Chapter 27
CAL
I crouch beside it, fingers dancing over the keys as I coax performance data out of the machine—rpm curves, ignition timing, fuel trims—all scrolling in a hypnotic cascade.
In here, everything answers to logic. You feed the right commands, and the engine responds with flawless obedience.
No moods. No regrets. No haunting green eyes that belong to someone else’s child.
“You’re going to brick that thing,” Silas mutters from his corner, where he’s mid-operation on his Suzuki Hayabusa. His wrench moves with surgical precision, loosening a stubborn carburetor jet.
“I’m optimizing,” I say without looking up, adjusting the fuel map. “Bricking is a factory reset. This is performance tuning.”
Silas snorts, oil-flecked brow furrowed. “Uh-huh. And when it bursts into flames?”
I tap Enter. “Then I’ll build a better one.”
The heavy bay door rattles as Jace’s Yamaha R1M rolls in, its matte-black carbon fiber body shimmering like a panther in half-light.
The engine’s rumble fades to silence, replaced by mechanical inertia.
Jace kills the ignition, lifting his helmet to reveal damp hair plastered to his temples.
He steps off the bike with the lean, controlled grace of a soldier.
“Took the scenic route,” he says, rolling his shoulders as he unclasps his armored jacket and hangs it neatly on the rack. “Traffic was murder.”
“Traffic or thoughts?” I ask, still absorbed in the stream of numbers on my screen.
“Both,” he admits, glancing toward the open doorway. “Charles said the boys aced their math tests today.”
“Of course they did,” Silas replies, never pausing. “They’re overachievers.” His voice carries a hardness that belies pride—the same math that whispers possibilities none of us can confirm yet.
I redirect my attention to the glowing readouts. Tinkering here is easier than dredging up memories of amber eyes in a kindergarten classroom.
A rhythmic thump echoes off the garage walls. A small red rubber ball bounces toward me, clinking against the concrete before coming to rest at my boot.
“Sorry!” A bright, breathless voice follows as three little figures step into the doorway, backlit by the slanting gold of afternoon sun. Dust motes dance around them like confetti.
I straighten and scoop up the ball, feeling its worn texture. “No harm done. Nice bounce. You’ve got a good arm.”
“Thanks, Uncle Cal!” Jimmy beams, grabbing the ball. His eyes widen as he takes in the exposed engines. “Whoa. Are you working on your motorcycles?”
“Guilty,” I say, patting the Ducati’s bare tank where the fairing used to be. “She needed some fine-tuning.”
Noah edges forward, his dark amber eyes—my eyes—bright with curiosity. “What’s tuning?”
“Making her faster,” I explain, standing. “Like giving her superpowers.”
“Cool,” Liam breathes, stepping beside his brother. “Can we look?”
I glance at Silas; he shrugs. Jace gives a subtle nod. “Sure. But hands off unless I say so—some parts bite.”
They creep in, excitement and caution entwined in their tiny footsteps. Jimmy’s been here before and moves with confidence; Liam and Noah pause at each tool chest, soaking in the scents of gasoline and metal polish.
I guide them to the workbench. “This—” I tap the exposed ECU “—is the brain. Right now, I’m telling it to fire sparks sooner, push more fuel. It’s basically learning to think faster.”
“Our mom has a motorcycle too,” Noah announces with quiet pride. “A Triumph Daytona.”
My heart stutters. “A Daytona 765?”
“Yeah! She says it’s temperamental but gorgeous.”
Of course, she rides something elegant and difficult, just like she always has been. I force my shoulders to relax.
Jace swivels around his R1M. “That’s a serious bike. Your mom knows what she’s doing.”
“She taught us engines talk if you listen,” Liam adds, voice steady.
Silas halts his carburetor work. “Your brother’s right. Engines don’t lie. They just tell you what’s wrong.”
Noah’s hand twitches toward the keyboard. “Can I help?”
I smile. “Sure. When I say go, press that key there.” I point to an innocuous function button. “It starts the diagnostic sequence.”
He climbs onto a stool, small fingers hovering. “Ready.”
“One… two… three—now.”
He taps, and the screen erupts with scrolling data. Engine revs pulse in sync with the diagnostics. Noah’s grin splits his face. “I did it!”
“Perfect,” I say, pride warming me in a way nothing else can.
Liam crouches beside Silas, watching the carburetor assembly. “What does that part do?”
Silas oil-stains his fingers. “It controls the air–fuel ratio. Think of it like the engine’s lungs.”
Liam nods solemnly. Silas ruffles his hair. “Exactly right.”
Jimmy’s at Jace’s bike now, tracing the sleek black fairings. “It looks like a spaceship!”
“That’s the point,” Jace says with a grin. “Aerodynamics—shaving off turbulence.”
“Can I sit on it?” Jimmy asks, eyes shining.
