Page 138 of Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies

“You vandalized my shop.” My voice was steady, but barely. “You trashed Aurora’s bookstore.”

Hank set his glass down with a clink. “You got proof of that?”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, Hank. We do.”

Davis and Hall had told me to let them handle it, to let the warrant do the talking, but I wasn’t built like that.

This wasn’t just about justice. It was about standing up in front of the people Hank had bullied, bought off, and manipulated for years—and telling him, to his face, that his time was up.

I turned, glancing around the bar.

“Some of you still think Hank’s got this town in his pocket,” I said, my voice carrying through the room. “But I’ve got news for you. His money doesn’t mean a damn thing when he's sitting in a jail cell.”

Hank’s smirk faltered just slightly.

“We’ve got footage,” I continued. “Clear as day. Hank, under his little disguise, tearing through this town like a coward. You wanted to ruin us? You wanted to push us out?” I took a step closer, lowering my voice. “You lost.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. People shifted, eyes darting to one another, to Hank, to me.

The hold he had on this town had been slipping for a while now, but this?

This was the final nail in the coffin.

Hank scoffed, forcing a laugh. “You're full of shit, Grady.”

But his voice lacked its usual confidence.

He glanced toward the door like he was already planning his exit.

I shook my head. “You can lie all you want. Won’t change the fact that the sheriff’s got a warrant with your name on it. Won’t change the fact that everyone in this town is finally seeing you for what you are—a desperate, washed-up billionaire who thought he could buy his way into power.”

A voice rang out from the back of the bar. “Damn right!”

That was enough.

The crowd shifted, people nodding, muttering in agreement.

“You think you own us, Hank?” I gestured around the room. “Look around. This town doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the people in it.”

My gaze swept over the familiar faces—shop owners, farmers, mechanics, parents, kids who’d grown up here just like me.

“And we’re done letting you run it into the ground,” I finished.

A murmur of agreement turned into a chorus. People started standing, stepping forward.

Hank’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t over,” he snarled, standing up so fast his chair scraped against the floor.

I tilted my head. “Yeah, it is.”

A beat passed.

Then the doors swung open, and in walked Davis and Hall, badges flashing, eyes locked on Hank.

Perfect timing, and they didn’t even know it.

The bar went dead silent.

Hank turned to run, but I stepped into his path.

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