Page 25 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

TWENTY-FIVE

Robbie

I’d managed to doze, but the nightmares came back and John’s voice echoed where it didn’t belong, dragging me under. I kicked off the blankets, too hot and then too cold, my skin crawling, wrong. In the end, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders like armor and slipped out into the garage. I paused in the doorway, staring back at the room—the twisted sheets, the stale air. The walls felt too close, but out here, the scent of oil and steel in the air, I could breathe.

I loved my room—it was more of a home than I’d known in so long—but right now, it was too...

Too much.

Pull yourself together.

I’m safe.

I needed to talk face-to-face with Enzo in the morning. I’d tell him all about my overreacting about his overprotectiveness and apologize, and he’d also tell me he’d overreacted. We’d laugh about it, hug, and it would be over.

Well, kind of over

It wouldn’t be truly over, not really. Because he was worried about me. All the freaking time. And deep down, I knew he had every reason to be. The last time I’d tried spending a Sunday with them all in the engine bay, pizza boxes stacked high, a small crappy TV blaring with some car race—it had all been too loud.

The noise, the chaos—Rio chanting as if it was life or death, Jamie cracking a rare smile and whooping when his guy took the lead, Enzo hollering his support, Logan cackling when Enzo’s driver crashed out in a blaze of slow-motion defeat. It was supposed to be fun. Harmless. But the energy swallowed me whole, too loud, too much, too fast. I couldn’t find my footing in the surge of voices, the rise and fall of cheers and groans. It was like drowning in sound, like the parties John used to throw, where laughter hid danger and every loud moment might end with pain. I didn’t belong in noise—I’d learned to disappear inside it.

I hid. I lost my shit, and I hid.

For fuck’s sake.

I started to sing—not well, and my pop music repertoire was limited to whatever Rio played on his radio when everyone was working. Usually, it was some oldies station on a low volume in the background. I started humming, landing on “We Will Rock You”, humming through the parts I couldn’t keep up with. Rio had shown me the video for this on his phone once, and I remember how mesmerized he was, talking about Freddie Mercury like he was some god. He said confidence wasn’t just about having talent but about owning the stage and making people believe in you. He said Freddie had that in spades, and I envied that kind of power, the ability to take up space without apology, to be larger than life when everything inside me felt small.

I wondered what taking up space was for me. Maybe it was standing in the middle of the garage without flinching at every loud noise, or laughing without second-guessing if I deserved to be heard. Maybe it was letting someone touch me and believing I was worth the softness. Someday, I wanted that. I wanted to exist without apology.

I stopped at the Camaro, pulling back a corner of the cover and trailing my fingers over the cool metal of the hood. The car was solid, unmoving, and the smooth curves left after I discounted the rust, were cold beneath my touch. I sighed—I was losing my shit tonight. I traced a slow path along the edge of the hood, following the lines and thinking about how the car would look when we’d finished. I let myself revel in that anticipation for a moment, and a thrill of excitement ran through me. This Sunday, I wasn’t going to hide. I was doing something positive.

I’d stood there too long, and my knees ached, and I was getting cold—enough of this messing about. I need sleep.

I circled back past the kitchen to get a drink, rolling out the tension in my shoulders. Someone was slumped over the table. Shock hit me, sharp and sudden, sending a jolt through my chest, and I backed away, stepping into the shadows, my breath catching in my throat, taking a beat to process. Enzo was there.

Why was he slumped at the table?

He had his head resting on his folded arms, his breathing slow and heavy—fast asleep. His tattered Redcars hoodie was pulled up a little, revealing the tattoos marking his back, traces of dark disappearing under the material, and a tantalizing sliver of tanned skin. His legs were sprawled this way and that as though he’d sat down and passed out mid-thought. I hesitated, wondering if I should wake him or leave him be

Enzo stirred, a slow inhale before he shifted, lifting his head. His dark eyes, like melted chocolate, blinked sleepily at me, and then he smiled—soft, lazy, the kind of smile that made something in my chest tighten.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

He yawned, rubbing at his face with one hand. “Couldn’t sleep.” His voice was thick, drowsy, like he hadn’t been aware of where he was until now. He squinted at me. “Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, mirroring his words.

For a moment, we looked at each other, the quiet stretching between us, easy but weighted. Then his expression softened even more. “Are we okay?” he asked.

I turned to the sink, filling a glass with water, using the movement to gather my thoughts. “Of course, we’re okay.”

I turned back to face him, watching as he stretched, his arms reaching high above his head, his hoodie lifting enough to reveal the taut muscles of his stomach, more of the inked designs curling along his ribs. Strong, solid. And yet, despite the hard lines of his body, there was something gentle about him—something safe.

