Chapter 4
ISABELLA
The sharp tang of acetone and the faint sulfurous undertone of thiols hang in the air.
I adjust the angle of the fume hood, ensuring the airflow properly shields my crystallization reaction.
The hood's glass gleams under the bright fluorescent lights, casting subtle reflections on the beakers and flasks meticulously arranged in rows.
The first two days of school have been a whirlwind.
A blur of students filing in and out, endless questions, and the meticulous repetition of setting classroom expectations and laboratory boundaries.
By the time I finally left campus last night, the sun had disappeared, replaced by the yellow glow of streetlights.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on me as I trudged home. Instead of cooking, I ordered takeout and ate over my notes, determined to stay ahead.
Today has been no less chaotic. Labs, not lectures, dominate the schedule.
Labs mean more time spent standing, preparing, cleaning up, and reminding aspiring chemists that our laboratory doesn’t come with a maid service.
I’ve spent a fair portion of the day advising, “Keep your areas clean as you go. It’s easier than scrubbing dried resin off the countertops. ”
It’s late afternoon, and the lab is blessedly quiet. My students have left for the day, leaving behind a collection of drying pipettes and hastily scribbled notes scattered across the workspace that must be disposed of.
For the last hour, I’ve been cleaning up and refining my work, trying to set my intentions for tomorrow, which, luckily, is office hours and a chance to work on administrative tasks.
The soft knock on the door pulls me out of my thoughts, jarring against the gentle hum of the fume hood. I glance toward the door, the faint outline of a figure through the frosted glass making my stomach tighten.
It opens before I can speak, and Diego Kahale steps inside. I sigh, forgetting how his absence made the class more manageable, only for him to reappear unscheduled today. His movements are deliberate but slow, as if testing the waters.
A helmet is tucked under his arm, the glossy black surface catching the overhead light. His presence feels invasive, almost suffocating in the quiet sanctity of the lab. A flicker of interest that he’s a fellow rider steals my attention for a snap second before I dismiss it.
He hesitates, standing just inside the doorway, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on me.
There’s no swagger this time.
No cocky grin or careless posture.
Instead, he looks unsure.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I keep my voice even, though my chest tightens at the sight of him. My rules are clear. Office hours only, no exceptions. His disregard for them sends a ripple of irritation through me, but I can’t deny the undercurrent of something else.
Tension.
Unease.
Awareness.
He shifts. His grip on the helmet tightens before he sets it on the counter.
“I know, Professor. I just—”
He stops. His gaze darts to the rows of meticulously arranged beakers before returning to me.
“I needed to apologize.”
The words hang in the air, unexpected and weighty. My fingers flex against the counter, and I resist the urge to cross my arms to put more distance between us.
“Apologize?” I echo, tilting my head slightly, unsure where this is going.
“For being late. And . . . disrespectful.”
There’s an edge in his tone like he’s forcing the words out. I narrow my eyes, studying him carefully. There’s no smirk, no deflection, just a seriousness that catches me off guard.
“Why now?”
His jaw tightens, the muscle feathering beneath his skin.
“Because I realized I was wrong.”
As he steps closer, I stiffen, tightening my grip on the counter as the space between us shrinks. The faint scent of leather and cologne clings to him, mingling with the sharper chemical notes of the lab.
“I don’t need your apology.” My voice is firm, though it wavers slightly under the weight of his stare. “This class demands respect and punctuality. The students are entitled to it, as am I.”
“And you’ll get it,” he says quickly, continuing to close the distance, which is getting uncomfortable and almost intrusive. “I mean it. I know I messed up.”
Tension crackles like static electricity between us. He looks different without the cocky bravado. Almost vulnerable, though there’s still an intensity in his eyes that makes my pulse flutter in a way I don’t want to acknowledge.
“This isn’t how things work. You can’t just show up here without an appointment and expect—”
“I’m not expecting anything,” he interrupts.
His hand reaches toward mine, resting on the table, and I snatch it away. A frown wrinkles over his face at the same time his hand retracts.
“I just . . . I needed you to know I’m serious about this. About learning. About this class. About you.”
I exhale sharply, meeting his gaze while the last two words of his plea dance in the sterile lab. Innocent or provocative. They could go both ways. They should only go one, and yet, oddly, I’m yearning for both.
I lick my lips, my throat drying. To distract myself, I glance at the helmet on the counter. A passing thought if he rides only to class or races the streets at night as I do, seeking irresponsible freedom from an otherwise responsible life.
“Actions speak louder than words, Mr. Kahale.”
When I meet his eyes, it is an unintended challenge. He steps closer, crossing the lines of personal space, and my breath hitches. I hold my ground, unwilling to let him see his effect on me.
“Look, I get it. You don’t trust me. I wouldn’t either. But I’ll prove it. I just need a chance.”
The raw honesty in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I hate the way my defenses falter, even slightly.
“Why?” I ask the question slipping out before I can stop it.
He hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line as he searches for the right words.
“Because I care about this.”
There’s a sudden rasp to his voice, his dark eyes boring into me as his words ghost over my flesh.
My heart pounds, and I concede, taking a few steps back, needing the space to think and breathe. He’s having a strange effect on me. Something that definitely wasn’t even remotely possible on Monday.
Yet, today, with his hat-in-hand demeanor, I’m imagining things that I hope are not there, and I’m reading into the meanings of word choices as if I were an English professor.
“You’re still not supposed to be here, Mr. Kahale.”
Firmness returns to my voice, though it feels hollow compared to my fluttering insides.
