Chapter 6 Derek
I peel out onto the oval, tires hissing in protest. Heart locked to the tach, I push hard through turn one, breath hitching as the engine snarls into the straight. The world tilts, then steadies, and for a moment I’m weightless. I’m only man and machine, two forces in perfect rhythm.
Lap after lap, I tame the beast, dialing in suspension and feeling each vibration under my gloves.
I make a mental note to stiffen the rear sway bar before qualifying; that extra bite could shave off crucial tenths.
By the time I roll back to the pit lane, sweat cools on my brow.
Richard—the “rookie” I coached at sign-up night—kneels beside a gleaming, emerald-green 1968 Shelby GT350 under a flickering floodlight. That car could smoke my Mustang flat. Rookie? I’m not so sure anymore.
His hands are stained with oil. He looks up as I kill the engine. “Nice run,” he calls, his voice quiet with a dark undertone. .
I slide from the cockpit. “You putting in a practice run?”
He snaps the hood closed. “Figured I’d get in before the crowds.” He wipes a smear of grease across his cheek. “Nothing like the track to teach you life lessons.”
I nod, catching the flicker in his eyes. “Feels like more than racing.”
He shrugs, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Sometimes tracks settle old scores,” he says, voice tight. “And when you’ve got nothing left, you learn to race ghosts.”
I drop a hand on his shoulder. “See you in the next round.”
Rick’s gaze drills into mine. “Count on it.”
He offers a half-smile, slow and knowing, then steps away before I can ask what he really means. I chalk it up to early-morning nerves. I watch Richard disappear into the shadows, but his words echo in my skull like a curse: “Race ghosts.” I shove down the tremor in my gut and head for home.
As I drive, my mind flicks to Annabelle’s cheer at the tracks. She used to jump and wave like my number one fan, then be the first one to run into my arms. How her mouth sated me when exhaustion and her presence were the only fuel I burned.
God, I’m running on half a tank of adrenaline and a full tank of need right now.
Back in the driveway, I scrub the Mustang’s flanks with warm water, each sweep releasing this morning’s grit.
The sun climbs higher as dawn’s adrenaline fades into morning chores.
Water beads on the flanks, carrying away yesterday’s skid marks and my lingering doubt.
The metal gleams under my palm, cool and reassuring.
I breathe in the scent of wet rubber and soap, letting it ground me.
Every swirl of the rag reminds me: I’m in control until that rag slips from my hand in a single thought of her .
For a heartbeat, I feel Sarah beside me and hear her laughter.
The memory slices through like a blade. I scoop up the rag and press harder, forcing the ghost back down, driving it back into its grave.
After the wash, I tighten the rear sway bar, then roll out from underneath the beast—and find Annabelle standing there, curious and endearing.
We chat in the garage like it's the old times, her forgetting she didn’t have the coffee she offered, and me catching every glimpse of her wall, slowly crumbling away.
Then Caroline’s beat-up pickup growls down the drive.
That truck’s rattle sounds like a drumroll.
Dust kicks up in our faces as she eases to a stop.
For a second, the only thing I see is Annabelle’s jaw dropping, and her shield cracking wide open.
I step beside her, rag in hand, ready to jump in. But Caroline’s first words—“Surprise!”—land like a warm hug around the morning’s tension, and we all exhale together.
Everything freezes in that sweet, domestic pause. Pie in hand, Caroline’s sunshine and apology and OG drama all at once. For a second, it feels normal, until Annabelle mentions heading to town for her missing panties and cream.
Suddenly the air sharpens to steel.
My body snaps, and my hand tightens on the rag behind my belt, testing the threads. I strip off my grease-stained tee in one swift motion.
“I’m driving you,” I say, voice low enough to cut glass. She wants to argue, but it’s pointless.
I barely register our conversation after that, because I’m so fucking focused on Motor-Inn, I can’t breathe. Ten minutes later, I drop Annabelle off at the clinic and head straight for the motel down the road.
The midday sun blazes off Mike’s rusted Chevy, turning the metal into a damn furnace. Heat waves ripple off the hood as I circle the car, instinct prickling along my skin.
The truck’s been bothering me since he pulled out of my driveway. And under the relentless glare of the motel parking lot, I see why. The VIN plate looks new.
