Chapter Eighteen #2
“Didn’t ask you, did I?”
“You kind of opened the floor.”
“I absolutely fucking did not.”
Wolfe is laughing beside him now, shoulders shaking, which earns him a sharp look.
“And you can pack it in an’ all.”
“That one was all you.”
“Yeah, cheers for the support.”
Wolfe leans over and kisses his temple.
That makes it worse.
Thorne closes his eyes for half a second like he’s summoning patience from another fucking dimension, then shoves lightly at Wolfe’s chest.
“Stop giving ’em material, you prick.”
“You’re doing most of that yourself.”
“Traitor.”
I look down at my plate, trying not to grin, but it’s useless.
A few weeks ago, something like this would’ve gone completely differently. There would’ve been tension underneath every joke, someone trying to figure out where they stood and someone else pretending they didn’t care when they obviously fucking did.
Now Thorne’s muttering insults into his tea while Wolfe stands beside him looking stupidly pleased with himself, and somehow none of it feels dangerous anymore.
It’s still weird and still a bit messy, but it doesn’t feel fragile anymore.
That part catches me more than I expect.
The kitchen door opens before I can sit with the thought for too long, and Andre walks in already looking like he’s been awake for hours.
He takes about two seconds to read the room.
Bexley tries to stop laughing and Revel looks far too entertained.
Thorne is glaring at everybody, leaned against the counter sipping his morning tea with Wolfe beside him, with the biggest grin.
Andre pauses.
“What the fuck did I walk into?”
Sayshen immediately points at Thorne. “Apparently we’re not allowed to talk about it.”
Thorne gestures at him with his mug. “See? This is exactly the shit I was talking about.”
Andre looks between them. “I genuinely don’t care enough to ask.”
Revel leans back in his chair. “That’s disappointing. There’s actually a lot happening.”
“I can see that.”
“No, I mean there’s layers.”
“St Clair”
“I’m just saying.”
Andre checks his phone. “And I’m saying whatever weird little relationship summit you idiots are holding can wait, because we’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
That gets a chorus of complaints.
“Twenty?” Talon asks. “You said eight.”
“I changed it.”
Revel looks toward the clock. “You cannot just change the departure time after everybody already planned around eight.”
Andre stares at him. “You want to test that theory?”
Revel considers it.
Cece points at him. “Revel, learn when to shut up.”
“So fucking bossy.”
Andre starts toward the door again. “Twenty minutes. Bags packed, gear ready, or you’re getting left behind.”
Sayshen calls after him, “What if we’re in the bathroom?”
Andre doesn’t even turn around.
“Then shit faster.”
The door shuts behind him and there’s a beat of silence. Then Thorne looks around at everyone again.
“And for the record, if one fucking word about this makes it into the group chat, I’m throwing everyones phones in the sea.”
Bexley lifts her brows. “That sounds like confirmation that there’s something worth putting in the group chat.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Wolfe laughs.
****
The moment we reach the paddock, breakfast, Draygon, Wolfe kissing Thorne in front of everyone and the entire fucking circus that followed gets shoved firmly to the back of my brain and the bikes take over.
Thank fuck.
The sponsor machines are already lined beneath the awning, polished within an inch of their lives and wearing all the right colors, numbers and logos, but they still look wrong to me.
Not bad, just unfamiliar.
I know our bikes back home. I know which throttle has a fraction too much play before I even touch it, which clutch Reign likes biting higher than anyone else, exactly how much Wolfe hates fighting the front on entry and how Talon will notice a change so small everyone else would swear I imagined it.
These aren't those bikes.
Which means the setup sheets come out.
Within twenty minutes, I’ve got paper spread across half the bench, notes from back home clipped beside baseline data, tire pressures written in three different places and six riders wandering in and out while I try to translate what they normally want into what we’ve actually been given.
Andre appears beside me with a radio already clipped to his shirt.
“Briefing in fifteen. Familiarization first, then if the roads stay good, they’ll get proper practice.”
“I need all six before they suit up.”
“You’ve got ten minutes.”
“That’s not fifteen.”
“You don’t need them for all fifteen.”
I look up at him.
He gives me absolutely nothing.
“Dick.”
“Ten minutes, Echo.”
Then he walks away.
Wolfe gets to me first, because Wolfe is apparently the only person on this team who understands that when I ask how a motorcycle feels, I don’t want interpretive fucking dance.
“Front’s a little stiff when I load it hard,” he tells me, leaning against the bench while I pull his sheet closer. “Mostly on entry. It’s not fighting me, but I’m putting more pressure through the bars than I normally would.”
