Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
DIESEL
Pain radiates through my body with each shallow breath. White hospital ceiling tiles blur above me as voices filter in and out of my consciousness. Something beeps rhythmically nearby. I try to move and immediately regret it, a sharp stab in my ribs forcing a groan past my lips.
"Mr. Torres, please try to stay still." A nurse appears in my field of vision, adjusting something on the IV in my arm. "You've got three broken ribs, a concussion, and quite a collection of cuts and bruises."
Memory flashes in disjointed fragments—Vanessa's smug smile across a table at The Velvet Antler. Her ultimatum. My refusal. Following her outside, the argument escalating. Then headlights, a black SUV accelerating toward me. The impact. Darkness.
"Sandra," I croak, my mouth dry as sandpaper. "Did you call her?"
"Yes, about twenty minutes ago." The nurse checks my vitals, her movements efficient. "She's on her way."
Relief washes through me, followed immediately by dread. What will I tell her? How can I explain any of this without losing her?
"What... what time is it?" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears.
"Just after eight." The nurse adjusts my pillows with practiced ease. "The doctor will be in shortly to discuss your injuries. You were lucky, Mr. Torres. It could have been much worse."
Lucky isn't the word I'd choose. The attack was a warning—Vanessa's way of showing me she's serious. She always was one for dramatic gestures.
"The police?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Crimson Hollow's small department won't find anything. The SUV will be gone, Vanessa with it. She's too careful for that.
"They took a statement from witnesses, but they said there wasn't much to go on. Hit and run." The nurse frowns sympathetically. "Black SUV, no plates visible. Sheriff Parker said he'd stop by tomorrow for your statement."
Parker's a good man, but he's out of his depth with this. They all are. This is Vancouver business. My past catching up with me in the worst possible way.
"Diesel!" Sandra's voice cuts through the hospital noise from the hallway. "Where is he? I need to see him!"
My heart rate spikes, the monitor beside the bed betraying my reaction. The nurse gives me a knowing look before stepping toward the door.
"He's right here," she calls. "You can come in, but he needs rest."
Sandra appears in the doorway, face pale with fear, cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. She's breathing hard like she ran the whole way. Our eyes lock, and the raw emotion in her gaze nearly undoes me.
"Oh my god," she whispers, rushing to my bedside. Her hands hover over me, afraid to touch and cause pain. "What happened? They just said accident..."
The nurse discreetly slips out, leaving us alone. I reach for Sandra's hand, needing her touch despite the pain movement causes. "I'm okay. Looks worse than it is."
It's a lie. I feel like I've been hit by a freight train. But the relief that floods her face makes it worth it.
"Bullshit," she says, voice breaking as she carefully takes my hand. "You're in a hospital bed covered in bruises. That's not okay." Her fingers gently brush my forehead where I can feel stitches pulling at my skin. "Was it... was it her? Vanessa?"
I close my eyes briefly. No point lying. "Not directly. But yes."
Sandra's jaw tightens. "Tell me everything. Right now."
I swallow, the time for half-truths and evasion gone. "Help me sit up first."
She adjusts the bed controls, easing me to a more upright position. Even with the painkillers flooding my system, the movement sends fire through my ribcage. I can't quite suppress a wince.
"I met Vanessa at The Velvet Antler," I begin once the pain subsides to a manageable level. "She's... she's my ex-wife."
Sandra's eyes widen. "Wife? You were married?"
"For two years." The admission feels like pulling out a splinter—painful but necessary. "In Vancouver, before I came here."
"You've never mentioned her. Not once."
"I try not to think about that time." I shift, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't exist. "I was different then. Stupid. Reckless."
She sits in the chair beside the bed, still holding my hand, expression guarded. "Go on."
"I was deep in the street racing scene. Vanessa was part of that world—beautiful, dangerous, exciting.
We got married after knowing each other six months.
" I shake my head at my own foolishness.
"What I didn't know was that her brother Ric ran one of the biggest chop shops in Vancouver.
Vanessa brought me in, said it was easy money. "
"And was it?" Sandra's voice is carefully neutral.
