Page 20 of Rio (Redcars #3)

FIFTEEN

Lyric

The laptop was all I needed. My hands shook as I opened the vanishing message app—familiar now in the worst way. Only one message this time, pulsing at the top of the terminal before it faded to nothing.

I got the screenshot.

K: I tried to stop it.

K: It’s smarter than you. Hungrier than me.

K: You fed it your fucking soul.

K: Now it has mine.

K: Help me.

I stared at words that had a whole new tone.

It sounded as if Kessler was scared of the very system that had made him a billionaire.

The screen blurred. Not from movement—my eyes wouldn’t focus.

My brain floated somewhere far away, as if I were underwater, watching someone else hold the laptop.

The humming in my ears got louder. I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t move.

I saw my hands. I just didn’t feel them.

“Stop this!” I snapped, and my stomach lurched. I sucked in air, tasted static, and slammed the laptop shut hard enough to make it jump on my knees.

“Fuck,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like mine.

But at least I was back. Restlessness made me pace the room, and then, I needed out of this space.

I was never good with boredom, and sitting up here was boredom on steroids, so I headed out and sat at the top of the metal stairs to the garage and peered through the banister gaps into Redcars proper.

No one spotted me, or if they did, they ignored me.

The space was all hard edges and heat. A long bank of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in flickers of blue-white.

One wall was lined with tool cabinets; each drawer tagged with neat white labels.

A welding mask hung askew beside a battered bulletin board plastered with notes and old photos.

Grease-slicked floor, smell of oil, metal, and something warm and earthy I couldn’t name.

Two cars sat under the lights—an older one, stripped to the frame with its hood cranked open; the other, a flashy sports car, mid-repair.

Enzo was working on the sports car, his head deep in the engine’s innards, his black tank already streaked with sweat and smudges.

And then, there was Rio.

Half in, half out of the second car, his broad back arched under the open hood, legs braced wide, shirt tight across the curve of his spine.

His jeans hugged his ass—round, taut, ridiculous.

Strong thighs, dusted with oil and shadow, shifted as he leaned further in, the motion flexing his whole frame.

He was pure power. No elegance, just raw capability. Methodical. Focused. Muscle and menace in equal parts.

And God help me, I couldn’t stop staring.

His shirt clung to the ridges of his back, sweat darkening the collar, and I hated the way it made my mouth go dry. He twisted a wrench and grunted, forearm flexing, and my stomach did this dumb flip. I crossed my arms so I wouldn’t fucking reach out .

Who the hell gets turned-on by someone fixing a car?

Me. Apparently.

It wasn’t only the way Rio looked—it was the hunger in me, the kind that hadn’t had space to breathe in years.

That had to be why I was staring at the curve of Rio’s ass as if I hadn’t seen one before.

As if I wanted to bend him over that car and fucking bite it, and lick him open, and…

fuck. He wasn’t even doing anything special—just working, all tense muscles and sweat—but my gaze stuck to him like Velcro, brain glitching on the roll of his hips and the faint tug of his jeans.

I was in trouble.

We weren’t compatible. He would be all alpha and control, and what I desired was a man who’d let me see the softer edges, the parts he couldn’t keep chained down. Instead, my fucked-up libido had to fixate on the worst possible option for a man who’d go to his knees for me.

I was still perched halfway down the stairs when Robbie wandered out of the office with the door, saw me sitting there, and headed my way.

I tensed instinctively, ready for him to order me upstairs—or in Robbie’s case, ask me politely—but he didn’t.

He climbed up and settled beside me with a slight grunt, leaving a polite amount of space between us.

I watched him warily, but he didn’t act as if he was gearing up to interrogate me.

“How’re you doing?” he asked.

“Good.”

“You need more meds?”

“No, I’m okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was easy, companionable—as if we both knew we weren’t quite ready for the next thing, and that was okay.

“You like cars?” he asked after the pause.

“Some,” I lied. As long as a car started, ran, and wasn’t registered to me, so no one tracked me down, then I liked cars just fine.

“That one’s a Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat, Supercharged 6.2L HEMI,” he said, nodding to the silver beast parked closest to the rolling shutter that Enzo had his hands in. “Rare. Worth a lot.”

I blinked at him. “You know cars?”

He huffed a small laugh. “The guys tell me stuff, y’know, and I remember things.

