Page 100 of Dirty Mechanic
“Dad—no.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” I snarl, fighting against his grip.
My father flanks my other side, holding firm. “You do this now, you lose everything. Let him hang himself with his own rope.”
Mike smirks from the stage, like he knows I can’t get to him yet. Like he wants me to snap.
Volunteers start moving. Older men from town climb the stairs, grabbing Mike by the arms and dragging him down. But not before he spits one last venom-laced sentence into the mic.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Belle.”
The speakers screech one last time as someone yanks the cord.
The mic thuds to the floor.
My jaw tightens, and my chest seizes with fury. Every breath tastes like smoke.
My father’s grip loosens after Mike leaves. Maybe it’s better this way. I don’t want the whole town to witness a murder.
I pull Blake in, ruffle his hair like he’s still twelve. “Thanks, kid. As much as I don’t want to admit it, that was the right call.”
He’s taller now. Broader. Steadier than I was at his age. But in this moment—right here, holding me back from ruining my life—he’s still the boy who once asked if love could fix everything.
I don’t say it out loud, but the answer burns in my chest like gospel: Yeah, kid. It can. But you’ve gotta fight like hell for it.
The square is silent, except for Annabelle’s breathing, shallow and ragged beside me.
She’s trembling.
I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, holding her like I’m the only shield she’s got left.
“We’re pressing charges,” I murmur into her hair. “I swear to God, Annabelle, I won’t let him survive this.”
Lena moves in with the kind of quiet ferocity only mothers have, wrapping an arm around Annabelle’s shoulders.
Walter’s voice is low but firm. “You’re coming with us tonight. Both of you.”
I start to argue, because pride is a disease, but Mom doesn’t even look at me when she says, “You’re not going out there alone. Not while he’s breathing the same air.”
I nod once.
The family closes in around us like armor. And just when I think we’ve survived the worst?—
The sirens come.
One sharp wail. Then another. Cutting through the quiet like blades.
Annabelle freezes.
So do I.
At first, everyone assumes it’s part of the festivities. A firetruck giving kids a thrill. Maybe a parade thing.
Instead of the firetrucks, two cruisers roll into the square. And it’s not Simon, or our township.
Outsiders.
The shift in the air is immediate. Tight. Electric.
