Dead Ringer

67. The Aftermath

I blew out a huge breath as I flipped my left blinker on. The road was familiar—too familiar for the month I'd spent driving it and the many months that separated me from it now.

I slowed to a crawl, even when the car behind me honked and finally flew past on my left. Boston drivers. Massholes, Ciar called them.

As if his name had summoned it, the old garage rose on the left. With another deep breath, I turned in. The tires whispered softly over the now-paved lot. I watched the door as I swung into a spot, but no one appeared. No shadow to watch me gather myself.

Was he even in there? I knew the garage had passed into his ownership, but did that mean he still worked mechanic shifts? Or did he delegate that to his employees?

Then I saw the black Mustang, pulled neatly into a space right beside the garage. Just like old times—until I stepped inside.

The equipment was new, stored away neatly instead of spread out on tables. The particular one where Donovan and I had...well, it was gone, and I certainly didn't mind.

There were two lifts now, but the other was empty. I'd picked the lunch hour, because if I had a chance of talking to him alone, it would have been while everyone was supposed to be taking a break.

I took another step further inside. "I love what you've done with the place."

Ciar's face popped up from behind the open hood of a car and squinted at me for several seconds. "Maisye?"

I just stood there and waited, ready to turn around if he didn't want to see me.

A slow smile spread from one side of his mouth to the other, erasing the surprise and caution as he took me in. "Wow. You look good. Really good."

It wasn't disingenuous or sexual, and I smiled. "So do you."

I meant it. He was the kind of guy who would always have circles under his eyes, but they looked a lot less like bruises now and more like shadows. Beside his eyes, crinkles softened his face as he smiled.

He shrugged. "I took a page out of your book. Found a shrink."

I laughed. "Well, my book usually involves a stay in a mental hospital."

"No shame in that."

I gave him a rueful smile. I knew that now.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Good," I answered honestly. "Back on meds, and I don't think I'm going to change that this time. And I have better coping mechanisms that aren't just...sex."

I bit my lip. I'd never said it out loud, and I didn't know if he knew that was all he was—just a way of getting through trauma. Replacing the pain with pleasure.

He let out a soft breath of laughter. "Yeah," he said, to my surprise. "Me too."

We stood comfortably in the silence, grinning balefully at our old selves' stupidity until I changed the subject.

"How's your mom?"

His smile melted into deadly seriousness. "Turn around," he said quietly.

I knew what he wanted. I obeyed.

I listened to the shuffle of his boots on the concrete floor, waiting for the ghost of his touch. I didn't flinch when it came, his fingers wrapping around the hem of my shirt and pulling up.

His thumb swiped across my skin, crossing the ridge of hardened flesh that marked the scar running from the small of my back to my right hip. And again, this time dragging along its whole length.