Page 77 of Dirty Mechanic
And maybe it does.
I should be shaken. I should be panicking. But I’m not. Not yet.
What I feel is something colder. Sharper. Like steel being forged in my chest. I didn’t just stand up to him. I leveled him. Looked Mike Bishop in the eye and didn’t blink.
The power is mine now.
I round the corner to the north trail, lungs burning, heart pounding like it’s trying to outrun what just happened.
My hands still smell like metal and sweat.
I sprint past the brush and hit the bend near the ravine, linen towels clutched in my fists, chest heaving. And there she is.
Emma.
She’s crouched beside a mossy boulder, her sundress hitched to her thighs, hair matted to her forehead with sweat, and a murderous glint in her eyes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I gasp, skidding to a stop. “You’re having the baby here?”
“I was on my way to the cider tent, and then I had to pee,” she growls through gritted teeth. “And then this hellspawn decided it was time.”
I glance at the uneven ground, already littered with twigs and questionable moss. “Why in God’s name would you go through the woods to the cider tent?”
She shoots me a look, half-annoyed, half-exhausted. “I had to pee, Annabelle. I’m not squeezing into a Porta Potty the size of a feed barrel. Now shut up and help me. He’s coming.”
The sound that escapes her next is pure pain, raw and primal, and it slices through me like a wire pulled too tight.
You can do this.
It’s been years since I delivered a baby. I haven’t touched a patient since nursing school. My license? Expired. My confidence? Shaky at best.
But right now, none of that matters. I just know I can’t fuck this up.
I drop to my knees beside her, adrenaline surging. My hands move on instinct, my voice low and calm even though inside, I’m spiraling.
Everything else falls away—Mike, the papers, the lies, the ache that’s been hollowing me out for months.
This is now. This is real.
And Emma?
She’s a damn goddess.
Fierce. Gritted. Glorious.
I coach her through the contractions, gripping one of her hands while the other towel dabs sweat from her face. She curses like a sailor, shouts something about Eric’s testicles, and screams through the final push.
The first sharp cry is wet and soul-stealing.
I wrap the baby in the soft linen, heart crashing in my chest, and place him on her chest. She breaks into tears the second he lets out that whimper. I do too.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “He’s real.”
“You did it.” My voice cracks as I smooth damp hair from her temple. “You actually did it.”
She laughs through a sob. “This wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to have him in a birthing tub. With candles and whale music. Not in the dirt with twigs up my ass.”
I choke on a laugh. “Well…your flair for dramatic entrances is still intact.”