Too clean. Too precise for a clunker this old. Fraud.
I trace the scratched registration beneath the windshield.
Son of a bitch.
My fists clench, fury rising, but smashing my own hand won’t tell me what Mike’s up to. I yank out my phone and snap photos of the VIN plate, then march to the motel room where Annabelle stayed. The door is cracked open, warm air carrying the stale stink of cigarettes and cheap cologne.
Mike leans in the frame, arms crossed.
“Morning, Fields.” His voice is oiled with enough arrogance to make me want to smash his smug face. “Back to check the car?”
“We need to talk.” The words slip out like a warning, low and steady.
He smiles. “About what?”
“What do you want from Annabelle?”
His grin deepens. “Ahh, my Belle told you about me? Fascinating?—”
No.
My gut twists.
The bastard just confirmed they are connected. And why the fuck does he call her “my Belle”?
I should walk away. Be smart. But all I can see is Annabelle’s face when she flinches from my touch. I can hear the fear in her voice. And I imagine all her unseen bruises that feel like scars on my own chest.
I step forward. “She’s missing her underwear and that fancy face cream.”
My eyes dart to the nightstand and her mocking tub of vanilla lotion.
Mike pulls a scrap of lace from his pocket, dangling it like bait.
“Looks like Belle’s been settling back in,” he says, voice slick. “Shame she’s still so careless—leaving personal items behind.”
I don’t think. I move.
My fist smashes into his jaw.
A crunch echoes through my bones as he staggers back. Pain blooms in my knuckles, but fury swallows it whole.
He laughs, rubbing his jaw. “Touched a nerve?”
Before he can blink, I slam him against the wall.
My forearm crushes his throat.
“You stay the fuck away from her.”
He grins, teeth flashing. “Or what?”
“I’ll kill you.”
The words rip out of my throat like a vow.
I won’t let anyone break Annabelle the way Sarah was broken.
She’s the only thing that’s made me feel alive in years.
Mike chuckles, low and bitter. “Still using the wrench you beat Huntz with?”
My blood turns to ice.
He leans in, voice dark and close. “Orange jumpsuit isn’t your color—nor Belle’s. So choose your words carefully, Fields. I know more than you fucking think.”
I press harder. “And I don’t make empty threats.”
His smirk widens, twisted. “Relax. I’m in town on business. Maybe I’ll make some money in that little race you run here. Either way, Belle will come back to me, sooner or later.”
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “I do miss her scrumptious thighs?—”
I don’t let him finish.
I grab his collar with one hand,and drive my fist into his gut with the other.
He doubles over with a wet gag, sweat beading on his temple. Alcohol rolls off him in waves.
I hit him again—harder—square in the jaw.
He slumps, still grinning like he’s already won.
“No?” He licks the blood away. “I know things about your precious nurse that’d curl your hair. Like how she tastes when?—”
My fist crashes into him again, drawing a grunt. He stumbles, then lands a solid blow that splits my lip and fills my mouth with iron.
“That all you got, old man?” he laughs. “No wonder she craved something rough .”
Heat flares in my veins. I scoop the fallen panties and shove him back against the wall, arm at his throat.
“You think waving her underwear makes you powerful?” I snarl. “She gave herself to me. You took. That’s the difference, you sick bastard. Now get the fuck out of my town.”
Mike’s eyes turn cold, calculating. “This is my town as much as yours. Maybe more.” He leans closer. “And Belle? She’s not yours either.”
I clamp down on my anger. “One day. Disappear, or I’ll keep my promise.”
His grin finally vanishes, replaced by a blade-edge. “You think you hold all the cards? I can end this so fast you’ll never see it coming. Tell the world how she put a bullet in my father’s gut—how you stood over him with a wrench.”
The air leaves my lungs in one sharp punch. Huntz was Mike’s father? Everyone knew he was shot and fell off the bridge, but no one knew who fired that shot. No one knew he crawled to the riverbank and attacked us, blood dripping from his bullet wound. No one—but Annabelle and me.
He lets it hang. “Left him bleeding by the river. Stay the fuck away, or our pie princess goes to jail. I have proof.”