“Mid-corner?”
“Fine. Rear feels good too. Maybe a little more engine brake than I’m used to, but I’d leave it until I get another run.”
I scribble it down. “See? Useful. Specific. Beautiful. This is why you’re my favorite.”
Wolfe grins. “Thought I was your favorite for other reasons.”
“Those reasons are currently irrelevant.”
“Cruel.”
Talon shoulders past him. “Move. Some of us have actual feedback.”
Wolfe looks offended. “I just gave excellent feedback.”
“You took three minutes to say the front’s stiff.”
“Nuance matters.”
Talon ignores him and starts talking before I’ve even finished turning the page.
“Rear rebound is too slow. Not by much, but it’s packing through consecutive direction changes, especially if I’m not fully unloaded between them. Front feels good. Brake lever needs to come in a few millimeters.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I reply, “I just appreciate you.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I meant that I appreciate your ability to speak motorcycle.”
“I race them, wouldn't it be weird if I couldn't?."
He walks off.
Reign is next and somehow manages to be even more specific, giving me click counts from what he remembers running back home and exactly where this bike feels different, while Thorne arrives halfway through with his arms folded and a scowl aimed directly at his machine.
I glance at him. “What did it do?”
“It’s shit.”
I stop writing. “Helpful.”
“You asked.”
“I asked what it did, not for a review.”
Thorne points at the bike like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Front’s lazy as fuck. Feels like I’m asking the miserable bastard politely to turn and it’s considering whether it can be arsed.”
I bite back a smile. “Translation?”
“It pushes wide when I load it on entry, especially through the slower stuff. Takes too much effort to get the cunt onto a line, then once it’s there, it’s all right.”
“There, see. Look at that. Actual information.”
“Could’ve worked it out from ‘it’s shit,’ couldn’t you?”
“No, because unlike Peckham, motorcycles don’t respond to verbal abuse.”
His mouth twitches as he leans a little closer over the bench. “You sure about that? Seems to work on you.”
I look up slowly. “Careful.”
“Why?” His eyes drag over my face, amusement turning into something warmer. “You gonna punish me?”
My stomach does an incredibly unhelpful little flip.
I point the pen toward the changing area before he can enjoy that too much. “Go get changed.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Don’t call me that.”
His grin turns filthy. “Touchy this morning, ain’t we?”
“You keep looking at me like that and you’re going to miss your session.”
“Worth it.”
I bite back a smile. “Fuck off, Thorne.”
He backs away still watching me, smug bastard. “See you later, boss.”
I throw the pen at him.
He ducks it, laughing all the way toward the changing area.
I shake my head and turn back to the bike before he can come up with anything else.
The next half hour disappears into adjustments.
Small ones. Nothing overly dramatic when they’ve barely had enough time on these bikes to establish what’s machine, what’s road and what’s just the Isle of Man being completely fucking unlike anywhere else they’ve ridden.
I’m leaning over Wolfe’s front end when one of the sponsor mechanics steps closer, looking down at the setup sheet beside my hand.
“You’re taking compression out already?”
“A little.”
“They’ve barely run the baseline.”
“They ran it all morning.”
“Not at full pace.”
“Which is why I’m making a small change, not rebuilding the fork.”
He looks at the sheet again, then toward Andre on the other side of the bay.
“Andre, you sure you want her moving away from the baseline this early?”
I straighten. There it is. Not enough to openly question me, just enough to skip straight past me and look for Andre’s approval instead.
I’m already opening my mouth, ready to explain exactly why I want the change, but Andre doesn’t even glance up from Talon’s bike before answering.
“If Echo wants it changed, change it.”
The mechanic pauses. “I’m just saying these setups came directly from—”
“And I’m saying she knows my fucking riders.”
Andre finally glances over.
Not at him.
At me.
“You comfortable with it?”
“Yeah.”
“Then do it.”
That’s it.
He goes straight back to work. Simple as that. There's no big speech, or show of defending me. Andre doesn’t hover while I explain myself or double-check the numbers because I’m new or because these bikes belong to someone else.
He trusts me.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the woman he hired because he desperately needed another set of hands and became someone he expects to know what the fuck she’s doing.
The realization lands strangely hard.
****
That night, the house finally goes quiet sometime after midnight.
Not completely.
Old houses never really shut the fuck up
Something knocks in the pipes behind the wall, the wind keeps dragging through the trees outside, and every few minutes the floorboards creak like the place is either settling or haunted. At this point, honestly, either feels possible.