Page 69 of Dirty Mechanic
I want to ask—but I don’t. Not yet.
She’s so damn excited. So full of light. I want to keep that brightness untouched for as long as I can.
But I know better.
I know Mike.
And if he shows tonight, it won’t be for pie.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve already walked the perimeter of the square three times. Checked the race lane on Valley’s Ridge twice. Nothing. No sign of Mike.
Not even a glimpse of the red Chevy.
I returned the truck this morning, handed the keys off to the sheriff like I’d promised. But there’s still no smug grin, no lurking presence.
And that’s what makes me suspicious as hell.
It’s always the quiet ones. The ones who wait until your guard slips before they strike. And Mike Bishop? He’s the kind of bastard who sharpens his knives while smiling across the table.
I cut back through the market and find Eric behind the fire station’s booth, loading water coolers into the truck.
“You seen him?”
Eric shakes his head. “Not since he slinked around the mayor’s office. Misty says he’s laying low.”
“Too low.” My jaw tightens. “Can you stay close to the square tonight? I don’t want him anywhere near Annabelle.”
Even Eric looks uneasy. That tension, coiled and crawling, isn’t just mine.
“I’ll stick to her like glue.”
“Where’s Blake?”
“Setting up the sound system at the fairgrounds. He’s watching for movement.”
Good. But the knot in my chest doesn't budge.
After checking her booth again, I slip behind the cider tent and cut through to Pete’s garage where the car’s waiting. The Mustang gleams under the overhead lights. I double-check everything, then set up a small security cam near the rear axle—just in case.
I’ve already done the work: double muffler installed, engine bored out, ECU tuned past legal limits, nitrous wired under the seat, weight shaved so she practically floats.
She purrs like sin and bites like hell.
She’s ready.
I just hope I am.
I make one final loop through the alley and emerge into the square just as the mayor steps onto the makeshift stage in front of Town Hall. He’s wearing that ridiculous blue sash, gripping a paper that flutters like it might take off on its own.
A hush rolls across the crowd. The sun hovers at the horizon, bleeding gold over the rooftops, lighting up the trees like a match.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mayor Hagan bellows, voice amplified through a crusty old speaker that immediately squeals, “welcome to Lords Valley’s Annual May Day Festival!”
Cheers erupt. Kids scream. Someone blows a party horn.
Emma groans beside the pie booth, hands braced against her lower back like she’s holding up the sun.
I make my way over as the mayor rattles off events like a circus barker—Survivor Game, beer garden, fireworks, and tomorrow night’s opening race.
