Desired By Diesel (Sons of Ruin: Tucson Chapter #4)

1. Gracie

GRACIE

Two weeks in Tucson, and I'm still sleeping with a kitchen knife on my nightstand.

Not that I'd know what to do with it. Not really. But there's something about the weight of it there, the dull gleam when the streetlight catches the blade through the gap in the curtains, that lets me close my eyes at night.

Small comforts. I'm collecting them like pennies in a jar.

The house is small — two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that's seen better decades.

The linoleum is peeling near the fridge and the air conditioning makes a sound like a dying animal every time it kicks on.

But it's ours. Mine and Amelia's. The first place I've ever signed a lease on alone, with my name and only my name on the paperwork.

That matters more than granite countertops.

"Mom?" Amelia's voice drifts from the living room, where she's supposed to be doing her reading homework. "Can I have a snack?"

"After you finish your chapter."

"But I'm hungry."

"Then read faster."

A dramatic sigh. I hide my smile behind my coffee cup, even though she can't see me from here. Seven years old and already a master negotiator. She gets that from me. The stubbornness, anyway. The rest of her — the big brown eyes, the way she chews her lip when she's thinking — that's all her own.

I'm standing at the kitchen window, which has become a habit I should probably examine. The view isn't much. Scrubby yard, chain-link fence, the neighbor's driveway. His motorcycle.

Him.

I don't know his name. We haven't spoken beyond a nod when we both happen to be getting our mail at the same time.

But I know he's out there most evenings, working on that bike.

I know he's big — tall, broad, the kind of build that comes from actual labor, not a gym membership.

I know he's got tattoos that crawl up both arms and disappear under his t-shirt, and that when he works without a shirt on, which is often, there are more across his chest and back.

I know he's older. Forty-something, I'd guess. There's gray threaded through his dark hair, visible when the light hits it right. The kind of face that's lived some life.

And I know I've been watching him way more than a woman with my history should be watching any man.

It's just looking, I tell myself. Looking is safe.

He's out there now, crouched beside the bike, doing something to the engine that I couldn't name if my life depended on it. His back is to me. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he works, and I catch myself following the movement, tracing the lines of ink that disappear beneath his waistband.

Then he turns his head, like he can feel my eyes on him.

I jerk back from the window so fast I slosh coffee over my hand.

"Shit — ow." I grab a dish towel, mopping at the burn. My face is hot. Which is ridiculous. He couldn't have seen me. The angle's wrong, the light's wrong, there's no way—

But when I risk another glance through the window, he's still looking this way. Not smiling, not waving. Just looking. Steady and unhurried, like he's got all the time in the world.

I duck out of view entirely and press my back against the wall like a teenager caught doing something she shouldn't.

Get it together, Gracie.

I'm twenty-seven years old. I have a daughter, a new job starting Monday, a restraining order that Ryan's lawyers are already trying to challenge. I don't have time to be flustered by a neighbor who probably thinks I'm the weird new lady who stares at him through her kitchen window.

Which, to be fair, is exactly what I am.

The coffee's gone cold by the time I convince myself to move.

I dump it in the sink and check on Amelia — she's actually reading now, stretched out on the couch with her book propped on her stomach, lips moving slightly as she sounds out the harder words.

My heart does that thing it always does when I watch her.

That fierce, aching swell that's equal parts love and terror.

I uprooted her whole life to bring her here. Pulled her out of her school, away from her friends, away from everything familiar. Because I was scared, and because I needed to believe that distance could keep us safe.

Some days I'm sure I made the right call. Other days, I lie awake wondering if I just made everything worse.

"Five more minutes," I tell her. "Then we need to do a grocery run."

She groans but doesn't argue. Progress.

The SaveMart off Route 10 is fluorescent lights and scuffed floors and a produce section that's seen better days.

But it's cheap, and it's anonymous, and nobody here knows who I am or who I used to be married to.

I push my cart down the cereal aisle with Amelia walking beside me, her hand trailing along the shelves, fingers brushing every box she passes.

"Can we get the one with marshmallows?"

"Absolutely not."

"But Lily's mom lets her—"

"Lily's mom isn't here. I am. And I say no marshmallows for breakfast."

She pouts, but it's half-hearted. We both know this dance.

I'm comparing prices on pasta sauce — store brand versus the one that actually has some flavor — when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Probably a spam call. Probably nothing.

But my stomach tightens anyway, the way it always does now. Pavlovian response. Phone rings, body braces for impact.

We check out. The total is less than I budgeted for, which feels like a small victory. I load the bags into the trunk and we head home.

"Can I go play in the yard when we get home?"

"After you help me carry groceries."

"But they're heavy."

"Then you'll get strong."

We pull into the driveway. I'm calculating how many trips this is going to take — three, maybe four — when I notice him.

The neighbor. Standing in his own driveway, wiping his hands on a rag, watching us.

No. Not us.

Me.

I swallow and focus very hard on unbuckling my seatbelt. Amelia's already out of the car, bouncing on her heels, clearly more interested in the prospect of yard time than in helping with anything.

"Grab a bag," I tell her.

"The small one?"

"Any one."

I circle to the trunk and start pulling out grocery bags, slinging handles over my arms until I'm carrying way more than is smart.

The paper bag with the eggs and the glass jar of pasta sauce is the last one. I hook it into the crook of my elbow and turn toward the house—

And the bag rips.

