Page 102 of Dirty Mechanic
Not without her.
The station comes into view, two hundred yards down Main Street. Simon pulls in, parks close to the rear entrance, and opens our door.
Rain lashes, soaking us as he hurries us inside. Lightning flashes again, casting jagged shadows across the cement walls.
Thunder rolls through the structure like a war drum.
Annabelle’s fingers tighten in mine, nails digging in with every distant crack.
Simon leads us toward the cells at the back of the station.
He pauses outside the bars.
“Normally, I’d offer coffee and small talk… but we probably shouldn’t be chatting.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Thanks for buying us some time.”
“Town’s behind you two. Whatever happens, you’re not alone.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle whispers, voice low.
The thunder answers for her.
Then, the bastard locks us in two separate cells.
“Are you serious?” I growl. “Come on, Simon. You’ve known us since we were in diapers. You really gonna make me sleep in a separate cell from my wife?”
He shoots me a look—half-exasperation, half-soft warning—then reaches for the keys again with a sigh that says fine, but don’t make me regret it.
The lock clicks again.
I step into her cell before the door’s even fully open and wrap my arms around her.
The lock slides shut with a final, metallic thunk. Thunder rattles the rafters.
But in here, in this god-awful holding cell with rust stains and a mattress thinner than my patience, holding her?
It doesn’t feel like prison.
It feels like the start of something we should’ve had a long time ago.
Once Simon leaves, I wait for his footsteps to fade before settling onto the cot with her.
Outside, the storm rages—wind howling, lightning painting cracks across the wall.
The dogs must be terrified.
Annabelle leans into me, and I toss the scratchy blanket over our legs.
Then, slowly, I reach into my boot, pull out the tiny multi-tool I stashed, and slip it into her hand behind my back, careful to keep it out of the camera’s view.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
“Trying something.”
Then, I realize there’s no one to watch the stupid cameras in this town.
I work the window with the pick. The old wood, swollen with age and rain, doesn’t budge. Not even a little.
