Page 114 of Dirty Mechanic
The leather cover curls in the heat. Pages catch instantly, curling black, smoke and ash rising like dying butterflies. I don’t breathe. Not until he roars and lunges again, grabbing a fistful of my hair.
He yanks me forward.
His fingers clamp down on my wrist.
“Fool,” he spits. “You think that saves you?”
Before I can blink, he hooks me under the arm and slams me down. My head hits the bark-strewn floor with a crack. White light explodes behind my eyes.
When my vision clears, he’s straddling me. His knees dig into my hips, pinning me. Hands crush my forearms into the mud. I try to kick, but he catches my ankle and twists until I stop moving.
The rope hisses softly as he pulls it tight.
Cold fibers bite into my wrists as he loops it around them, cinching tighter this time.
Too tight. My fingers go numb. I twist. Kick. Thrash.
Nothing.
I go still. Chest heaving.
Mike crouches beside the dying fire pit and pulls a clear plastic sleeve from his jacket, rain streaming down the edges. Inside, protected and dry, are the journal pages he ripped out—my journal entries from San Francisco that could ruin everything.
He dusts off the ash from his jacket and holds the pages over the coals. Sparks lick at the air, hungry.
“I still have these,” he taunts, holding them like a prize. “Your precious truths. You can’t burn what’s already mine.” He lays them across the stone rim like sacred scripture. “Your secrets belong to me.”
He stands and stalks off toward the trees, unzipping as he goes, muttering something I don’t catch.
I turn my head. Just enough to see Blake. He’s still bound, still bloodied, but gaining consciousness. Barely.
“Annabelle,” he rasps, voice shredded. “You did great back there.”
I blink.
“Listen, when he comes back, I swear, I’ll get us out. I’ll—” His lip wobbles. “I’ll bite through these ropes if I have to.”
He shifts and somehow—so gently—brushes a strand of hair off my face.
“You’re my family,” he whispers. “I’m not losing you.”
My throat locks.
I want to call out for Derek. Scream his name into the storm. But all I manage is a weak smile.
“We’ll survive this. Together,” I whisper, squeezing his fingers.
He nods, drawing up every scrap of courage he has, just as Mike returns, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
He doesn’t speak. Just grabs my arm and yanks.
Hard.
I stumble upright. The world tilts.
He hauls me forward, dragging me toward the riverbank where a skiff waits—half-sunk, water pooling in its belly.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out.
