Page 99 of Dirty Mechanic
The slap echoes like a firecracker.
His head snaps sideways.
And I run.
I barely register the faces—just the flash of kids in cowboy hats and string lights buzzing overhead as I shove through the crowd. But Mike bolts before I can reach him, slipping through the tents like the cockroach he is.
“Coward!” I roar, lunging?—
But Annabelle grabs my arm.
“Derek—don’t. Not here.”
She’s shaking. Eyes wide. Breath shallow.
I stop. Only because she’s in front of me.
I steady her with my hands, gentle but firm. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. No, I’m okay.”
But she’s not.
And neither am I.
The mic screeches, its feedback sharp enough to pierce bone. Then comes the voice I hate more than my own doubt. I turn slowly, gut twisting.
Mike’s on stage with microphone in hand like he’s God’s own stand-up comic. But nobody’s laughing.
“I’m looking for someone,” he booms. “Skylar Bishop. You know her, right? The bitch who sold the land that was supposed to be mine? My father’s land.”
He paces like a preacher drunk on his own spit.
“If you’re hiding Skylar, you’ve got twenty-four hours to come clean.”
My hands curl into fists.
Then he looks at Annabelle, and everything tilts sideways.
“And Belle?” he purrs, like her name tastes good on his tongue. “Sweet, broken Belle. You’ve got twenty-four hours too, my precious. Because if you don’t give me what I want, I’ll tell this whole town exactly what you are.”
He leans into the mic like he’s about to sing a lullaby made of venom.
“You think your pies and your pretty little face make you respectable again? You’re nothing but a whore who spreads her legs for anyone who pretends to care.”
Gasps ripple.
Mothers cover children’s ears.
Dads square their shoulders.
And Annabelle?—
She flinches beside me like he just slapped her in front of the whole fucking town.
And I snap.
I charge forward, but Blake’s there, planting both hands on my chest like a wall made of muscle and memory.
