I wiped it with my sleeve. Grime mixed with sweat, blurring my vision.
This was the "making a scene" Marcus Abbott talked about. This was my five years.
I'd just crawled out when my phone vibrated again.
Chloe Gilbert.
Her voice hit me the second I picked up.
"Alex! Run! That lunatic Marcus has turned Rongcheng upside down—he found out you're at Southside Auto Repair!"
"Those Maybachs are headed your way right now!"
I held the phone away and looked at the black dirt under my nails that wouldn't wash clean.
"Let him look."
"Are you insane?"
Her voice was shaking.
"Back then—wasn't that enough? You want to fall into his hands again?"
"Chloe."
I cut her off, my gaze dropping to my right hand.
A scar ran from the base of my thumb across the back of my hand. My index and middle fingers were stiff, the knuckles swollen and deformed, the fingertips blunt.
Who would believe this hand once played in Vienna's Golden Hall?
"I'm just a mechanic now. Someone with nothing has nothing to fear."
"I'm hanging up. I have work."
I ended the call. The phone buzzed again.
A text from an unknown number.
"Had enough fun? There's a charity banquet tonight. Sophia Pruitt needs a page-turner. You're coming."
Then another.