Page 50 of Dirty Mechanic

Mike.

My stomach turns.

I twirl in the mirror, slowly, like maybe I can shake off the shame. The sundress flutters around my knees, soft cotton hiding the truth. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t see. And for a moment, I pretend.

Pretend that I’m not marked.

Pretend that tomorrow is just about pies and ribbon races and kissing Derek in the shade of the orchard.

But I can’t leave it to chance anymore.

Not with Mike in town. Not with the subpoena. Not with bruises that still bloom long after the hands are gone.

I walk back into the bedroom numb, and kneel beside the bed. My fingers slide beneath the frame, finding the fabric lining of my suitcase, tucked behind a row of folded sweaters.

The journal is still there—worn leather, stuffed with truths no one was meant to read and missing crucial pages. And beneath it, wrapped in a T-shirt, the pistol I swore I’d never need again.

I don’t give myself time to hesitate, but my hands shake as I pull them out.

Out the side door, I move through the fading light, past the orchard, past the hammocks, and into the RV. The pups stir slightly but don’t bark. In the back corner, I open the bench seat. I tuck the items inside and shove a roll of blankets on top.

It’s not perfect. But it’ll do.

If he comes, if I need them, I'll know exactly where to reach.

I hurry back to the house, scrubbing out mixing bowls and avoiding the ache in my chest when I notice the garage lights are still on.

Curious, I refill Derek’s coffee and head outside in my flip-flops. The sun has dipped below the orchard, casting long shadows across the gravel. The sky bleeds from rose to indigo, soft and slow.

As I head toward the open garage, something snags my attention near the gravel path.

A piece of paper flutters in the grass. A torn race flyer with one corner missing, the ink smeared from dew, and right beside it, a crushed cigarette butt.

Neither belong here.

Derek doesn’t smoke.

A chill slithers down my spine, even in the evening heat. I scan the trees, the orchard’s edge, but see nothing but shadows stretching long into the dusk.

In the garage, I find him under the Mustang, shirtless, legs jutting out, grease streaked across his jeans. The air smells like motor oil and him. A clang of metal echoes, followed by a low curse.

“Damn it… Wrench is gone again.”

He slides out on his back, wiping his hands with a rag and glaring at the empty hook on the wall.

“Second time in two days. Either I’m losing my damn mind, or someone’s messing with me.”

“You’re missing your second coffee,” I say, holding it out.

He stands and meets me in three long strides, but instead of taking a sip, he sets the mug aside on the bench and places both hands on my waist.

“You wear this for me?” he asks, voice low.

I know what dress I chose. Pale pink, loose and soft. One of his favorites. I see it in the way his gaze drops to where the hem flirts with my thighs. His fingers find the fabric, lifting it slightly.

Then he sinks to his knees.

“Annabelle.”