Page 15 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

FIFTEEN

Robbie

A small whirlwind barged into my room as if she owned the place. An armful of books pressed to her chest, messy blonde hair escaping from beneath a kid-sized Redcars cap, this was obviously Cassidy. Enzo had said she would be visiting today, and I’d hidden in my room like an idiot.

Who the hell was scared of a six-year-old?

She was wearing a tiny replica of the Redcars overalls, and the confidence she radiated was borderline terrifying.

“Hi! I’m Cassidy. I’m six.” She beamed then plopped herself right on the edge of my bed.

I stiffened. Froze. My heart pounded. What now?

“I’m Robbie,” I managed.

“I know. Daddy said so. You’re Robbie the Reader and you like books! So, I did bring you some.” She grinned and handed me a stack of three.

I looked down. One was a brightly illustrated children’s book called Milo the Cat and the Happy Moon . The other two were battered paperbacks of old spy thrillers, the kind with silhouettes of men holding guns and dramatic titles.

“I like this one,” she said, tapping the kids’ book. “You wanna read it?”

“Now?” I asked, cautious.

“Yeah!”

So I opened it up. Page one. Tried to read like I wasn’t nervous, like my voice didn’t wobble.

She stopped me every so often.

“That’s not the right voice. Milo’s a cat, not a pirate.”

I corrected myself.

“Nope. The moon sounds too happy. It’s a spooky moon.”

I tried again. And again. And after a while, she let me keep going without comment, leaning into my side and swinging her little legs. When we were done, she made me read it a second time—I think it was a test to see if I’d get the words right.

After the second read through, she pulled a stuffed blue dinosaur from her Dora backpack and held it up. “This is Blue. Say hi.”

“Hi, Blue,” I said.

She gave me a big, satisfied nod and poked the toy at my face as if he was nuzzling me. “He likes you.” I loved the feel of the soft fur, of her gentle touch when she guided my reading, the innocent smile she threw me.

Somehow, I wasn’t shaking anymore, and when Logan came to get her, I didn’t want her to leave. She was good, and bright, and fun, and she made me feel lighter.

“Bye, Robbie the Reader,” she said, and gave me a hug, which I returned.

“Bye, Miss Cassidy Book-Bringer.”

I didn’t realize I was grinning until Logan smiled at me as she skipped out of the room.

“Okay?” he asked. I wish people didn’t ask that all the time, but then, why wouldn’t they.

“Cassidy is lovely,” I murmured, and I’d said the right thing if his broadening grin was anything to go by. I felt happy and at peace.

The nightmare came back. It always did.

I’d barely drifted off to sleep with memories of Milo and his moon, and Cassidy’s happiness, when the darkness swallowed me whole, slammed into me like a fist to the chest, dragging me down before I had the chance to fight. My lungs forgot how to work, my body going rigid with remembered terror. Cold sweat burst across my skin, my fingers curling into the sheets as if they could anchor me to now. But they couldn’t. Not when three distinct voices echoed through my head.

“Look at the twink.” John.

“We can break him!” Gruff voice, tall, dark hair skinny, old.

“Let me have a go.” Angry, short, blond hair, nauseating scent.

“Don’t fucking break his head!” John.

“It’s my turn.” Gruff voice, tall, dark hair skinny, old.

“Stop fucking crying!” Angry, short, blond hair, nauseating scent.

I was in the room again.

Four walls. No windows. Three men. The stale smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey in the air. The bulb flickered above me, casting twisted shadows across the concrete floor. A chair. A desk. A safe in the corner. And him. Always him.

The other two disappear, like smoke and it’s just John.

His presence looms behind me, but I don’t turn. I know better.

“Tell me,” he asks, his voice calm, expectant. “If they find out, we’re dead, you fucking shit!”

“Let me go! I won’t tell you,” I plead, wishing I could wake up. Nightmare-John is pulling at my clothes, ripping them until I’m naked, and I can’t fight him.

“If I didn’t need you, kid, you’d be in pieces on this floor!”

My stomach twists. No. Please, not this. Not again.