“Carefully,” Jace warns. “No touching the throttle.”
Jimmy mounts with reverence, fingers curling around the grips as though they’re gold.
“What Mom doesn’t know—” I start, then wince.
“Isn’t going to hurt her,” Jimmy finishes, eyes dancing.
Noah whispers, “Are we keeping secrets?”
“Just harmless ones,” I promise. “Until we ask your mom, okay?”
Liam recites in a solemn whisper, “Secrets are fine if they’re safe and don’t hurt people.”
Every word reminds me how much Parker taught them—how much she taught me.
For a moment, the garage is filled with laughter and clinks of metal, and I almost believe this is normal: uncles showing nephews the wonders of four-stroke engines.
“Boys?” Her voice cuts through the noise like a tuning fork, pure and resonant.
They turn as one. “In here!”
Parker stands in the doorway, haloed by the last rays of sunlight. Her jeans and soft blouse catch the glow; her hair drapes around her shoulders like a silken veil. Sienna stands behind her, small overnight bags in hand.
Parker’s gaze sweeps their faces first, checking for scrapes, for smiles, for the echoes of childhood innocence.
Then it travels the workshop: to me at the Ducati, to Silas absorbed in his Hayabusa, to Jace leaning against his R1M.
Surprise flickers across her features—then something gentler, almost wistful.
“Noah helped with the computer!” he booms proudly. “Liam learned about carburetors from Silas, and Jimmy sat on Uncle Jace’s bike!”
“He was very careful,” Jace assures her, voice smooth.
Parker’s lips twitch into a tentative smile. Sienna steps forward. “Okay, mechanics—clean-up time. Sleepover at the main house.”
A chorus of cheers erupts as the boys bound out, trailing excitement and small suitcases behind them, followed by Sienna. Parker watches them go, arms tightening across her chest, as though reluctant to let this moment end.
Silence settles in their wake, heavy as oil-slick water. Parker stands alone, backlit and uncertain, the air crackling around her like static.
She drifts to Jace’s R1M. Her fingertips ghost over the matte black fairing, tracing the sculpted lines with reverence.
“She’s beautiful,” she murmurs. “You’ve always had an eye for machines.”
Jace straightens, every muscle taut. I catch his breath hitch as Parker’s hand lingers on his bike—so close, yet so loaded with unspoken history.
She steps back, eyes sweeping Silas at his workstation. Drawn by curiosity, she crouches beside him. “What are you working on?”
“Fuel mixture,” he replies, voice measured. “She’s running rich.”
“Can I help?”
Silas hesitates, then nods. “Pass me the 10 mm socket—should be in the red toolbox.”
Their fingers brush as she hands it over. I see the catch in Silas’s breath, the quickening of her pulse. Memories of a stolen kiss in a dim hallway flash through my mind.
Parker straightens again and glances my way. “Stage 3 tune, custom map. Always pushing boundaries, Cal.”
I shrug, chest tight. “Confident, not reckless.”
“Sure,” she teases, circling my Ducati. “But isn’t she a bit… much for you?”
“Much how?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
“Powerful. Aggressive. Some might call it compensation.”
“Then prove me wrong.”
Her challenge hangs between us like a charged coil. She swings her leg over the seat in one fluid motion, the leather creaking softly. Her posture is perfect—head down over the tank, hips tipped, fingers settling on the grips as if born to ride.
I forget to breathe.
“Fits like a glove,” she calls over her shoulder. “Even for someone my size.”
I force out, “Yeah. I see that.”
Her hips shift in the seat, the Ducati’s frame humming with silent promise beneath her. Heat pools in my chest, unstoppable.
I glance at Jace. He’s watching me with amused, knowing eyes. Silas has set aside his wrench, every sinew attuned to Parker’s lean back against my bike.
“You okay?” she asks, voice soft, curious—those sea-glass eyes searching mine.
“Fine,” I lie.
“You look tense.”
“All good,” I say, though my throat is too tight for truth.
“Mmm.” She dismounts, landing lightly. “Beautiful work, Cal.”
“Thanks.” I swallow. “So. Daytona 765. You ride it?”
“I ride anything with two wheels,” she replies, leaning against the bench.
A hush falls, thick with everything left unsaid. The sun has slipped below the horizon, leaving us in the glow of tool-lamps and restless shadows.
“Parker,” Jace says finally, voice low.
She turns to face all three of us, expression steeled. “Tonight,” she breathes. “Like we planned.”
Silas steps forward, voice rough. “The house is empty. No distractions.”
“Talk,” she finishes, shoulders squared.
Her sea-glass eyes lock onto each of ours—fear and resolve shimmering in equal measure. Then she inhales and exhales, as though bracing for a storm.
“So,” she says, meeting my eyes last. “Let’s talk.”