“If you’re serious about this, you’ll respect my rules, including observing office hours.”
His eyes flicker with something I can’t quite place. Resolve or boredom. He nods, stepping back to give me the distance I so clearly need.
“You’ll see,” he says quietly, his tone carrying a promise I’m unsure he can keep.
Without another word, he turns, that confident stride returning to pick up his helmet before sending a long, smoldering stare over his shoulder. I feel the heat from my boot-encased toes to the roots of my hair. Then he turns and walks out, leaving the scent of leather and tension in his wake.
I stare at the door long after it closes, my chest tight and my mind racing. Whatever this is, whatever he’s trying to prove . . . it’s dangerous. I can’t afford to let it distract me.
Not now.
Not ever.
The anxious feeling that threatens to consume me and sends me chasing away my demons atop my bike is calling to me again.
I quickly pack my bags, cutting the afternoon short to loosen the tension wound tight in my chest. With each step I take out of the building, the feeling morphs, slinking into something hotter and infinitely more unsettling.
The image of him standing there, so raw and sincere, burns in my mind. The way he looked at me, curious and carnal, asking and demanding at the same time. The quiet “you’ll see” is a promise of more to come that my thoughts keep tripping on.
By the time I get home, I’m already pulling my leathers from the closet. The smell of mink oil and freedom hits me like a balm.
The ritual of gearing up is soothing.
My movements are automatic. Sliding into the fitted jacket, zipping up the pants, and tugging on my gloves. Striding out to my bike, I pull on my helmet, the long braid dangling down my back as I snap the visor into place.
Swinging my leg over the stunning machine, a flash from my youth surfaces. Having begged Papà to let me take lessons, I guilted him into it when the etiquette classes and endless cotillions my mother forced upon me became unbearable.
His sympathetic smile only lasted so long before I battled for more freedom and independence from the path my mother had arranged for me. Little did she know, I’d turn out more like my Papà than the respectable Hampton’s wife and high society member she intended me to become.
I think the motorcycle lessons and track tricks were the start of the end when I didn’t go out for the debutante ball my senior year in school. It broke her heart.
The familiar growl of my bike fills the space as I turn the key and twist the throttle. Sharp and alive, the vibrations hum through me, drowning out the echoes of my student’s voice in my head. I shoot out into the night, the city lights stretching, promising a thrilling escape.
The streets of Boston are alive and bustling with early evening traffic.
I weave through it effortlessly, leaning into each turn with precision, the adrenaline licking at the edges of my nerves.
The sound of the engine roaring beneath me is intoxicating, and each throttle twist sends a calming spark through my veins.
But it’s not enough.
Not tonight.
I push harder and faster, the speedometer climbing as the buildings blur into streaks of light. The wind whips against me, carrying away the day’s frustration, the weight of my thoughts, and the words of a certain Mr. Kahale.
But just as I begin to lose myself in the rhythm of the ride, a shadow emerges in my periphery.
A lone rider.
Clad in all black leather.
His AGV helmet is smooth and nondescript.
A common style and brand slides up my flank.
My eyes dart to him briefly, taking in how he moves, fluid, confident, predatory.
Something about the familiarity of his helmet sparks a fleeting thought.
Did Mr. Kahale have the same helmet? Was it the same guy riding with his crew from the other night?
I quickly dismiss it as this town has tons of bikers.
There’s no reason he’d be here.
Still, the thought lingers, unwelcome and unshakable.
A challenge blooms in its place, reckless and thrilling as it tickles its way into my brain.
I twist the throttle, surging ahead, and the black rider follows, easily matching my speed.
We weave through traffic, our bikes dancing in a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.
The rush of it all burns through me, setting my nerves on fire.
He pulls alongside me at a red light, his visor tilted toward me. I can’t see his eyes but feel his heavy and expectant gaze. My heart pounds, and my breath quickens as I stare back. The dare is unspoken but clear.
The light turns green, and we’re off.
I push my bike hard, the engine screaming as I dart through intersections and tear past rows of parked cars. He’s always there, just behind or beside me. His movements mirror my own. The tension between us is electric. Each pass and maneuver ratchets it higher.
My mind drifts traitorously to Mr. Kahale and how his hand lingered on the helmet he left on the counter. The connection feels absurd, yet the fantasy grips me.
I imagine him behind that visor.
His dark eyes locked on me. His lips curve into that maddening smirk.
The thought sends a jolt of heat through me, my pulse racing faster than the bike beneath me.
We hit a stretch of open road, the city giving way to the industrial outskirts.
The commuter train tracks loom ahead, the crossing arms beginning to lower.
The black rider surges forward.
I match him. The need to win, or at least not lose, overrides all common sense. The train’s horn blares. Its headlights pierce through the darkness.
I don’t slow down.
My heart slams against my ribs as I lean forward, the world narrowing to the stretch of track ahead. The train barrels closer. I blast past it with seconds to spare, the heat melting into my leathers. The rumble of its engine is deafening to my ears.
I glance back, breathless and alive, only to see the black rider on the other side of the train, separated from me by the speeding metal behemoth. His silhouette is a shadow, his bike idling as the railcars blast by.
My blood sings with the thrill of it.
My body is alight with adrenaline.
And something darker.
When the train finally passes, he’s gone, swallowed by the night. I sit there, the engine of my bike purring beneath me, my chest heaving as I suck in the air. My skin tingles, my heart pounds, and I feel more alive than I have in months. Years, maybe.