Page 113 of Dirty Mechanic
If I can just get the journal…
If I can destroy it for good this time, instead of keeping it hidden like a weapon I never had the courage to use, I’ll finally strip away Mike’s leverage.
“None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t dragged me back to San Francisco,” I snap, shoving venom into every word.
He scoffs. “You were a fugitive the second you pulled that trigger on my father. Nobody’s gonna care if you disappear. You’ll be a headline. Runaway bride. Killer nurse. Lover’s quarrel gone wrong. Or maybe…” He leans in. “Maybe I should just take you back to San Francisco.”
He flicks his thumb along the journal’s edge, flipping pages like he’s reading bedtime stories. My back presses into the bark, each ridge biting against my spine.
I laugh. Sharp. Ugly. “You wish. You’ve got me tied up because you’re afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Yeah. Of a woman. Afraid I’ll beat your ass before you lay a finger on me.”
His grin stretches. “Wanna bet your sweet pussy on that?”
And there it is. The eloquence of a man who’s definitely overcompensating.
I flinch as his hand crushes between my legs. I don’t cry out. I just look at him and whisper, “Like I thought. Not a man.”
He grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.
Wind tears through the lean-to, ripping branches. One snaps overhead, raining splinters that sting my skin. He hesitates. Just long enough.
I twist, slamming my elbow into his ribs—something cracks. He staggers, wheezing. I pivot, knee-first into his jaw, sending his head crashing into the trunk. And I square him in the jaw with fists still tied, but the rope loosens a little.
Pain shoots through my knuckles, blooming fast and hot, but I don’t stop. I don’t even breathe.
For a moment, I taste it—hope. Defiance. Rage that promises I will not go quietly.
He lunges, catching my wrist. The rope slips free and I press every advantage. I slam my forehead into the bridge of his nose.
He reels, dazed.
Good.
Let’s see how he likes playing helpless.
My fist crashes into his jaw—then again, this time to his temple. I drive my thumbnail into the tender crease at his neck. He yelps, boots skidding on the slick floor. He stumbles backward, arms flailing for balance. I grab his collar, and slam him shoulder-first into the stone edge of the fire pit.
Sparks explode into the air like startled fireflies.
He gasps, scrambles to his feet, but I’m faster. I snatch my journal off the stump. He swings wild. I duck and launch an uppercut straight into his chin.
He lifts off the ground, but ricochets off the trunk, landing hard on the muddy ground. The lantern light swings, casting twisted shadows that jitter across the tarp like ghosts.
Blood floods my mouth, sharp and coppery, but I barely notice. My heart’s beating too loudly. Too fast.
Rain whips through the roof’s torn seams, spitting onto the coals. Flames gutter. Embers hiss.
This is my shot.
He blinks, clearing his vision, just as I back up and hold the journal over the fire.
His eyes widen. Then rage.
I throw it.
