Page 82 of Dirty Mechanic

Because if I don’t, I’ll kill him.

And I’ve got a fucking race to win.

I head back toward the square, boots pounding like thunder against the gravel. The music’s louder now, banjos and guitars in harmony with the crowd’s buzz. But it all sounds wrong. Muted. Distant.

When I reach the edge of the barn, I see her.

Annabelle. Smiling at Misty. Laughing with Blake.

Like nothing’s broken.

Like she didn’t just tear me in half.

I stay in the shadows for a second too long, watching her hand brush Misty’s arm, her smile flash soft and easy like she’s not carrying the weight of a secret that just detonated my entire fucking life.

The betrayal is a cold knife twisting deep.

And still. I want her safe.

Blake spots me first. “Hey, you're up next. They're calling racers.”

“Stay with her,” I say tightly. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

He nods, eyes narrowing at my tone.

Annabelle turns toward me, her expression softening like she’s relieved I’m back.

I don’t say a word.

Just reach for her hand, grip it once, firm and final, and walk her to the truck.

No kiss. No smile. No small talk.

Her brows pull tight. “Derek?—?”

“Later,” I say.

But later’s already too late.

I climb into the Mustang, drive to my starting spot, and glance sideways. Mike’s rusted Chevy idles three rows down, its brand-new engine purring like it hasn’t been sabotaged yet.

Like it’s got something to prove.

And maybe it does, with my updates.

Floodlights kick on at the end of Valley’s Ridge, illuminating the dirt track where generations of fools and legends have left their marks. The crowd lines both sides of the hill, lawn chairs packed tight, kids sitting on shoulders, everyone jostling for a view of the launch.

I glance sideways. Mike’s grinning like he owns the night. He catches my eye and gives me a middle finger salute.

Smug son of a bitch.

I focus on the track ahead. The Mustang growls under me like it’s alive.

I grip the wheel tightly, the leather slick from the sweat on my palms, and line up behind the chalk. The crowd’s a blur on either side—faces, flags, cheers—but I don’t hear any of it. Not really.

All I hear is her voice.

Derek, there’s something I need to tell you... About Mike.