Page 19 of Rio (Redcars #3)

FOURTEEN

Rio

I couldn’t stay in the same room with Lyric.

Not with my thoughts clawing and snapping, refusing to settle.

Everything about him contradicted what I’d seen with my own eyes.

A few hours ago, we all wondered if he might not survive the night.

Limp in my arms. Feverish. Drifting in and out of consciousness while I’d carried him to bed.

But now? He was upright. Moving. Messing with my head as if I was the one who needed caring for.

It messed with my head. Was he that stubborn? Or had the world twisted him into something unbreakable—something that kept going not because it didn’t hurt, but because stopping wasn’t an option. As if pain was static that he’d learned to tune out.

I didn’t have answers, but I knew this: watching him pace that room, clearly hurting and still pushing forward, did something to me. Made me feel reckless. Protective. On edge.

I wanted to care for him—but that didn’t mean I cared about him. Not like that. I wasn’t built for tenderness. But God, I wanted to touch him. To check every bruise, count every wound. Make sure he was still here, still breathing.

But I couldn’t. Because the last time I touched him, I hurt him. And I didn’t think I’d survive doing that again.

Fuck. I needed a fight. I needed to bleed something out of me—burn it up before it burned me down.

Yeah, but a fight means you could hurt someone. Lyric.

I tried not to think much about Danny anymore. The dull thud of meat on concrete. The weight of someone trusting me not to kill them.

When I left prison, I thought I’d be different. Maybe not better, but quieter. I’d earned that, right? Did my time. Ate the guilt. Built a career here with my hands, found a family that cared.

But then Lyric happened -- with his beautiful eyes, and his determination to be stronger -- and he dared me to say he wasn’t strong. Dared me to call him weak.

And I checked him out. I stared at him as though I wanted him.

And I was confused as hell.

His movements were less stiff, and he moved with a grace and coiled tension I knew would unspool into something dangerous if he let it. Something beautiful.

He’d be fluid in the cage. Fast, clever, striking as if he meant it. Stunning. And I’d want to watch him—wanted to see him own that space. But not with me. Never with me.

I’d kill him.

Just like Danny.

I backed out of the room, shut the door behind me, and stood at the top of the stairs for a moment. This was fucked-up.

“Rio? Jamie has the Mustang,” Enzo called up to me, and I quickly headed down.

It was in for a basic tune-up—oil, plugs, filter, brakes. Nothing glamorous. Just enough to keep her humming. I slid beneath the front end on the creeper, a socket wrench in hand, and tried to focus on the bolts under the oil pan, my knuckles knocking the cool metal as I worked.

I loved cars. Engines. The way everything fit together if you listened and gave it what it needed.

This was my peaceful place—normally with the radio on low in the background, the scent of oil thick in the air.

Yeah, peace. Even when my hands were scraped and my back ached from the creeper, I felt more myself here than anywhere else.

But the thoughts wouldn’t shut up.

Lyric. Danny. Robbie. Rinse and repeat.

“Focus, asshole,” I muttered, yanking on the wrench.

Boots scuffed on the concrete near my head.

“You talking to the car again?” Enzo drawled, crouching beside the wheel well.

“It listens better than most people.”

Enzo snorted. “Figures. Only thing you ever sweet-talked was a busted carburetor.” I gave him a sideways glance, and the asshole smirked. “Yeah, but it still ain’t gonna rotate the damn bushings on its own. You want me to crack’em loose from the top?”

“Yeah. They’re rusted to shit. I’ll hold from underneath.”

He disappeared for a beat, then called out, “So, you gonna tell me what’s eating you? You’ve been tighter than a seized axle since Lyric arrived.”

I said nothing. Just braced the wrench and waited for the knock of Enzo’s mallet above .

“How can we trust him?” I asked, voice sharper than I meant.

There was a pause. Then, the thunk of the mallet again. “Jamie says we can.”

“That’s it?” I snapped. “We’re taking Jamie’s word as gospel now?”

Enzo grunted. “I don’t know what else to say. Jamie doesn’t stick his neck out unless he’s sure. You know that.”

“Yeah, well, sure isn’t good enough. How can you accept that when we’ve got someone with Kessler’s name in his mouth sleeping ten feet from Robbie?”

Enzo cursed, knelt back down, and met my eyes through the undercarriage. “Lyric’s a victim.”

I bit down hard on the next words.

Because the man upstairs, who was recovering too fast, with bruises fading and fire in his stare, wasn’t a victim.

He was a problem .

One I couldn’t stop staring at.

I turned back to the car, fingers digging into grease as I reached into the engine bay.

The air smelled of oil and warm metal, the cooling block ticking softly under the weight of silence.

I adjusted the spark plug leads, grounding myself with the feel of something that made sense. Something I could fix .

But even the damn engine couldn’t drown out the noise in my head.

Lyric—stretching, confronting me with those sharp eyes.

Jamie, taking him at face value, as if it were gospel.

Robbie, circling him constantly, as if he’d found someone who matched his broken self.

Enzo, just rolling with it because Robbie believed, despite his love for Robbie and the need to keep him safe.

And then Danny—flashing into my mind with those dead eyes and surrender written in his blood.

I twisted the socket wrench harder than necessary. The bolt gave way with a screech.

Enzo’s voice cut through the haze. “You over-tighten that, and Robbie will have your balls. And I don’t want to see that.”

I snorted, shaking off the heat in my chest. “He can add crushed bolt threads to the list of things I’ve fucked up this week.”

Enzo tossed me a rag, then perched on the edge of the Mustang’s fender. “Still fussing with that plug?” he asked, eyeing the open engine bay.