I try to hold the numbers I’d found back. To keep them locked away. But he grabs the back of my neck, his fingers digging in, forcing me still—my breath stutters, my pulse hammers so hard my vision blurs.

“Don’t make me ask twice.”

He pushes inside me, nothing to ease the way, pressing my face to the tile, but I know better than to scream. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to ground myself, trying to free myself. But the nightmare holds me tight, and he’s warning me that I don’t get to wake up yet.

The pain comes sharp and fast—a warning. Not enough to damage, just enough to remind me that he could. That he would. He shoves tablets in my throat, I can’t breathe, I have to swallow.

I gasp, and some of the routing codes and a mess of numbers fall from my lips before I can stop them. John snarls at me, digs his fingers in, and ruts against me, knowing I have more locked inside my head.

It’s the only reason I’m still alive.

“Good,” John murmurs, almost pleased. He finishes, shoves me away, and smooths a hand over my hair like I was some pet. “I want more now.”

I want to fight. I want to scream. But I can’t because I know what happens when I refuse.

I can’t tell John everything… he’ll kill me.

Please kill me!

I woke up—gasping, choking, tangled in sweat-damp sheets. My fingers scraped at the blankets, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The room swam, too dark, too close.

I screamed. “Please kill me!”

I pressed a shaking hand over my heart, trying to calm the wild panic clawing up my throat. My mind was still tangled in the dream, in John’s voice, in the cold grip of knowing if he ever found out I still remembered numbers I should never have seen—if he even suspected how much I’d taken from him?—

I was dead.

“Robbie?” Enzo called, knocking once. “Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard, staring at the far wall, trying to force my pulse to slow. A thousand thoughts tumbled through my mind, tangled and heavy. I wanted Enzo to come in and wrap his arms around me, grounding me with his steady presence. But that wasn’t how I handled things. Instead, frustration rose in my chest, thick and suffocating, turning inward until it boiled into anger—at myself and how easily I’d lost confidence. All it took was one asshole calling me a twink and I lost my shit.

“Robbie? I can’t hear you. I’m coming in if you don’t talk.”

“No! Stay outside!”

“Robbie—”

“I’m okay. I’m reading books.” If he came in, he’d see me like this—upset, shaken—and that would be one step backward. One step closer to Enzo seeing me as nothing more than fragile and needing protection. And I couldn’t have that. I needed him to see me as capable, as strong. So I forced my voice to steady, pushed the panic down, and pretended I was okay.

“Are you okay? I heard you scream! Do you need anything? “

“For everyone to leave me alone! I’m a grown fucking man, Enzo!” I shouted, the anger spilling over. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter!”

Silence. It was a heavy, suffocating beat stretching long enough that my stomach twisted.

Enzo’s voice softened, “I know you don’t, Robbie. I know.”

I crawled to the door, pressed my ear to it. The only thing separating us was a thin layer of metal and wood. My fists clenched to my chest, and my breathing was shallow.

Please come in and hug me , but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t let myself need that.

Enzo was still standing there. I could feel his presence, steady, waiting. But then—footsteps. Fading. My chest tightened as the moment slipped through my fingers. The chance was gone.

I hadn’t appeared weak.

No. I’d appeared deranged.

I counted to a thousand, slowly, deliberately, pretending I’d be fine by the time I reached a thousand and exasperated that the only thing which could calm me was a hug from Enzo. I opened the door a little, saw Enzo sitting on a pile of tires, watching my door. I scrambled to him, sat on his lap and buried my face in his neck.

I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair. “I know it’s dumb. But that man, he was looking at me as if he saw me from back then, but I don’t know him, and then, when he called me twink, I think it’s a trigger like the book says?—”

Enzo stiffened. “That asshole is a dangerous idiot, Robbie. If he comes back, you stay away from him, okay? You get in here and you lock the door, and you hit that alarm.”

“Yeah, sure, I mean…”

“I know you’re a grown man, okay, and I’m sorry if you feel I don’t treat you right… but it would kill all of us if something happened to you, so promise me.”

“I promise,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His warmth and the solid weight of him under me melted something inside me. Slowly, I turned my head, resting my forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in. A mix of motor oil, soap, and something that was all Enzo. My lips brushed the curve of his neck, just a ghost of a touch, unintentional, but enough that I felt how he inhaled, sharp and sudden.

