Page 13 of Carrick
“It’s just… a lot.”
She nodded. “I get it.”
And strangely, I believed her.
We left the room and crossed the lawn toward a detached garage. That’s when I smelled it—grease, rubber, gasoline. My body responded before my mind caught up, something loosening in my chest like a sigh I hadn’t let go of.
Carrick was bent over the hood of a ’70 Chevelle, hands wrapped around a wrench, forearms smudged with grime. His shirt hung open at the collar, a hint of tattoo ink visible at the edge. His hair was pulled into the messy bun he always seemed to wear.
He looked up. Our eyes locked.
Then, slow as sin, he smirked.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “The kitten has claws. And curiosity. Who’d have thought?”
“Say kitten again and I’ll add ‘neutering’ to my skill set,” I said, rolling my eyes.
He chuckled. “You’ll fit right in.”
Maddy hopped onto a workbench. “She used to work in a garage, you know.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, surprised and a little unnerved at the fact that she somehow knew about my past.
“Jax,” she shrugged simply.
Carrick raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“I… rebuilt a ‘72 Firebird with my foster dad,” I said, stepping forward despite myself.
Carrick let out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a ride.”
“I did it mostly myself, in the end,” I said, feeling a sense of pride and longing. That had been the only good foster home Rayden and I had ever been in.
I stared at the car in front of me, taking in the meticulous care with which Carrick obviously treated it. The engine was half-disassembled, wires and bolts laid out in perfect order. “This is therapy,” I murmured, more to myself.
Carrick’s gaze sharpened. “Exactly.”
I circled to the front, fingers trailing over the hood. “You keeping the original carburetor?”
“Thinking about an Edelbrock swap. But she’s stubborn.”
“She’s vintage. Vintage women don’t like being replaced.”
His laugh rumbled, low and indulgent. “That what you are? Vintage?”
I met his eyes, lifting my chin. “I’m not easily replaced either—if that’s what you’re asking.”
Something flickered in his expression as he leaned back against the car, arms folded across his chest. “You know, I like you more than I should.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My pulse thrummed too loud, skin lit with heat just from being near him. I told myself not to look. Not to fall for the devil in grease-stained jeans.
But it was already too late.
Lingeringin the garage after Maddy’s exit—some excuse about bribing Sully with pancakes—I knew she was giving us space. Whether I wanted it was another question entirely.
Carrick didn’t speak, just handed me a rag when I reached for a wrench and joined me at the engine. Silence stretched between us, thick but not uncomfortable, heavy in a way that felt almost familiar. Cooler air drifted through the space, carrying oil, steel, and something citrus-sharp that had to be him. Every time he shifted, the room followed.
“You always get your hands dirty on witness duty?” The words slipped out, a small rupture in the quiet before it settled too deep.
