After everything, Brandi had decided Lampsing was home. The only one she’d known since she was a kid. She wouldn’t let a man—especially one who didn’t know how to hold on to her—be the reason she ran.
Gripping the wheel a little tighter, she drove another block down toward the garage. The sun was high in the afternoon sky, making the town feel more alive. She kept her eyes forward, worried what she’d find at the garage. If Tool was there, then so be it. She wasn’t the same girl he’d walked away from. She’d grown over the past few months.
The garage bay doors were open, the scent of oil and steel thick in the air as Brandi followed Killer into the lot. The Bug coughed once as she shifted into park, the engine ticking softly as it settled.
Killer was already off his bike and talking with Wrench, who wiped his hands on a stained rag and gave a low whistle as he eyed her car.
“She run?” Wrench asked with a crooked grin.
“She runs,” Brandi called back, climbing out and slamming the door behind her.
“She’s got a window that won’t roll down and a dent the size of Texas in the bumper,” Killer added, “but it seems to be solid. Give her a look. Make sure nothing’s gonna break while she’s driving it.”
Wrench nodded and walked around the car, tugging the door handle and tapping the roof. “Cute ride,” he said, half-amused. “Needs a bath, maybe an exorcism, but I’ve seen worse.”
Brandi half-smiled, but her eyes were already scanning the garage interior—past the lifted trucks, the stripped-down bike on the stand, and the old jukebox near the back wall. Her heart thudded once, then again, like it was bracing for impact.
“Relax,” Wrench said without looking up. “Tool’s not here.”
Her head snapped back to him.
He chuckled under his breath. “You ain’t exactly subtle.”
Brandi crossed her arms, annoyed but also a little grateful. “Wasn’t looking for him.”
“Uh-huh.”
She exhaled slowly. The pressure in her chest eased, just a little. Tool not being here didn’t change anything, not really. But it made the moment easier. “The brakes felt soft, and the steering is stiff. Also the driver’s side window gets stuck.”
Wrench popped the hood and leaned over the engine. “Come back in an hour. I’ll let you know what she needs.”
“Thanks, Wrench,” she said quietly.
Turning to Killer, she jerked her chin toward the street. “You hungry? I owe you lunch.”
“You buying?” he asked, already smirking.
She rolled her eyes. “You found me the car. Least I can do is feed you.”
As they walked off together, Brandi kept her shoulders square and her head high. Tool wasn’t there. And even if he had been, she wouldn’t let him see her flinch.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
LuLu’s Dinerwas a fever dream of bohemian charm and cheeky brothel vibes. Clotheslines crisscrossed the ceiling high above, strung from corner to corner and clipped with vintage lingerie in every size, color, and era imaginable. Pink ruffled knickers fluttered above the booths like odd little flags of rebellion, making newcomers laugh and locals roll their eyes fondly.
The plates didn’t match. Neither did the silverware. Every cup, saucer, and bowl looked like it had been rescued from a thrift store shelf, adding to the place’s haphazard personality. According to town legend, the lingerie line started after a few drunk patrons left behind their underthings during late-night “sober-up” meals. LuLu decided to lean into the chaos. Now, it was part of the charm—a conversation piece hanging over every table.
Brandi loved it. Loved the mismatched comfort, the bold weirdness, and the fact that LuLu served the best damn pot roast in five counties.
The door jingled as she stepped inside, Killer close behind her. She didn’t get two steps before her body locked up.
At the counter, hunched slightly over a steaming plate, sat Tool. Even with his back to her, she knew it was him. Broadshoulders. Wavey hair. That way he rested one elbow on the counter like the world didn’t weigh him down anymore.
Killer nearly walked into her. “What’s wrong?” he asked, then followed her gaze. His mouth tightened. “We can go somewhere else.”
Brandi didn’t move for a breath. Her stomach twisted—not in fear, but in old, unresolved ache. Then she straightened her spine, rolled her shoulders, and turned toward the nearest open booth.
“No,” she said evenly. “I want pot roast. And LuLu’s has the best.”