Neither of us moved for a second, caught in something fragile. Then, Enzo exhaled and held me a little tighter, and I felt safe.

Enzo was quiet, but then he sighed, “I get triggered by the sound of the gates shutting here. I have to make sure I can see it happening, otherwise…”

I blinked. “What?”

“Locks,” he repeated. “Hearing the gates slide shut. Sometimes, it just… it takes me back. And for a second, it’s like I’m there again. We all have things that make us want to run.”

I pulled back from his hold, and he released me enough to study his calm expression. But I didn’t want to move too far away—I wanted to stay close, to let myself sink into his safety. I wasn’t used to this kind of longing, this wanting that wasn’t tangled up in fear.

“You never make me want to run,” I admitted, tracing the strong lines of his face, memorizing them. I could get lost in his dark eyes, which brightened at my touch. His beard was bristly beneath my fingertips and his lips were soft and right there.

I wanted him to be the first person I kissed because I asked for it, not because it was taken. Because this was mine. A moment I got to choose, a piece of myself I gave freely, not one that had been ripped away. And in choosing Enzo, I was taking back something I thought I’d never get to own—my voice, my desire, my right to want. I wanted Enzo to be the first in everything that would make me new. And how was it fair to dump this much on him?

“It’s not fair,” I blurted. “I can’t.” I thought to twist off his lap, but he held me, and I didn’t freak out, it felt good for him to care enough to hold me.

“Can’t what?” he murmured.

My throat worked, but no sound came at first. I glanced down, heart thudding so loud I was sure he could hear it. My fingers curled into his shirt, and the fear tangled with want in my gut. I wasn’t used to being allowed to ask for things like this.

“I… I want to kiss you,” I finally whispered, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep.

“I want you to kiss me.” He wriggled under me and I could feel he was so hard. “I want it all.”

“It’s okay?” For real?

He didn’t answer with words. Just nodded, slow and sure, and the warmth in his eyes made everything else fall away—the garage, the noise, the fear. It was him and me.

I was on his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, my palms flat on his chest. I could feel every breath he took. My heart was pounding so hard I thought he must feel it too. This was my first kiss. My first everything. And it was him.

I leaned in before I lost my nerve, pressing my lips to his. Soft. Careful. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and tasted of coffee. A shiver ran through me at the contact, nerves buzzing under my skin. My chest tightened in that sweet, aching way I’d only read about, and I swore I could feel every beat of his heart reverberating into mine. His hand slid to the back of my neck, grounding me. His touch was warm, his fingers calloused from years of work, but gentle as they curved around me. The roughness of his skin on my nape sent a shiver down my spine. He held me like I was something breakable and precious all at once, as though I were the most important thing in the world and he couldn’t risk letting go.

I pulled back an inch. “I wanted that,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said, forehead resting to mine. “So did I.”

“Can I have more?”

“Always.”

When our lips met again this time, there was no hesitation. His mouth moved against mine with a hunger matching the ache building in my chest. I felt his fingers tighten in my hair, tugging enough to tilt my head back. The slight sting sent heat cascading down my spine.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, his breath warm and ragged.

“More than okay,” I whispered back, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath thin cotton.

He made a sound, half groan and half sigh before claiming my mouth again. This kiss was deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before slipping inside to taste me properly. I opened to him, meeting each stroke with my own, learning the shape and the taste of him that made my knees weak.

Am I doing this right? The question flared in my chest, loud and panicked, even as my body moved on instinct. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel or how to respond, only that I didn’t want to stop. But what if I was messing it up?

Enzo must’ve seen it—felt the tension in how I hesitated and stiffened for a heartbeat. He pulled back and framed my face with his big hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks.

“Is this okay? Is this the right way to do it?”

Something flared in his expression. Surprise, maybe that I’d made it to twenty-three and was asking that kind of question. I was suddenly ashamed, but he wouldn’t let me fail. “Fuck yes,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’re perfect.”

He made me believe.

