Page 41 of Dirty Mechanic
I shrug. “It’s nothing.”
She doesn’t buy it. Of course, she doesn’t.
“You call that nothing?” Her fingers hover, then make contact—soft, careful, and electric. She traces the edge of the cut like she can erase it.
“You did a good job cleaning it.” Her voice drops, fingers moving slower now. “Not sure you’ll avoid a scar, though.”
I could tell her that Dr. Marvey patched me up in five minutes flat and gave me a tube of ointment I already forgot in the glovebox.
But I don’t. Because right now, her hands are on me. And I need them to stay there.
She looks up. “What happened?”
I glance at her swollen eyes and cracked lips. My altercation with the bastard doesn’t even compare to her pain.
He fucking touched her.
“Just a disagreement.” I flinch as she presses gently against my lip.
Her brow arches. She doesn’t believe me, but lets it go.
“At least, let me clean it at home. It could get infected.”
Home.
That word. Like it has roots. Like she belongs in that house. And she does.
I nod once, pretending I don’t feel that warmth snake into places I thought were long dead.
We don’t speak on the way inside. We move in tandem, like two people who’ve just survived a wreck and haven’t figured out which way is up yet. The smell of apples hits the moment the door creaks open. It’s baked into the walls, into memory, into us, and I breathe a little easier.
I sit on a barstool. Annabelle pulls out the first aid kit and stands between my knees. Her fingers work quietly, brushing antiseptic across my lip with exaggerated care.
“I could kiss it better.” Her breath ghosts across my skin. “But it looks too sore.”
I smirk, because it’s the only defense I have. “Might still be worth it. For medical purposes.”
A flush rises on her cheeks. That pink suits her more than fear ever did.
“Let me help clean you up, too,” I offer, voice low.
She hesitates, then gives me a quiet nod. I wet a cloth, warm from the tap, and swipe gently along her cheek, lifting the smudged dirt away. She lets out a breath, slow and shaky, as I brush her hair back from her face.
But when I reach for her braid, fingers careful and slow, she flinches.
It’s subtle, but it cuts.
For a second she looks at me like I’m something to fear. Not because I’ve hurt her. But because I didn’t stop the bastard who did.
Because I failed her the way I failed Sarah.
“What’s really going on?” I ask softly. “How do you know him?”
She doesn’t look up. Just stares at her scraped hands like the answers are written in blood and dirt.
“Mike...was my landlord. Back in San Francisco,” she says, voice paper-thin.
My jaw tightens. “I met him at the motel.”