I grunted. “Not fussing. Just making sure it’s perfect.”

“You always say that,” he said. “You gonna polish the damn spark leads too? ”

“It’s about precision. You screw up the small stuff, the whole system fails.”

He shook his head, amused. “Man, you treat these engines better than most people treat their relationships.”

I didn’t argue. It was true. The car didn’t lie. Didn’t make things complicated. I could examine it, diagnose the issue, and resolve it. That was control. Everything else—Lyric, Kessler, even the team—was chaos. “Yeah,” was all I gave him.

“What’s with the bug up your ass, Rio?”

I finished tightening the last bolt and slid out from under the car. Sat up and wiped my hands, though it didn’t do much good. Oil was ingrained under my nails, and the calluses from years of wrenching and fighting were never going away.

I was never going to be clean.

“‘Bug’?” I echoed. “My family’s getting messed up again, that’s what. Jamie and Killian’s people keep saying we’re close to Kessler, but nothing’s happening. Why the hell is it taking so long? Why can’t we finish this?”

Enzo gave a low grunt, as if he understood more than he let on. “We’ll get him. You know we will.”

“I hate it,” I muttered. “I just fucking hate it. I haven’t scored in fucking weeks, and all the tension’s coiled up on me, and there’s nothing to punch.”

“Come on,” Enzo said, standing and extending a hand to help me up.

I took it, but the second I was upright, he slammed a fist into my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble back.

“The fuck?—”

He grinned, wide and wicked, and dropped into a loose fighting stance. “Come on.”

We used to spar. Back when we were younger and dumber and thought fists could solve anything. Sometimes, they still could.

“I don’t want this,” I said, shaking my head.

Enzo stepped in and punched me again—nothing showy, just a solid body shot that knocked the breath out of me.

It was on.

I hit back, fists connecting with padded muscle and solid bone. Not like the cage—there were no rules, but also no intent to injure. Just movement. Just the crack of contact and the burn in our lungs.

We circled, grunted, threw blows, blocked, caught shoulders and ribs and the occasional jaw. It wasn’t rage. It was a release. Aggression, sweat, breath, all pouring out .

Panting, heaving, hearts pounding in sync. My brain, for once, went quiet. Peace built behind the bruises, and we parted as he pulled me in for a hug.

“It’s all good,” Enzo reassured, and for a moment, I believed him as I sank into the embrace.

“Excuse me?” a voice said.

We broke apart, both turning to see a man in a windbreaker pointing at the car. “Uh, I’m way early, but I uhmm… I came to pick up my car. Any chance it’s ready now?”

The moment was awkward, as if we’d been caught in something we shouldn’t have been doing. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and Enzo didn’t even flinch.

He turned to the guy and said smoothly, “Yeah, nearly. Why don’t you grab a coffee next door? Be done in…” He glanced at me. “Twenty?”

The man nodded slowly and backed out of the garage, leaving the door open behind him.

Enzo looked back at me with a grin. “Let’s get it done.”

When the client left, ecstatic at his baby being all good again, and not mentioning walking in on us fighting, my belly growled.”Breakfast?” I asked Enzo and thumbed behind me at the cafe next door.

“Nah, ate at our place, and Robbie’s made stuff for lunch, and we’re eating it in his room.” He waggled his eyebrows at that. Jesus, they were insatiable.

“Wait here for a bit. I’m heading next door for me and Lyric.”

“Cool.”

Carter’s café was busy with the usual weekday shuffle—locals grabbing sandwiches, work crews picking up coffees, a couple of teenagers raiding the chip rack.

Simon, owner and all-around nice guy, glanced up from behind the counter and gave me the nod. “Rio.”

“Hey,” I said, heading for the line.

People knew me here. Some nodded, a couple said hi. I nodded back, did my best to smile. No one stared. No one whispered. Around here, I was the guy who fixed cars and kept to himself. It was strangely comforting not to have people avoid me because I was big, broken, or an ex-con.

I scanned the sandwich menu for something Lyric might enjoy but had no fucking idea. Was he a provolone kind of guy? Olives? I grabbed a selection of Doritos and chips in various flavors, along with an armful of cold cans from the fridge.

I hesitated at the counter, then decided to throw myself on Simon’s mercy.

“Can I get two?” I asked, glancing at Simon. “Different ones because I don’t know what he eats.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Uh… then get two that you love, and he can choose whichever.”

“Sounds good.”

He bagged up a chicken salad and a ham and cheese, then added them to the pile of snacks and drinks on the counter.

“Got a new recruit?” he asked, jerking his chin in the vague direction of the garage.

“Something like that.” I paid, gave him a grunt of thanks, and turned to leave—only to run straight into the guy behind me.

“Holy shit, you’re Villareal!” he blurted out, eyes going wide with recognition. “Rio Villareal. In person.”

I blinked. “Yeah?”

“Heard you’re fighting Saturday. Against Bruno Cortez. That’s gonna be a tough one. Word is, he one-punched a guy in some underground fight in Sacramento. Laid him out cold. They say he’s unbeatable.” Christ, he was a squirrel on crack .

I stared at him for a long beat, deadpan. “He hasn’t met me.”

The guy laughed as if that was the best thing he’d heard all week, glancing around as if he expected others to join in. I didn’t. They didn’t.

Funny. I’d been wound tight all morning, snarling about Lyric and the chaos he brought, overthinking every twitch and look. And yet, the thought of stepping into a ring with Bruno?

That made me feel alive.

Excited.

Focused.

I headed back to the garage with the bags in hand and placed them in the refrigerator for lunch, something close to a grin curling at the edge of my mouth.

I can deal with Lyric.

It’s all good.