” He tapped his head and quirked a smile.

Rio cursed loudly, and Robbie chuckled. “He’s pissed off because someone tried to hot-wire it with a fucking spoon.

A spoon.” He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“He’s been grumbling about it all morning.

Said the wiring looks as if someone took a blender to it. He growled for a long time.”

“Rio growls,” I said, and wished I’d kept my mouth shut when Robbie side-eyed me.

“Well, the car you can’t take your eyes off,” he began and smirked as he pointed at the black muscle car…

Rio’s job. “That’s a 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am—black, original trim, even the gold decal on the hood.

Exact model from Smokey and the Bandit. It’s a collector’s wet dream, or it was, until some wannabe mechanic got his hands on it,” Robbie said, shaking his head.

“Rio’s been cursing in three languages. Says whoever maintained it should be banned from touching anything more complex than a toaster.

Wiring’s fried, ignition barrel’s cracked, and he found melted candy in the fuse box. ”

He didn’t ask why I’d come down or what I’d seen or if I was going to cause trouble. He just sat with me in the quiet, the hum of tools and the occasional clank from Enzo underlining the stillness between us.

“I like it down there,” I said, surprising even myself.

Robbie didn’t look at me, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “So do I. ”

We sat in silence for another moment, and then Robbie tilted his head toward the Firebird.

“I hadn’t even seen Smokey and the Bandit until last month,” he admitted.

“They all found out and made it movie night. Popcorn, soda, the whole deal. Rio knew half the lines.” I smiled despite myself.

“Do you have a favorite movie? I love The Lord of the Rings . Big Sam fan. He’s the real hero. ”

“Same. Samwise is the best of all of them, Strider in second.”

Robbie held out a fist, and I bumped it without thinking. “I knew I liked you,” he said.

After a quiet beat, I added, “But some of my favorite movies are probably The Matrix trilogy.”

Robbie frowned. “I haven’t seen them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Jamie tried once, but he and Killian got distracted kissing, and we never finished.”

Before I could tell him how criminal that was, Enzo let out another sharp string of profanities that echoed off the walls.

“Motherfucking asshole shit-fucking mess!” Enzo barked, loud enough to make Robbie wince and, then, grin at me as Enzo shut the hood of the Charger and leaned against it, arms braced, face thunderous.

“He needs some Robbie time for lunch,” Robbie said, already up, waggling his eyebrows. “And I need some Enzo time,” he said with a bright smile and rushed downstairs to drag his man through that door, which they closed behind them.

Leaving me alone so I could stare at Rio without being disturbed.

Rio emerged from under the hood, wiping his hands on a rag, and as he turned, he caught sight of me on the stairs. Our eyes locked. His hair was sweat-damp, and his brows rose when he realized I’d been watching him.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

“Hey yourself,” I murmured back.

He leaned on the fender, rag slung over his shoulder, and I stared.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” he finally said.

“Probably not.”

He sighed, then backed over to the only open rolling shutter and pulled it down. “Lunch?” he asked, indicating the kitchen.

“Not upstairs in that room, please.”

“Nah, come down. I shut us in.”

“Thank fuck.”

I managed to get to the main floor, ignoring the twinge in my side that still hadn’t faded, and followed Rio toward the kitchen. He didn’t wait for me to fuss or limp, just assumed I’d join him, and somehow that helped. I kept my chin high and pretended it didn’t hurt, and he let me have that.

The kitchen surprised me. It was cleaner than I expected—a mix of utilitarian and dated, with tan cabinets and a Formica counter, all of it worn but scrubbed to a shine.

The kind of place that said people actually used it.

A table dominated the center of the room, six mismatched chairs crowded around it.

Rio went to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. He set them on the table and followed with a selection of Dorito snack bags, and some canned drinks—lemon soda and root beer.

“You choose first,” he said, cracking open his can. “One’s ham and cheese, the other’s chicken salad.”

I stepped closer and hesitated for a second, then noticed something scribbled on the wraps. Each sandwich had my name written in small block letters. My chest tightened.

“You labeled these?”

He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “Enzo can eat forever, and Jamie’s not far behind. Didn’t want your food walking off. One’s yours, the other one is mine.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Either is my favorite. ”

I chose the chicken salad, unwrapped it, and took a bite—and holy hell. My eyes widened.