Page 72 of Dirty Mechanic
I stare for a second longer, then lower the hood with a quiet click and circle the car.
A few spaces down, under a flickering floodlight, I spot it—the emerald-green 1968 Shelby GT350. Sleek. Cocky. Familiar.
Rick Bishop’s car.
I glance back at town square towards the ribbon-strung trees. The music and laughter spill like honey through the festival grounds.
It all feels like someone else’s life.
But mine’s up there too.
Annabelle, behind her booth, apron dusted in flour. That ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The way she keeps checking her phone like she’s bracing for an earthquake.
She’s scared.
And she won’t tell me why.
But I know.
It’s him.
And that bakery sign I just hung? The one with her name swinging above the door like a promise? The future I handed her, wrapped in brown paper and vows, will vanish if I lose.
I didn’t come here to win a race. I came here to make damn sure she never has to look over her shoulder again.
So, if I’ve got to get a little dirty to do it? So be it.
I pop the Chevy’s hood again. My instincts are screaming, but my hands know what to do. One braces against the chassis. The other moves, quick and sure. I disconnect the secondary ignition coil. Loosen the wiring harness to the fuel pressure regulator—just enough. Just enough to stall after a few laps. Not a crash. Not a fire. Just a sudden, humiliating stallout.
Enough to shatter his pride.
It’s not sabotage. It’s insurance.
It’s love in the language I know best—wrenches, wires, and untraceable failsafes.
I don’t want to be this man. But I’ve watched good men lose to worse ones for doing the right thing. I’m not here to be noble. I’m here to win her peace, our shot, and this damn valley.
I shut the hood, my palms slick with sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.
Then I walk two stalls over. And do the same thing to Rick’s Shelby.
This isn’t about winning anymore. It’s about making damn sure they lose.
Warm skin. Faint soap. The barest trace of sawdust and motor oil.
He’s wrapped around me like armor—one leg draped over mine, his hand splayed across my belly, thumb drawing slow, lazy circles into my skin.
And for one perfect moment, I forget.
Forget what Emma confirmed yesterday.
Forget that my divorce papers were flagged for fraud.
Forget that this marriage—the one wrapped in apple blossoms and reckless hope—might not be valid at all.
I breathe in safety. Belonging. Him. And I let myself pretend that’s enough.
My heart aches in the best way.