His hands slid down my sides, resting at my waist, fingers digging in enough to draw me closer until our bodies pressed together. I could feel his heat through our clothes, the solid wall of his chest pressed to mine, his heartbeat racing to match my own, and he was hard against my ass. I wriggled, uncertain, worry creeping in again.

He traced my bottom lip with his tongue, and I copied, delighting in his sharp intake of breath. The sensation sent a warm jolt through me, low and urgent, like a lit fuse curling deeper into my body. My lips tingled from the contact, and when I dared to push forward with more confidence, it emboldened me. I could feel myself shifting—less unsure, more present, more wanting . Every reaction from him fed something new in me, a connection building in the heat of our kiss, deeper and stronger than anything I’d ever imagined. When I caught that lip between my teeth, the sound he made was raw, primal. His kiss turned demanding, consuming.

One of his hands moved to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheek with surprising tenderness although his kiss remained fierce. The contrast made me shiver—how he could be so gentle and hungry at the same time.

“God help me, but I’ve thought about this,” he confessed, voice rough. “Dreamed about how you’d taste.”

“And?” I asked, my fingers sliding up to tangle in his hair, needing something to anchor me as the world spun around us.

“Reality’s better,” he whispered.

I could feel his smile before he kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. His tongue slid in a rhythm that made heat pool low in my belly, made me imagine other ways we might move together.

I pressed closer, emboldened by the hardness I felt against my hip. His hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, palm hot at the small of my back, fingers spreading wide, pressing into my skin as if he couldn’t get close enough. My breath hitched at the contact, my spine arching, every nerve ending on high alert. The contrast of cool air and the heat of his hand sent a ripple through me, and I clung to him, needing more. fingers splaying wide as if trying to touch as much of me as possible. The contact of skin on skin sent electricity sparking through me.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, trailing kisses along my jaw, down to the sensitive spot below my ear that made me gasp.

“Don’t,” I gasped, pressing my forehead to his. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as he searched my face. “You sure?”

I nodded, unable to form words past the lump in my throat. I’d never been more certain of anything.

“We should slow down,” he said as his fingers traced patterns on my skin that made me shiver. “I don’t want you to regret?—”

I silenced him with another kiss, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it. My inexperience, my want, my trust. When I pulled back, I found my voice again.

“I won’t regret what this does for you. I won’t regret making you feel good, Enzo.”

Something in his expression broke open, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before. This man who always seemed so sure, so steady was confused. His hands moved to my hips, lifting me slightly, adjusting our position so we fit together more perfectly. I gasped at the sensation, at how right it felt to be held like this.

“I want to make you feel good, too,” he whispered, his voice rough. “But we don’t have to rush.”

I swallowed hard, my inexperience making me both eager and terrified. “I want that too. I just—I’ve never?—”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, so tender it made my chest ache. “We go at your pace. Always.”

“I can’t get… I don’t…I can’t get properly hard,” I whispered, each word a blade of shame slicing through the warmth we’d built. The heat curling between us fled, chased away by fear and memory. My chest tightened like I was bracing for ridicule, for disgust, for something that would confirm every terrible thought I’d had about myself. Instead, Enzo’s gaze didn’t flicker. No pity. No revulsion. Just patience. Just care.

He cradled me tighter, his hand firm at my back. “Hey,” he murmured to soothe my panic. “This—what we’re doing—it’s not about that. It’s about you . And kissing you, holding you like this? That’s everything.”

His words didn’t fix the ache completely, but they softened it, made it bearable, and made me believe—for maybe the first time—that I wasn’t broken. My voice cracked on the last word, shame turning all the heat between us into something colder. I thought he might laugh or, worse, be angry. Instead, his expression stayed soft and patient, and his arms wrapped around me tighter, sheltering me from embarrassment.

“Holding you in my arms is enough,” he said

I believed him because of the way he kissed me—slow and deep and consuming, like I was all he wanted, as though I could be enough if I wasn’t perfect. He held, kissed, and touched me as if we had endless time to figure it out.

The garage was hardly romantic—tools hanging on the wall, the faint smell of motor oil and metal—but in that moment, it felt like the most intimate place in the world. It was just us, cocooned in our own universe, where nothing else mattered.

