Page 9 of Dirty Mechanic
By the time the sun dips below the horizon, I’m at the track’s front office, leaning over the signup sheet. I snag a stray pen from the counter, and scrawl my name in bold print.
One of the rookie drivers starts bragging about a motorhome he bought, and I laugh, telling him about mine. The old rust bucket still sits in the backyard, overgrown with rose bushes and ghosts.
It took me across the country once. Took us across the country.
I don’t remember the landscapes. Just her feet on my dash, and her laughter rolling through the speakers louder than the radio.
“Are you racing?” he asks. “I’m Richard.”
I shake his hand. “Derek. Nice to meet you. I just signed up.”
“Derek? The unbeatable Derek ‘Mustang Maverick’? You’re one gifted son of a bitch.”
“Not gifted. Just lucky.”
We chat about the track and his lack of experience, so I give him a few pointers and tricks, since I’m in the first round and he’s in the second one. If he’s lucky, we’ll face off in the finals. By the time I head back to town, the sky’s navy blue and the first stars are peeking through. I should go home and call it a night.
Instead, I steer for the Rusty Lantern Pub like it’s calling my name. An old red Chevy I don’t recognize rolls by the front, and something in my gut clenches. But the moment I step out of my car and hear her voice through the pub’s front window, I forget all about the truck.
That voice.
Soft. Warm. Threaded with sweet danger and the ache of things unsaid.
My runaway bride.
My chest tightens, like my ribs forgot how to make room for air. Despite my lungs turning to stone, I follow the sound like a man possessed, and I open the pub’s door.
And there she is. Back in my life like a damn wrecking ball with lipstick.
Annabelle Waters.
And here I am, heart stuttering like a first-year engine that forgot how to idle.
I let out an involuntary sigh.
She’s sitting in the back corner, nursing a drink like it’s the only thing left she can hold on to. My hands clench, my breath shortens, and every damn part of me remembers her like a scar that never healed.
She doesn’t see me.
Not yet.
But she will.
Because I don’t walk. I charge toward the woman who promised to marry me.
And damn it…
I will make her keep that promise.
Gravel crunches under my boots, sharp, brittle, and unforgiving. My suitcase wheels groan behind me, snagging on every divot as if screaming, ‘Turn around, Annabelle. Move to Alaska!”
But it’s too late.
Lords Valley spreads ahead, smug and picturesque, its fences draped in spring blossoms and its air thick with the scent of lilacs and renewal. Paper lanterns and streamers snap in the breeze as May Day hums to life.
It’s all so bright and so cheerful, it makes me want to vomit.
Where was all this sweetness when I needed it? Where were these happy, busy people when I was locked in a San Francisco apartment, clutching a kitchen knife in one shaking hand and praying Mike Bishop wouldn’t pick that night to come back?
