Page 76 of Dirty Mechanic
I walk right up to him, slow and measured, like I’ve got all the time in the world. My heart is a cannonball in my chest, but I keep my voice flat. “We’re not doing this here.”
“Oh, but we are,” he says, pushing off the car with the kind of lazy swagger that makes my skin crawl. “You came to me, remember? Must’ve missed me.”
I reach into my tote bag and wrap my fingers around cold metal.
His eyes flick to my hand. “You packing, sweetheart?”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
I pull out the gun, quiet, fast, without theatrics, and point it his way. My finger stays on the trigger, and the message is clear. We’re way past warning shots.
His smile falters.
“Get. Out. Of. Town.”
“You threatening me?” he says, voice still smug, but with an edge now. “That’s bold for someone still legally tied to me.”
“You want bold?” I step in closer, unlocking the safety. “I have half a mind to walk into Sheriff Simon’s office right now and file charges for blackmail, coercion, and marriage fraud. If I don’t shoot you first.”
That gets his attention.
I lower my voice, lethal and low. “You used me for a green card. That’s a felony, Mike. ICE would love to hear about your little scam.”
He steps closer, and I step back, holding the gun steady. “Stay the fuck back. I fucking used this gun before, didn’t miss, and I’m not afraid to use it again.”
He pales, just slightly, and I press harder. “You want to stay in the country? Fine. But you stay the fuck away from me. From Derek. From Lords Valley. Or so help me God, I’ll make sure you’re deported wearing nothing but your smug little smile.”
His mouth opens, then closes again.
For once, he doesn’t have a comeback.
And I let that silence stretch.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I add, backing away one step. “And I’m done running.”
My phone buzzes.
He opens his mouth to respond again, but I cut him off with the steadiest thing I have left: my pointed gun and silence.
My hand remains rock solid, my heart hammering. He’s not going to see me flinch. Not now. Not ever again.
Only when I’m sure I’ve backed out far enough, past the food tents, and past the edge of the vendor trailers, do I duck behind the cider booth and finally let my breath out in a jagged rush. My knees threaten to give, but I brace myself, press against the barnwood paneling, and slide the gun back into my bag.
That’s when I check my phone.
Emma: Annabelle. It’s time. North trail. Bring towels.
Shit!
The North trial is a hundred yards away. I want to scream, “I knew it!”. Instead, I quickly type that I’m on my way and take off, skidding to a stop in front of a booth draped in handmade linens and embroidered dishcloths.
“Sorry!” I gasp, grabbing two of the softest-looking towels off the display. “Emergency. I’ll bring them back!”
The woman behind the table blinks, then nods, wide-eyed. “Is it Emma?”
I’m already running. “Yeah. Baby’s coming!”
I rush past toddlers dragging balloon animals and teens crowding the caramel stall, one hand gripping the bag against my hip like it holds the last stable thing in my life.