"At first." Shame burns in my gut at the memories. "I was good at it. Could strip a car in record time, rebuild engines to spec. The racing was just for show, for reputation. The real money was in stolen parts."
I watch her face for judgment, disgust, anything that would tell me this is the end. Instead, I see only focused attention, the same expression she wears when learning something new about engines.
"For a year, it was... good. I had money, respect, Vanessa.
" I swallow against the bitterness rising in my throat.
"Then things changed. Ric wanted to expand, got involved with some seriously bad people.
It wasn't just cars anymore. Guns. Drugs.
I wanted out, but Vanessa was all in—family loyalty and all that. "
"What happened?" Sandra prompts when I fall silent.
"I started skimming. Setting aside money, planning my exit." The monitor betrays my accelerating heart rate as I approach the worst part of the story. "I almost had enough to disappear when Ric found out. He... he wasn't happy."
Sandra's grip on my hand tightens. "Did he hurt you?"
"Worse. He set me up to take the fall for a job gone wrong. Police raid, evidence planted in my garage." The familiar anger burns, though duller now with time and perspective. "Vanessa could have warned me. She knew what her brother was planning. Instead, she watched them put me in handcuffs."
"How did you avoid prison?" Sandra's brow furrows.
"Old friend on the force. Officer Reid. He'd been trying to build a case against Ric for years." The irony still isn't lost on me. "Offered me a deal—tell everything I knew about Ric's operation in exchange for immunity."
"You took it?"
"Yeah. I was looking at fifteen years otherwise." I meet her eyes directly. "I testified. Ric got twenty-five to life. The organization collapsed. And I became a marked man in Vancouver."
Understanding dawns in her expression. "So that's why you came to Crimson Hollow. You were running."
"Not just running. Starting over." I gesture weakly at the hospital room. "And doing pretty well at it until now."
"But why is Vanessa here after five years? And what does she want that got you..." Sandra gestures at my battered body.
"Ric's up for parole next month. Surprise, surprise, they're claiming he's reformed." My laugh is bitter and painful. "Vanessa wants me to recant my testimony, say I lied under pressure from the police. Without my testimony, he walks."
"And if you don't?"
"She knows where I live now. Who my friends are." My eyes lock with hers, the unspoken message clear. Who I care about. "Tonight was a warning. Next time, it won't be just me who gets hurt."
Sandra's expression hardens. "So she threatened you, and when you refused, she had someone run you down with a car? That's attempted murder!"
"That's Vanessa." I close my eyes briefly, exhaustion washing over me. "I don't have proof it was her. The driver was someone I've never seen before. Professional."
"We need to go to the police," Sandra insists.
"And tell them what? That my criminal ex-wife from another city might have hired someone to hurt me because I won't help her brother get out of prison?" I shake my head. "Parker would try, but there's nothing to investigate. No evidence."
"Then what's your plan?" Her voice sharpens with frustration. "Let her terrorize you? Us?"
"I don't know yet." The admission costs me. I always have a plan, always know what comes next. "I just... I need time to think."
Sandra stands abruptly, pacing the small room. "This is insane. Five years you've been here, building a life, and she just shows up and thinks she can destroy everything?" She turns back to me, eyes blazing. "No. I won't let her."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at her fierce declaration, her immediate inclusion of herself in my problems. Despite everything I've just revealed, she's still here. Still fighting for me.
"Sandra," I say softly. "I'm sorry. For not telling you sooner. For dragging you into this mess."
She returns to my side, carefully perching on the edge of the bed. "You didn't drag me anywhere. I chose you, remember?" Her hand cups my cheek, mindful of the bruises. "And nothing you've told me changes that."
"I was a criminal," I remind her, needing her to fully understand. "I stole cars, stripped them, sold the parts. I knew what I was doing was wrong, and I did it anyway."
"And then you paid for it. You testified, you left that life behind." Her gaze is steady, unflinching. "The man I'm falling in love with is the one who rebuilt himself here, who helps his neighbors, who treats every car in his garage like it matters. That's who you are now."
The monitor beside the bed picks up my quickened heartbeat at her words. "I don't deserve you," I whisper.
"Probably not," she agrees with a small smile. "But you're stuck with me anyway."