“Why aren’t you in bed,” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go up now,” he said through another yawn, pushing himself to his feet. He stretched again, rolling his shoulders, and for a brief second, his hoodie rode up further, exposing more ink, more skin.

“Night, Robbie,” he murmured, voice soft as he turned to leave.

I stood there, gripping my glass, watching him go, but something made me call his name, to stop him. “Enzo?”

He turned to me, his brows lifting. “Yeah?”

I hesitated, then rounded the table, placing the glass down with a soft clink. I ended up standing maybe two feet from him, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t define. “Do you worry about me with working on the car on Sunday? Am I being stupid thinking I can do it?”

His expression shuttered for a second, and I hated that—I hated that my doubt made him hesitate. Then before I could take it back, he closed the gap between us.

I didn’t step away. This was Enzo.

His hands found my upper arms, a gentle, steadying grip. His touch was warm and grounding. I shivered as his fingers tightened for a moment, a silent reassurance. My body betrayed me, a low heat curling in my stomach, the ache of something I didn’t understand. I was half-hard, needing something from him that I didn’t know how to ask for. Enzo closed that last bit of space.

“You’re the best person in this garage,” he said, voice low, the words curling around me. “The way you handled the wiring last week, the way you try so damn hard every single day—you put us all to shame. And you’re strong.”

I blinked up at him, then let out a sound—half breath, half disbelief—and flexed one arm, trying to make light of it. “I’m not strong.” The muscles barely moved. My body still felt as though it didn’t belong to me most days.

But Enzo didn’t laugh. He didn’t let me brush it off.

He reached out slow and deliberate, and pressed his hand flat to my chest, just left of center, right over my heart. “You’re strong in there,” he said.

I froze. Everything in me stilled. His palm was broad, fingers warm through my shirt, grounding me the way nothing else could. My breath came shallow, like my lungs didn’t quite know how to work with that kind of touch. “That’s the part that matters,” he added, not moving his hand.

Enzo’s gaze didn’t falter. It never did.

God, I wanted him so much.

I pushed him back to the chair, watched the moment he understood what I wanted him to do and when he was sitting I clambered onto his lap, and straddled him

His thighs were warm beneath mine, strong and solid when I settled my weight against him. I could feel the heat of him through our clothes, the tension in his muscles as he gripped my hips to steady me.

“I missed this,” I said.

“Robbie,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire.

I pressed my forehead to his, breathing in the scent of him and when I leaned back his eyes met mine and his hands found my hips, steadying me as I pressed closer.

I rolled my hips, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. The friction between us was exquisite, even through our clothes. I could feel him hardening beneath me, matching my own arousal.

“I want this,” I said.

Enzo pulled me down into a kiss. It started gentle but quickly deepened, becoming hungry, desperate. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him with a soft moan

We rocked together, finding a rhythm that had us both gasping. His hands slid down to cup my ass, pressing me harder, and I was so close, so safe. Enzo groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me

“So small, so perfect for me, your skin is so warm,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper that sent shivers racing down my spine.

His hands moved from my ass, sliding under my shirt to touch bare skin. The sensation jolted through me—warm, unfamiliar, too much. It was the smell of bleach on a tiled floor, the echo of footsteps in a hallway. My skin prickled, my breath caught. Enzo’s touch wasn’t wrong, but my body didn’t understand that yet. Not when the ghosts of old hands haunted the memory of every touch. His fingertips were warm, almost hot, as they traced up my sides.

Something inside me shattered, and ice flooded my veins.

I’m ugly there.

So ugly.

They made me ugly.

I froze, every muscle locking tight. My breath caught in my throat as unwanted memories flashed behind my eyes—hands touching me, but not these hands, not gentle ones. The world narrowed to just that point of contact—his hand on my bare skin—and I couldn’t breathe.

“Robbie?” Enzo pulled back, confusion clouding his eyes. His hands stilled on my skin. “What’s wrong?”

“Me! I’m so fucking wrong—” My voice cracked. I scrambled off his lap, nearly tripping in my haste. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, reaching for me. Talk to me, Robbie. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“No! You don’t know what I did! What they made me do!” I stumbled back and away and shut myself in my room, shoving my chair under the handle.

Curling into a ball on my bed, I was stuck between the urge to cry and the frustrating numbness that prevented any tears from falling.

“Robbie?” Enzo asked outside the door. “I’m just gonna sit here.”

I just wish…

I wish I was normal.