Proof. My stomach twists. My vision burns red.
I want to smash his smug face through the drywall, but he already knows too much. I release him, snatch up the panties and face cream, and walk away. My fists tremble as truth drums in my skull: I cannot lose her. And how much more does Bishop know about that day?
Outside, I draw my pocket knife. Four quick slashes, and the Chevy’s tires hiss into ruin. It’s petty and reckless. But damn, it feels good.
The thirty-second drive to the clinic drags like an eternity. Dust lifts when I come to a stop by the clinic. I clutch the face cream in one hand and her panties in the other, tucked deep in my pocket and burning like evidence as I shoulder open the front door.
Inside, antiseptic air slaps me awake. My lip throbs with every breath. Doctor Marvey looks up from his clipboard, half-glasses sliding down his nose, but Annabelle’s nowhere to be seen.
“Morning. Annabelle still around?” I keep my tone steady, trying to act like I didn’t just almost beat a man to death.
He eyes my split lip. “She and Emma left fifteen minutes ago. Headed to Eric’s. Misty went, too. She said she’d meet you back home.”
Disappointment lurches, but I nod and start to turn.
“Derek?” Marvey calls.
I pause.
“Come here.” He waves me into the back room.
I follow, jaw tight. He grabs a first-aid kit and gestures to the sink. “Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding on my floor.”
I sit. He wets a gauze pad and presses it to my lip. It stings like hell.
“Split right through,” he mutters. “Not the worst I’ve seen, but it’ll swell. Hold still.”
I wince as he cleans the wound, then he hands me a tube. “Antibiotic cream. Twice a day, unless you want to look like you sparred with a lawn mower.”
“Got it.”
He tosses the gauze and leans on the counter. “By the way… I offered Annabelle a position here.”
I look up, surprised. “You did?”
“Yeah. She’s over-qualified, but she didn’t bite. Said she’d think about it… Didn’t seem convinced.”
I roll the tube between my fingers. “Maybe she’s sorting things out.”
He nods, unconvinced. “Seems that way. She carries a lot.”
Tell me about it.
I swallow and pop off the stool. “Thanks, Doc.”
He watches me go. “You bleeding again?”
“No,” I lie as I step outside. “But someone else might be.”
Frustration carries me to the Rusty Lantern Pub, where George is polishing the bar as if scrubbed surfaces could stave off the apocalypse.
“You look like hell,” he says, setting down his rag.
“I want to rent every room at the Motor-Inn. For two weeks.”
He blinks. “You serious?”
“As a goddamn heart attack. I need Bishop out of town—fast.”
“He’s paid through three today.”
“Perfect.”
George nods. “Two weeks, paid up front?”
“Done.”
I transfer my last funds and walk out without another word.
It’s only a stopgap, but if Mike can’t find accommodation here, maybe he’ll think twice about sticking around.
I quickly pick up the dreaded mail and see Simon struggling with a May Day banner.
He’s about a foot too short to fix it, so I step out and give him a hand, before hurrying back in the car.
I drive to Eric and Emma’s farm next, heart pounding, half–hoping to find Annabelle laughing over a pie or doting on baby Albert. Instead, Eric meets me on the porch, concern etched in his brow.
“She left fifteen minutes before you got here,” he says. “Said she was going home… but she seemed off. Refused my offer to drive her.”
Shit.
I thank him, then gun the engine, retracing my route. She probably doesn't have a phone, and even if she did, I doubt she'd answer. She never answers when I call.
Around the bend by the thick tree line, I spot Annabelle. Mike has her cornered in a ditch, one hand gripping her arm like a vice, his body angled aggressively toward hers.
I slam the gas, and the truck skids to a halt. Mike’s head snaps up. The second he sees me, he releases her, bolting over a fence and disappearing into the thick brush before I can get to him.
Annabelle stumbles to the middle of the road, trembling. I barely throw the truck into park before I’m out and running toward her.
“Annabelle!”
She whirls around, face streaked with tears, breath coming in frantic bursts as I catch her in my arms.
It guts me.
“He’s here,” she chokes out. “He found me.”
She’s trembling. My heart hammers against her chest, matching her ragged inhale?—
And in that moment, I know we’re beyond fear. We’re at war.