I want to pull her down for a kiss, but even the thought of moving that much makes my ribs scream in protest. Instead, she leans forward, pressing her lips gently to mine in a kiss so tender it makes my throat tight with emotion.
"We'll figure this out," she promises when she pulls back. "Together."
Before I can respond, the door opens, and the doctor enters—Dr. Mawry, who stitched up Marcus last year when he sliced his hand open on a broken oil filter.
"Mr. Torres," she greets, picking up my chart. "How's the pain? Scale of one to ten?"
"Four," I lie. It's closer to seven, but I don't want more drugs clouding my thinking.
Dr. Mawry's skeptical expression says she doesn't believe me. "I'll increase your pain medication slightly. You have three broken ribs, a mild concussion, twenty-seven stitches across various lacerations, and extensive bruising. You're lucky to be alive, frankly."
Sandra's hand tightens around mine.
"How long am I stuck here?" I ask, already calculating days of lost work, bills to pay, Vanessa to deal with.
"At least two days for observation, given the concussion." Dr. Mawry makes notes in my chart. "And you'll need to take it easy for at least six weeks while those ribs heal. No heavy lifting. Limited time on your feet."
Six weeks. The garage can't run itself that long. And Sandra's car—we were making such good progress. Now everything's on hold because of my past, my mistakes.
"Can someone stay with him tonight?" Sandra asks, still holding my hand like she has no intention of letting go.
"Normally we'd limit visiting hours but given the circumstances..." Dr. Mawry glances between us, something softening in her professional demeanor. "I'll make an exception. That chair reclines, though it's not very comfortable."
"I'll manage," Sandra says firmly.
After the doctor leaves, promising to send a nurse with more pain medication, Sandra settles into the chair, pulling it as close to the bed as possible. "You should get some rest," she tells me, still holding my hand.
"You don't have to stay," I say, though selfishly I want her to. "The lodge would be more comfortable."
"I'm not leaving you alone," she states simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Not when Vanessa is still out there somewhere."
The fierce protectiveness in her voice warms something in me that's been cold for a very long time. "I'm supposed to be the one protecting you," I mutter.
"Partnership goes both ways, Casanova." She raises my hand to her lips, kissing my bruised knuckles. "Now, how about you tell me what we're going to do about this situation?"
Despite the pain, despite the seriousness of our predicament, I feel the corner of my mouth lift in a small smile. "We?"
"Yes, we." She fixes me with a determined stare. "Unless you think I'm planning to walk away from the best thing that's happened to me in years just because some ex with boundary issues showed up."
"The best thing, huh?" I can't help the warmth spreading through me at her words.
"Don't fish for compliments," she scolds, but her eyes are soft. "You know exactly what you mean to me."
I do, I realize. Maybe I've known since that first day in the garage when she refused to be intimidated by me, challenged every assumption I made. Something about Sandra Hemmings clicked into place in my life like a missing piece I hadn't known was gone.
"I love you," I say, the words slipping out before I can overthink them. "I know it's fast, maybe crazy given everything, but I do. I love you, Sandra."
Her eyes widen, glisten with unshed tears. "I love you too," she whispers, leaning forward to press her forehead gently against mine. "Which is why we're going to fix this. Together."
The nurse arrives with more pain medication, interrupting the moment.
As the drugs enter my system, a pleasant numbness begins to spread, dulling the sharp edges of pain.
My thoughts grow fuzzy around the edges, but one thing remains crystal clear—Sandra is still here, still holding my hand, still looking at me like I'm worth fighting for.
"I think I might have an idea," I mumble as sleep begins to pull at me. "About Vanessa."
"Tell me tomorrow," Sandra says softly, brushing hair back from my forehead. "Rest now."
As I drift into drug-induced sleep, I feel her lips press against my temple, her voice a whisper against my skin. "I'm not going anywhere, Diesel. We'll face her together."
With Sandra by my side, maybe I can finally close the door on my past for good. And if not—if Vanessa wants a fight—she'll find out I'm not the same man who ran from Vancouver five years ago.
I have something worth fighting for now. Something worth staying for.
And I'm not giving it up without one hell of a battle.