Page 72 of Tangled Desires

“Too late,” he says, dragging on his cigarette. “Imogen? Trouble in paradise?”

“Fuck off, Michael.”

Does he, though? No. Of course not. He chuckles, plants his boots on the ground like he’s taking root. “Oh, ho, ho! He’s feisty today.” He’s laughing, but he’s still not moving. “I’ll just stand here till you spill. Got all day, mate.”

I yank the toothpick out of my mouth, snapping it in half. “This’ll sound fucked, but I could’ve sworn I saw Gary.” Michael freezes, cigarette pausing midair.

“The fuck?” He shakes his head like that’ll erase the thought. “No way. He’s locked up.”

“Was,” I mutter. “He’s been in long enough. Could be out by now.”

His face hardens. “Where? When?”

“Yesterday. Picking up a part for Joe. Saw someone walking by. I thought it was him, Mikey. Could’ve sworn.”

“You’re imagining shit.” A long pause stretches thick between us, a weight neither of us wants to hold.

Michael sighs. “So, this is why you’ve been in one of those moods?”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “And no.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Care to share?”

“No.” I toss a wrench at him, and he catches it without missing a beat. “So, you either help or fuck off.”

Slamming the hood of my WRX, I steal one last look. Timing belt’s done and the exhaust manifold swapped. She’s purring now, ready to eat up the road. Should feel like a win, right?

Keys in hand, I head inside, but the idea of going home? Yeah, that’s sitting heavy. Imogen will be there, probably dissecting every damn mood swing I’ve had this week. Can’t even blame her—she’s got every reason to wonder. Hell, I don’t even have answers. Some days, my brain’s a smashed-up gearbox—grinding, racing, stuck in neutral all at once. No map for that mess.

And fuck, I hate it. Hate being like this, especially now that she’s in my space to see it up close. Every rough edge, every glitch. I can’t fucking help myself. It’s not like I’m trying to be an asshole, but that doesn’t make it any better, does it? The shop phone rings, cutting sharply through the quiet. I snatch it off the hook, voice clipped. “Joe’s Auto Shop.”

“Harrison,” a voice on the other end says, smooth, casual. Too casual.

The world slams to a stop.

It’s him.

The blood in my veins turns to static, my grip tightening on the phone. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Easy, son. Just thought I’d give you a call, catch up.” His voice oozes that same slimy charm, like this is normal. Like we’re normal.

A call?Is he for real? “How the fuck did you get this number?” My heart’s going ballistic, pounding out of sync. He better not have called anyone else.

“Asked around,” he says, like it’s no big deal.

The rage starts simmering, and my hand’s twitching with the urge to slam the phone through the wall. Nobody else is in earshot—Joe’s in the office, Michael’s back outside. Just me and this piece of shit invading my airspace. He sighs like this ishardfor him. “Look, Harrison. I’ve changed. People can change, you know.”

“Bullshit.” The word snaps out of me.

“I’ve been thinking about you boys. About your mother.” His tone shifts. It’s laughable. “Maybe we could put the past behind us. Y’know, move on.”

“Move on?” The laugh that comes out is bitter. “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so.” I don’t know what pisses me off more—the fact that he’s saying this, or the fact that part of me is still listening.

“Harrison!” Joe calls out suddenly, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Me. Fucking startled. What the hell? That never happens.

“What?” I grit out, but Joe doesn’t even blink.

“BBQ tonight,” Joe raises his brow, unfazed. “Tell Imogen.”

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