Page 84 of Dirty Mechanic

Cheers erupt. Horns blare.

But I feel none of it.

There’s no triumph. No pride. Just the dull ache of betrayal, rattling in my bones like loose bolts.

I park at the end of the lot and kill the engine. I wrench free of the seatbelt, chest heaving, fists still clenched, vision tunneling red as I step out of the car.

Mike’s yelling something about a rematch, about how I cheated. I don’t turn around.

I’m done with him.

I spot her in the crowd, Blake and Misty on either side like bookends, trying to shield her from whatever storm they see brewing in my eyes.

She sees me coming and her smile falters.

Good.

Let her feel it.

I walk straight to her. Don’t say a word. Just take her hand and lead her away from the stands, the lights, the noise.

She stumbles once, tries to say something.

I shake my head.

Not here.

Not now.

We reach the truck. I open the door, and she climbs in without a word, her hands tight in her lap. I shut it behind her like I’m closing the lid on something I don’t know how to name.

I circle the hood. Climb in. Start the engine.

The silence between us is sharp enough to bleed.

I grip the wheel and stare straight ahead, heart hammering like it’s trying to shatter my ribs from the inside out.

I won the race. But everything else? I’m not so sure.

Because I can’t bring myself to meet the eyes of the woman I love.

Rain streaks across the windshield like ink bleeding down a page.

He hasn’t said a word.

Not since the race. Not since the finish line. Not since he reached for my hand, gripped it like a verdict, and walked me to the truck without looking back.

The silence is worse than yelling. Worse than anger.

Because this? This is the silence of unraveling.

The wipers drag across the glass in a steady rhythm, a tired metronome ticking down the end of us. The road is dark and slick, headlights bouncing off puddles, making ghosts of every tree we pass. I want to speak. I want to scream. I want to throw myself across the console and beg him to say something—anything—but I stay still.

Because I know…… He knows.

And I can feel him slipping through my fingers with every mile we drive.

His hands grip the wheel so tightly, his knuckles glow white. His jaw is a slab of granite, carved and cold. Even in the dim light, I can see the muscle twitch in his cheek.