His thumb traced my bottom lip, and the kisses were gentle. The shift from urgent to tender made something twist low in my belly—a warm ache buzzing under the surface of my skin. I wanted to chase that feeling, to let myself be swept up in the tide of it, but a flicker of fear tugged at the edges of my thoughts. Could I want this and still be safe? Could I give in without losing myself?

But Enzo’s kisses didn’t demand. They offered. And with each soft press of his lips, the fear faded a little more. Maybe it would have become more, and I could have helped him come.

I was on sensory overload, too much self-doubt making me spiral. The best thing I could do was leave him to do his own thing now—no point in me being here if he wanted to get off.

Why would he be turned on because of me?

I slipped off his lap.

“Night, Enzo.”

“Night, Robbie.”

I was only safe when I shut my door and curled up in my bed.

Breathe .

I exhaled, stepping inside my room and shutting the door behind me. The familiar weight of solitude settled over my shoulders, but it didn’t bring the usual sense of relief tonight. It felt… off. Like my skin was too tight, my thoughts too loud.

I picked up my well-worn copy of The Hobbit , settling onto my cot with the small lamp giving me enough light to read. Losing myself in a book was easy. The words, the world, and the characters always swallowed me whole and let me disappear for a little while. But tonight, the kissing with Enzo, the weight of his arms around me, the storm of emotions I wasn’t ready to name—it all pressed in, making the letters blur.

I tried. Flipped a page. Then another. But I wasn’t absorbing any of it. My brain kept circling back to how Enzo had held and kissed me, how his breath had hitched, and how he hadn’t pulled away.

How he’d tugged me to sit on his lap.

My throat felt dry, a leftover consequence of too many emotions. I sighed and lasted an hour past hearing Enzo head upstairs before and swung my legs off the cot, padding out into the quiet of Redcars. The shop was silent, apart from the hum of the security system, as I made my way to the small kitchen at the back. The fluorescent light flickered on as I stepped inside.

I grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and took a long sip, letting the cold seep into me and hoping it might make me think less about Enzo.

But it didn’t work.

The image of Enzo—his steady hands, the way he’d held me so carefully as if I mattered—stayed in my mind, impossible to shake. I exhaled sharply, turning off the light and letting the darkness settle around me. But as I turned, something flickered in the corner of my vision—a small, bobbing light moving outside in the courtyard.

My breath hitched. The security floodlights should have clicked on if someone was out there. My pulse hammered as I leaned toward the window. Probably a cat. Maybe a car’s headlights bouncing off something metal. Something normal. Something explainable.

I stepped closer, peering through the glass, my breath fogging it. The courtyard was empty. Silent. But then?—

A shadow moved.

My stomach dropped. A face appeared at the window, only just visible under the hood of a sweatshirt, the fabric casting deep shadows over their features. My brain didn’t have time to register it before a light flicked on, the glow bouncing off the glass, catching on a glint of something metallic?—

A knife? A flashlight? I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

Glass exploded—shards flying inward like shrapnel. A brick slammed through the window with a crack that felt like a gunshot. I stumbled back, arms thrown up too late, the sting of tiny cuts already biting into my skin. Wind surged in behind the impact, and through it—arms. Hands. Someone trying to reach in.

Panic swallowed my breath. I hit the floor, heart hammering, scrambling backward on instinct. My back slammed into the wall.

“You fucking shit!” a voice roared from outside, vicious and unhinged. “Where’s my fucking money!”

It was movement, rage, and broken glass crunching under their boots. My chest tightened so hard it hurt. I couldn’t get air in. Couldn’t think.

John?

He’s here for me.

A scream ripped from my throat as I stumbled backward, my heel catching the edge of the counter. My shoulder slammed into the cabinets, pain jolting up my arm, but I barely felt it. My hands scrambled over the wall, my fingers searching, desperate. The panic button—I had to reach the damn panic button?—

My fingers finally found it, and I slammed my palm against it so hard I felt something crack beneath my hand. The alarm triggered, a high-pitched wail splitting the silence of Redcars, and I didn’t have time to gasp before the fear swallowed me whole.