They’re five years old, sharing a birthday in October.
The math is screaming. Has been screaming since yesterday at the funeral when I saw that lighter-haired boy look at Cal, and I watched his face go white. Since I saw the other one—serious, contained, watching everything—and recognized Jace in miniature.
There is no possibility of them being blood related to me because of the forced vasectomy my late parents had done to me. I can see Jace and Cal in them; maybe I'm glad that I don’t see myself in them.
I take a drag, let the smoke burn down to my lungs. It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps except but work. The physical act of building something, creating order, making things fit together when everything else is chaos. That’s why I volunteered for the bunk bed, for the dresser, for anything that let me use my hands and not think about?—
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, thumbing through emails while the cigarette dangles from my lips.
Three new messages from Aria’s email address. All marked urgent.
Subject: Security Concerns - Guest House
I don’t bother opening it. Just scroll down to the previous five she sent in the last two days.
She wants an on-site guard. Dedicated security presence at her guest house. Claims she doesn’t feel safe, that the perimeter security isn’t adequate, and that she needs someone stationed outside her door.
She’s on a private estate with armed guards rotating every four hours. She’s got panic buttons in every room. She’s literally down the street from the main house where Charles lives.
She doesn’t need more security; she just wants attention.
I roll my neck, feeling the tension crack up my spine. Delete the email without responding, like I’ve deleted the others. Like, I’ll delete whatever bullshit she sends tomorrow.
Another buzz. Another email. Same subject line.
Please, Silas. I just need to know someone’s watching. That I’m not alone here.
My jaw clenches. I take another drag, let the smoke curl out slowly while I stare at the words. I’ll reassign Petrov as her personal guard. He won’t live on site, but it’s most convenient since his bunk is in the house next door to hers.
I’m typing out the reassignment order when a crash echoes from Parker’s garage. Metal on concrete, followed by a string of creative cursing that’s definitely her voice.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to, cigarette flicked into the gravel, phone going back in my pocket as I cover the distance between our houses. The garage door is open, afternoon sun slanting through to illuminate?—
Fuck me.
Parker stands in the middle of organized chaos, another POD container open behind her, and she’s attempting to maneuver a motorcycle down a wooden ramp by herself. A Triumph Street Twin, with a custom paint job in cream and copper that catches the light like jewelry.
She’s changed clothes, traded the crop tank for an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, hair pulled up in a messy knot, a smudge of grease already decorating her cheek. She’s got work gloves on, the kind with reinforced palms, and she’s grunting with effort as she tries to control several hundred pounds of bike on an incline.
“Little help?” she gasps, not looking up. “Or are you just going to stand there?”
I tuck my phone in my back pocket, already moving, closing the distance, my hands finding the handlebars opposite hers.
The bike steadies immediately between us, weight distributed, controlled.
“On three,” I say. “One. Two. Three.”
We guide it down together, smooth as breathing, and wheel it into the garage proper. She kicks the stand down and steps back, breathing hard, that smudge of grease making her look young. Reckless. Like the girl who used to sneak into our garage and sit on my Hayabusa pretending to race.
“Thanks,” she says, pulling off the gloves. “I thought I could?—”
“Handle it yourself?” I finish, leaning against the workbench. “Yeah. You always think that.”
Her eyes flash. “I did handle it.”
“Mmm.” I light another cigarette, offering her one out of habit.
