Enzo tossed me a rag, then perched on the edge of the Mustang’s fender. “Still fussing with that plug?” he asked, eyeing the open engine bay.
I grunted. “Not fussing. Just making sure it’s perfect.”
“You always say that,” he said. “You gonna polish the damn spark leads too?”
“It’s about precision. You screw up the small stuff, the whole system fails.”
He shook his head, amused. “Man, you treat these engines better than most people treat their relationships.”
I didn’t argue. It was true. The car didn’t lie. Didn’t make things complicated. I could examine it, diagnose the issue, and resolve it. That was control. Everything else—Lyric, Kessler, even the team—was chaos. “Yeah,” was all I gave him.
“What’s with the bug up your ass, Rio?”
I finished tightening the last bolt and slid out from under the car. Sat up and wiped my hands, though it didn’t do much good. Oil was ingrained under my nails, and the calluses from years of wrenching and fighting were never going away.
I was never going to be clean.
“‘Bug’?” I echoed. “My family’s getting messed up again, that’s what. Jamie and Killian’s people keep saying we’re close to Kessler, but nothing’s happening. Why the hell is it taking so long? Why can’t we finish this?”
Enzo gave a low grunt, as if he understood more than he let on. “We’ll get him. You know we will.”
“I hate it,” I muttered. “I just fucking hate it. I haven’t scored in fucking weeks, and all thetension’s coiled up on me, and there’s nothing to punch.”
“Come on,” Enzo said, standing and extending a hand to help me up.
I took it, but the second I was upright, he slammed a fist into my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble back.
“The fuck?—”
He grinned, wide and wicked, and dropped into a loose fighting stance. “Come on.”
We used to spar. Back when we were younger and dumber and thought fists could solve anything. Sometimes, they still could.
“I don’t want this,” I said, shaking my head.
Enzo stepped in and punched me again—nothing showy, just a solid body shot that knocked the breath out of me.
It was on.
I hit back, fists connecting with padded muscle and solid bone. Not like the cage—there were no rules, but also no intent to injure. Just movement. Just the crack of contact and the burn in our lungs.
We circled, grunted, threw blows, blocked, caught shoulders and ribs and the occasional jaw. It wasn’t rage. It was a release. Aggression, sweat, breath, all pouring out.
Panting, heaving, hearts pounding in sync. My brain, for once, went quiet. Peace built behind the bruises, and we parted as he pulled me in for a hug.
“It’s all good,” Enzo reassured, and for a moment, I believed him as I sank into the embrace.
“Excuse me?” a voice said.
We broke apart, both turning to see a man in a windbreaker pointing at the car. “Uh, I’m way early, but I uhmm… I came to pick up my car. Any chance it’s ready now?”
The moment was awkward, as if we’d been caught in something we shouldn’t have been doing. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and Enzo didn’t even flinch.
He turned to the guy and said smoothly, “Yeah, nearly. Why don’t you grab a coffee next door? Be done in…” He glanced at me. “Twenty?”
The man nodded slowly and backed out of the garage, leaving the door open behind him.
Enzo looked back at me with a grin. “Let’s get it done.”
