Chapter 21: Garage Revenge
He didn’t see her for ten days. He found the earring on his palm the morning after, a cold, sharp weight. He placed it on his nightstand, where it became a focal point, a tiny, accusatory moon in the gloom of his room.
He drank less. He worked more, losing himself in the sterile logic of lines and pixels. It was a poor anesthetic. The memory of her face in that final moment—not shattered, but eerily hollowed-out—was a ghost in every quiet corner. He’d won, and it felt like a terminal diagnosis.
The text came on a Thursday afternoon, stark on his phone screen: Need to get the rest of my things from the garage. Saturday. 10 AM.
No plea, no question. A statement. He stared at it, the professional part of his brain noting the irony: she was using his own tactic of unadorned declaration against him. He typed Okay and sent it. Anything more felt dangerous.
Saturday dawned grey and damp. He was in the garage by nine, not preparing, just waiting. He’d done nothing to her boxes. They were stacked as she’d left them months ago, a monument to a life interrupted. The wedding photos on the workbench were face down now; he’d turned them over the day after she left, unable to bear the frozen, hopeful smiles.
He heard her car before he saw it. The familiar purr of her hatchback, the crunch of gravel. The side door to the garage opened, and she stepped in.
She looked different. Not broken, but hardened. She wore old jeans and a worn sweatshirt, her hair tucked under a beanie. Her face was bare, her striking eyes circled by faint shadows, but her jaw was set.
“Joe,” she said, a flat acknowledgment.
“Maria.” He gestured to the boxes. “They’re all there. Nothing’s been touched.”
She nodded, moving past him without meeting his eyes. She picked up a small box labeled ‘KITCHEN - FRAGILE’ and carried it to her open car door. She worked methodically, silently, her movements efficient. The air thickened with unsaid things—the memory of the
She worked methodically, silently, her movements efficient. The air thickened with unsaid things—the memory of the bare mattress, the taste of his come in her throat, the silver earring she’d deliberately left behind like a landmine. He leaned against the workbench, watching her, the faint smell of gasoline and dust filling his nostrils.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said finally, not looking at him as she lifted another box. “I had a key.”
“I know.” His voice was low. “I wanted to be here.”
She stopped, the box held against her chest like a shield. “Why?”
He had no good answer. The truth was a tangled mess of guilt, possession, and a need to see if the hollow look was still in her eyes. He pushed off the bench and took a step forward. “Because I’m a fucking masochist, Maria. And so are you.”
A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her. She dropped the box back onto the pile with a thud. “You think that’s what last time was? Martyrdom?” She turned to face him, her brown eyes blazing now, all the emptiness replaced by a volatile fire. “It was an autopsy. I was letting you dissect what was left.”
“And what did you find?” he asked, closing the distance between them.
“A rotten heart,” she spat. “In both of us.”
He was in front of her now, her body a tense line against the shelving unit. The single bulb above swung slightly, throwing their shifting shadows against the wall. He could smell her—vanilla shampoo and clean sweat—underneath the garage’s grime.
“You came back,” he said, his hand rising to brush a curl from her forehead. She flinched but didn’t pull away. “You walked in and undressed. You gave me everything.”
“I gave you nothing,” she whispered, her breath hot against his chin. “I gave you a corpse. Now get out of my way.”
She tried to shove past him. He caught her arm, his fingers circling her wrist where the faintest yellow echo of a bruise might still linger. The contact was electric. She froze, her chest heaving. Her eyes dropped to his mouth.
It wasn’t a kiss that followed. It was a collision. Her mouth crashed against his with a fury that stole his breath, all teeth and desperate, claiming tongue. It was nothing like the resigned transaction of the bedroom. This was pure wildfire. He growled into her, his hands gripping her hips, lifting her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist with a practiced, hungry ease.
He carried her backwards, her back slamming against the cool metal of the workbench. Photos and tools clattered to the concrete floor. He fumbled with her jeans, yanking them and her underwear down her thighs in one ragged motion. His own belt buckle clanged open.
“Do it,” she panted against his mouth, her hands clawing at his shirt. “Do it or I swear to god I’ll walk.”
He drove into her in one brutal, perfect stroke. She cried out, a raw, ragged sound that echoed off the corrugated metal walls. There was no tenderness, no pretense. This was a war. He fucked her with hard, driving slams, each one met by the furious grind of her hips. The workbench shuddered under their weight.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his forehead pressed against hers. “You wanted me to mean it?”
“Yes!” she screamed, her nails digging into the muscles of his back. “Fucking wreck me! Show me the bastard who fucked someone else! Show me the man I hate!”
Her words were a blade twisted in his gut, and he answered by sinking deeper, harder. The wet, rhythmic slap of their joining was obscenely loud in the space. He could feel her clenching around him, a tight, vicious pulse that spoke of anger seeking its own release.
“You don’t hate me,” he snarled, one hand tangling in her hair, tilting her head back to expose the long line of her throat. “You hate how much you need this. How much you need to be filled, owned, ruined by me.”
She swore, a filthy, glorious curse, and her hips bucked harder. “Go to hell.”
“I’m already there,” he said, his pace becoming frantic, a piston driving them both toward a precipice. “And you’re here with me.”
Her eyes locked on his, burning with unshed tears and fury. Her body was tightening, coiling, a spring about to snap. As his thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming a desperate, final chase, she pulled his head down to the junction of his neck and shoulder.
SHE BITES HIS NECK.