Page 30 of Carrick
Again.
Of course he was. It was his sanctuary—the hum of machines, the scent of grease and metal, the quiet ritual of precision and control. I stood in the open doorway and watched him for a moment longer than I probably should have. Theair was thick with the smell of motor oil and steel, edged with something warmer, darker. Him.
He was bent over the open hood of a sleek, unfamiliar car. This one was imported, elegant in a way that felt almost inappropriate next to the messy, lived-in chaos of the garage. Its lines were too smooth, too fast. Dangerous, in the way Carrick was when he wasn’t trying to be.
His hoodie was gone. Just a black tank stretched across his back, grease smeared across one shoulder. Muscles flexed and rolled beneath ink and sweat, and something low in my belly twisted so sharply it stole my breath.
I didn’t knock. Didn’t clear my throat. I just stood there, silent and still, trying to find steady ground beneath the unsteady weight of my need.
The thrum in my chest had turned into something sharper now—heat blooming beneath my skin like fire under ice. I didn’t know how to name it. Didn’t want to. I wasn’t here for poetry.
I was here forhim.
He didn’t look at me right away. But I knew—knew by the stillness in his shoulders, the subtle pause in his movement—that he felt me there. He knew I’d come, and why.
He reached for a towel, wiped his hands slowly and deliberately, then tossed it onto the bench with a lazy flick of his wrist. When he finally turned to face me, his gaze was steady. Cool. But I saw the shift. Saw the storm gathering behind his eyes.
“You sure?” he asked.
His voice was low. Controlled. But it cut through me like a blade.
I blinked. “You always start conversations like that?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Only when I already know the answer.”
And fuck, maybe he did. Maybe he’d seen it in me from the beginning—how tightly I was coiled, how I moved like a woman always two seconds from snapping. Maybe he recognized the same hollow places in me that lived inside him. The ones that only burned when starved.
I stepped forward. Not close. Not yet. “I want to talk.”
He didn’t hesitate. Just jerked his chin toward the stairs in the corner. “Come on. It’s private up there.”
The stairs creaked beneath my feet as I followed him up. My pulse echoed in my ears, thudding like footsteps chasing me from the inside out. At the top was a door that led into a lofted space—bare, utilitarian, but not cold. There was a worn leather couch, blackout curtains, a mini fridge in the corner, and a heavy door that clicked shut with a finality that made my spine go rigid.
Carrick locked it without hesitation, like it was muscle memory.
I didn’t ask why. I already knew.
No one would interrupt. That was the point.
He motioned to the couch, but I didn’t sit. I couldn’t. I felt raw—like my skin had been turned inside out and the air was too sharp against it. If I sat, I might collapse. I needed to stay upright. I needed to stay in control just a little longer.
“I want this,” I said. My voice cracked, and I hated it. “I need release. Control. I need someone to take the weight from me. I need to stop thinking for a little while.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. He just stood there, arms crossed, studying me like I was a map he already knew but needed to trace again, just to be sure.
“And you want me to be the one to give that to you?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tensed, just barely. “No romance?”
“No hearts, no flowers, no soft hands.”
“No safety net.”
“No pretending.”
There was a pause. Not long. Just long enough for the air between us to shift. His eyes never left mine.
