Page 81 of Dirty Mechanic

“Shit,” I mutter, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “I’ll handle it. Don’t go falling for any square dancers while I’m gone.”

Her lips twitch like she wants to stop me. But she doesn’t.

And that might be the part that haunts me later.

I make sure Blake and Misty are close by before I leave. Misty’s already chatting with Annabelle, one hand on her belly, the other cradling a lemonade. Blake meets my eyes and nods once, like he knows.

“Stay with her,” I say under my breath.

“Always,” he answers.

The lights around the square flicker on as I finish tying off the banner, casting long shadows across the tents and booths. The storm’s still holding off, but lightning cracks somewhere in the hills, too close for comfort.

I glance back toward the barn. Annabelle’s silhouette is blurred behind hanging lights, her laugh faint under the hum of music. She’s safe. At least, for now.

I make my way down the gravel path behind the cider tent and past the last row of vendor trailers until the fair thins into open space. The crowd noise fades to distant murmurs. The pits are quiet. Just the occasional clink of metal, a few racers tuning up, and the thrum of anticipation.

The stars are gone, swallowed by clouds, and lightning cracks in the distance. There’s talk of a storm tomorrow, maybe enough to delay the final race.

My Mustang’s parked near the edge, tucked under a canvas awning that flaps like a restless ghost. I crouch beside the front end, checking the tire pressure, the suspension. The sabotage I rigged on Bishop’s car will hold. It’s just enough to screw his timing but not kill him. Because I’m not him.

I pop the Mustang’s hood to double-check the timing belt and plugs. Everything looks good, clean, responsive, and ready to run like hell.

Gravel crunching underneath boots echoes behind me.

I don’t even have to look, but I turn around.

“You always did like to play mechanic,” Mike says behind me, his voice slick with condescension. “Too bad you have crappy equipment and you’re shit at fixing people.”

I straighten slowly, my fist still wrapped around a socket wrench. “And you’re still in town, testing my patience.”

He steps into my peripheral vision, that same smug grin plastered across his face like a permanent scar. “Relax, Waters. I’m not here to throw punches. Not yet.”

“Then get to the point,” I mutter. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I rearrange your face.”

He grins wider. “You’re pissed. I’d be too. I mean, what kind of woman doesn’t tell her new husband she already has one?”

The world narrows.

I blink once. Twice.

“What?”

“She married me first. San Francisco courthouse. Papers. Rings. The whole damn fairytale. Hate to break it to you, Waters, but your pie princess? She’s still my wife.”

My breath punches out in one hard exhale. “You’re lying.”

He shrugs. “Check the records. Our pretty Belle must be good in bed, faking playing house.”

He’s lying. He must be. My grip tightens on the wrench. Every part of me wants to plant him into the dirt, crack his jaw, rip that smirk off his face with blood and bone. But I don’t.

“Why now?” I manage, voice low. “Why say this now?”

He steps back, spreading his arms. “Because I want you to race angry. I want you to fuck up. And when you do, I’ll collect the money, and I’ll be right there to remind her who she really belongs to.”

I breathe through my teeth. One slow inhale. One razor-sharp exhale.

I toss the wrench back into the toolbox and walk away.