve picked up laxatives at the general store,” I mutter. “Could’ve spiked his eggs and let karma handle it. Rat poison might’ve been more efficient.”

She doesn’t laugh.

Of course, she doesn’t. Not after what he did. And I’m afraid I don’t know half of it.

I grip the gearshift like it might fly off, and glance sideways. Shadows slip across her face. The silence between us is heavy, but my pulse drums its own steady truth:

He touched her.

He grabbed her.

He terrified her.

In my town. On my road. On my watch.

The driveway crunches under the tires like it knows better than to speak. I kill the engine, but we sit there, unmoving. Just breathing.

She turns her head slowly. Her eyes are rimmed red, lashes still clumped from tears. And then her gaze finds my mouth.

“Derek,” she breathes, hand lifting toward my face. “Your lip…”