Time slows down the way it does in those moments. I see the bottom give out, see the eggs and the sauce and the carton of milk all start to fall, and I know I can't catch them, know I'm about to watch twenty dollars of groceries splatter across my driveway—

A hand shoots out and grabs the sauce jar an inch before it hits the pavement.

The eggs aren't so lucky. They crack against the concrete, yolks spreading in a sad yellow puddle.

But the hand — large, calloused, wrapped around the jar of Ragú like it weighs nothing — belongs to him.

He's just there. I didn't hear him approach, didn't see him move. One second he was thirty feet away, the next he's standing close enough that I can see the flecks of grease on his forearms.

"Bag gave out," he says.

His voice is lower than I expected. Rougher. The kind of voice that doesn't waste words.

"I — yeah. Thank you." I'm clutching the other bags like they might try to escape too. "You didn't have to—"

"Eggs are shot." He's looking at the mess on the ground, then back at me. "Sauce is fine."

"Great. That's — great." I'm aware that I'm standing here like an idiot while he holds my pasta sauce. "I can take that."

He doesn't hand it over. Instead, he reaches out and takes two of the bags from my arms — the heaviest ones — and starts walking toward my porch.

I follow him, Amelia trailing behind us with her single small bag clutched to her chest. He sets the bags down by the door, places the sauce jar on top, and turns to face me.

This close, I can see his eyes are a dark hazel. The lines around them are deeper than I thought. He's definitely in his forties. And he's looking at me with an expression I can't quite read — not unfriendly, not friendly either. Just... assessing.

"Diesel," he says.

"What?"

"My name. Diesel." A pause. "Nickname."

"Oh." I shift the remaining bags in my arms. "Gracie. And this is Amelia."

He nods at my daughter. "Hey."

"You're really tall," Amelia says.

"Yep."

"Are you taller than my dad?"

My stomach drops, but Diesel just shrugs. "Don't know your dad."

"He's pretty tall," Amelia says, like she's giving him fair warning. Then, apparently done with the conversation, she turns to me. "Mom, can I go play now?"

"Put your bag inside first. And stay in the yard."

She disappears through the door. I turn back to Diesel, suddenly very aware that we're standing close together on my porch and I still haven't thanked him properly.

"Thank you," I manage. "For the save. And the carrying."

"No problem." He's already stepping back, creating distance. "You need help with the eggs?"

"What? No — no, I'll clean it up. It's fine."

"Hose it down before it bakes. Sun's brutal this time of year."

"Right. Yeah. I'll do that."

He nods. Turns to go.

"She watches you, you know," Amelia's voice pipes up from the doorway. I didn't hear her come back. "From the kitchen window. Like, a lot."

The ground can open up and swallow me now. That would be fine.

I close my eyes. Count to three. When I open them, Diesel is still standing there, but there's something at the corner of his mouth that might be amusement.

"That so," he says.

"Amelia, go play."

She giggles and vanishes into the house. I am going to have a serious conversation with my daughter about appropriate information sharing.

"I wasn't — I mean, I was just—" I take a breath. "The window faces your driveway. It's hard not to notice when you're out there working on your bike."

"Sure." He's definitely amused now, even if his expression hasn't changed much. The shift is subtle — something in the set of his shoulders, maybe. "Hard not to notice."

"I'm not a stalker."

"Didn't say you were."

"I just — I'm new here, and you're literally the only neighbor I've seen, and—" I stop myself.

I'm babbling. I never babble. Ryan used to say I talked too much when I was nervous, and I trained myself out of it, and now here I am, word-vomiting all over my very patient, very amused neighbor. "I'm going to stop talking now."

"Okay."

"Thank you for the groceries."

"Anytime."

He walks back to his driveway. I watch him go — the easy way he moves, unhurried, confident — and then I force myself to turn around and go inside before I make this any worse.

The eggs. Right. I need to clean up the eggs.

It takes me twenty minutes, a hose, and a scrub brush to get the driveway clean. By the time I'm done, Diesel has gone inside and the streetlights are starting to flicker on.

Amelia's in her room, playing with the stuffed animals that made the move with us. I start putting groceries away, trying not to think about the way he looked at me. The way he said hard not to notice, like he knew exactly what I was doing and didn't mind.

That's dangerous. Looking is one thing. Him catching me at it is something else entirely.

Diesel doesn't seem like Ryan. Nothing about him does. But I thought Ryan didn't seem like Ryan, once upon a time.

I finish the groceries. Make dinner — mac and cheese from a box, because that's the kind of mom I am right now. Amelia eats, does her reading, brushes her teeth, and climbs into bed. I read her a chapter of her current book, kiss her forehead, and leave her nightlight on the way she likes it.

It's not until I'm in the kitchen making tea that I remember my phone buzzed at the grocery store.

I fish it out of my pocket. One text message, from a number I know by heart even though I deleted the contact months ago.

Ryan.

"Heard Amelia's struggling at school. Maybe this move wasn't the best idea for her. Something to think about before the custody review."

My blood turns to ice.

Amelia's only been at her new school for a week and a half. She's fine. Adjusting, maybe — making friends takes time — but fine. There's nothing for Ryan to have "heard."

Unless someone's watching. Unless someone's reporting back to him.

Unless he's already here, already circling, already finding ways to make me doubt everything I've built.

I set the phone down on the counter and stare at it.

Two weeks. I've been in Tucson for two weeks, and he's already found a way back in.