Page 83 of Dirty Mechanic
I knew something was off. I felt it in the way she looked at me. In the silence she didn’t break. And now, every time I blink, it replays in my mind like a fucking tornado siren.
The flag drops.
My foot slams the gas.
Gravel spits behind me as the Mustang launches forward. The world narrows to the headlights ahead, the vibration in the wheel, the thunder of engines screaming through the dark.
I bury every thought in the roar of the engine. In the grind of gears. In the burn of fury that’s settled behind my ribs like a loaded gun.
The track curves hard and fast, and I take it faster. Riskier. I know this road better than I know my own hands, and tonight, it’s my battlefield.
Because I can't outrun what I heard in Mike’s voice. What I saw in his fucking eyes.
“She’s still my wife,” he said. Like he owned her. Like she was a fucking receipt in his wallet.
Annabelle. My Annabelle. Married to that monster.
Mike takes the last bend tight and fast, his new engine cutting through the uphill like it’s nothing. He’s faster than expected. Slick. Unbothered. Too unbothered.
The tires scream around the second turn, and so does the crowd, but it all sounds underwater. The only noise I care about is the violent stutter of my heart.
Tell me it’s not true.
Tell me you were going to tell me.
Tell me I’m not the biggest damn fool alive.
Because I love her. God help me, I fucking love her. And she lied to me.
She’s just a girl, a voice in my head says. A scared girl who’s been running so long she doesn’t know how to stop.
But that girl promised me everything.
And now I don’t know what’s real.
The next corner comes too fast, but I take it anyway. I don’t brake—I lean into it. Let the anger do the driving. We battle through the corners. He’s ahead of me for a stretch, then I inch forward, gaining ground on the long straightaway. We jostle at the curve, tires almost kissing, and for a second, I swear we’re going to clip.
But we don’t. He pulls ahead again. And for a moment, I wonder if my fix was too subtle. Too cautious.
What if I miscalculated?
The final lap approaches. The crowd's roar grows louder, swelling like a wave about to crash.
Mike’s car roars beside me, but I don’t look. I don’t flinch. I just push harder. Faster. Trying to catch up as he pulls ahead.
This isn’t just a race.
This is me, proving I still have something left to lose.
Final turn.
I grit my teeth and hit the gas. The Mustang surges forward like it knows what’s at stake. Like it’s carrying the weight of everything I can’t say out loud.
Mike rounds the bend ahead. His headlights flicker. Then his car stutters.
It’s almost imperceptible at first. A hiccup. A drop in the pitch before the engine sputters hard, chokes, and dies mid-straightaway. The Chevy rolls forward on inertia alone, slowing rapidly as smoke curls from under the hood.
I fly past him at full throttle, dirt kicking up behind me, adrenaline thundering in my veins, crossing the finish line first.
