Page 151 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I strip it down first. Seat off. Tank lifted. Fuel line disconnected. Every bolt laid out in precise rows.

There’s a rhythm to it. Metal on metal. Ratchet clicking. Controlled force.

The world is supposed to narrow.

Except it doesn’t.

Because my phone is on the bench beside me.

And every time it buzzes—just the garage group chat or a parts delivery notification—my chest tightens anyway.

I imagine Wayne in a waiting room.

June pale, her hands folded in her lap.

I tighten a bolt too hard and stop.

Focus.

Machines deserve full attention.

I pull the cam cover and inspect the internals.

Clean.

Untouched.

I’ll change that.

Hank wanders over.

“You think she’s okay?” he asks casually. “June, I mean. Wayne told me…”

I don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” I say.

He hesitates. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am,” I reply.

I just don’t like not knowing.

I remove the stock exhaust, weigh it in my hands, then set it aside.

Too quiet.

We’ll fix that.

The torch flares to life when I start shaping the new pipe.

Heat licks the metal, turning it faintly gold at the edges before it cools back to black.

I enjoy this part—the control, the precision. You apply heat exactly where you need it.

I bend the curve carefully.

Ashby wants mean.