Page 18 of Tangled Desires

Michael’s managed to forgive her—good on him, I guess. But me? Nah. I was the one shielding him from all of it. Taking the punches, covering for her. That shit sticks with you.

Joe yells again, and this time, I snap out of it. “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses!” Grabbing a wrench, I wipe my hands on a rag and head over to the wrecked ute on the lift. But let’s be real—I’m not focused. Imogen’s still in my head, legs wrapped around me, that smart-ass smirk daring me to try to keep up.

Fuck’s sake. If this keeps up, I’m gonna end up accidentally fixing a carburetor with duct tape. The shop is buzzing now with activity, the clanging of tools and the hum of engines filling the air. The kind of noise that should drive anyone nuts, but somehow keeps me sane. Or as sane as I can get. Busy hands mean a busy mind, and a busy mind means no time for the demons to crawl in and start their bullshit.

That’s the trick. Keep moving. Keep talking. Keep everything at bay. Works most of the time.

Grab a spanner, a socket, a wrench—anything—and get to work. Easy. Until it’s not. Untilsheshows up in my head again,uninvited. A blonde tornado with a dirty mouth and enough attitude to fuel a V8. She’s all over my brain like grease on my hands. Can’t scrub her off, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to. That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? One night of no-strings sex, and now she’s stuck in there, in my brain, taking up real estate rent-free.

And let me tell you, my brain is a crowded fucking place. Between remembering which bolt goes where, keeping track of Joe’s rules, and debating whether I locked my car this morning, I don’t have space for anything else.

“Oi, you good?” Joe’s voice snaps me back to reality. Right, the shop. The cars. Actual work.

“Yep,” I mutter, dodging his knowing look and going back to tightening bolts. Or loosening them? Who knows. Probably should double-check. Michael appears by my side, grumbling about something being loose.

“Alright, don’t get your jocks in a twist,” I say, twisting the bolt a little harder than necessary just to piss him off. Michael gives me his signature scowl, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s so close to cracking. Perfect time to strike. I sneak up behind him and wrap him in a massive bear hug, putting all my weight into it.

“Get off, you clingy fuck!” he barks, shoving me off.

“Aww, c’mon, Mikey, don’t be shy. Hugs are good for the soul,” I tease, grinning as he mutters a string of curses.

“Go find Imogen and give her a fucking hug,” he shoots back, wiping grease off his hands.

“Wish I could. She’s avoiding me like I’ve got cooties,” I retort, leaning against the car with an exaggerated sigh.

Jono joins in, grinning. “The blonde? The one who’s already got you by the balls?”

“Not just the balls, mate. She’s got the whole damn package,” I say, popping a toothpick between my teeth. I don’t smoke—well,not much, anyway, only when I desperately need it—so chewing on something keeps me from losing my mind. Helps with... everything, really.

“Good luck, lover boy,” Jono says, shaking his head. “She’ll ruin you.”

Michael snorts.

“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s a comedian.” But they’re not wrong. She probablywillruin me. But you know what? I’m already halfway to the scrapyard, and I don’t even care.

Later, I pull up to the house. Michael’s Ducati’s parked out front, but Mum’s car’s nowhere in sight. Michael’s words from the other night pop back into my head.“She’s worried, you know. Thinks you’re avoiding her.”I can’t help but snort. Mum, worried? That’s a fucking laugh.

I make my way to the granny flat, the one I built with my own two hands. Privacy. Needed it bad. Can’t stand being in the same house as Mum—hell, can’t stand being anywhere near people when the night terrors hit. Those bastards, they’ve been around forever. Way before I can remember. And let me tell you, they suck. Waking up gasping for air, drenched in sweat, heart racing... Fuck. I hate it. I fucking hate that part of me.

The part that makes me weak.

I step into the flat, and it hits me—the familiar scent of leather, oil, and old wood. My safe zone. My fucking sanctuary. I built this place to control something, anything. It’s the only place those demons don’t dare come. Kicking off my boots, I head for the fridge and grab a cold one, crack it open, and take a deepswig. The first sip’s always the best. It’s like a mini-vacation from the chaos.

I plop down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, mind racing as usual. Butshe’sthere, in my head. I close my eyes, the cool leather rubbing against my skin. I can still remember what she felt like. What she tasted like. God, I’m so fucking hung up on her. It’s consuming me.

Every second I’m not thinking about work, I’m thinking about her. Then there’s the other part. The part that’s terrified she’ll see the real me. The broken, fucked-up mess who wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. The part of me that’s never been able to let go of the past.

I toss the beer bottle into the bin—perfect shot, by the way—and grab another. The fridge lets out that little hiss as it seals shut, and it’s weirdly satisfying.

I head out to the back of my flat, to my spot on the verandah—a real DIY champion effort, if I do say so myself. The chair creaks as I drop into it, but it’s sturdy enough.

Like me.Sort of.

The sunset’s doing its thing, painting the sky all pretty, but it’s a con. That calm, golden glow? Yeah, it’s just nature setting you up for the nighttime shitshow. The calm before the storm, or whatever. The night terrors are reliable like that—they always show up.

And I’ll be here, alone, fighting them off like I always have.

Most nights, Michael and I park ourselves out here, solving the world’s problems one joint at a time. I take a long swig of my beer, the cold bite hitting just right, when—speak of the devil—Michael pushes the screen door open. He’s got his standard kit—beer in one hand, a joint in the other. He tosses it to me, and I catch it easily.

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