Page 73 of Tuned To Break
“How long?” Doc’s voice is barely audible now.
“About two months,” Chase answers, reluctant now that he sees how badly we’ve fucked up.
Doc sits heavily on a nearby stool, looking like he’s been hit by a truck. His hands shake as he takes off his cap and scrubs a hand through grey hair.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, but in the sudden silence of the workshop, it sounds like a shout.
This is not going to end well. In fact, it’s going to end as badly as anything has ever ended in the history of things ending badly.
Because in about two hours, Stella’s going to come back from her lovely girls’ lunch, expecting everything exactly as she left it. Instead, she’s going to walk into a workshop where her estranged uncle is sitting there looking like he’s seen a ghost.
And when that happens, all hell is going to break loose.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
STELLA
The girls’ lunch was lovely—good food, easy conversation, the kind of sun-drenched Sydney afternoon that should have left me floating. But by three-thirty, an itch starts building in my spine. Not the good kind. The kind that whispers something’s off. Like I’ve left the stove on or forgotten an appointment. That gnawing anxiety of being out of place.
Despite Emily’s exasperated sighs and Megan’s suggestion— “I’ll tattoodelegate or dieon your wrist”—I convince them to cut the afternoon short.
“You’re impossible,” Yasmin mutters as we walk toward our cars, oversized sunglasses perched like armour on her face. “It’s like you’re allergic to relaxation.”
“I’m not allergic to relaxation,” I argue, even as I yank open my car door. “I’m just responsible for a business that’s finally running smoothly. I’d rather not tempt fate.”
“You do realise it’s okay to not be in control every second of the day?” Ella says gently. “You can trust your team.”
I nod, but my fingers tighten on the steering wheel. I do trust them—mostly. But something’s pulling at me now. Something deeper than control. A quiet instinct that tells me this wasn’t justa lunch break. That something’s been orchestrated behind my back.
On the drive back to Doc’s, I replay the day. Jake pushing me to take time off. Chase being cagey about a Charger consult. Yasmin and Ella showing up like it was their idea. It all feels… off. Coordinated. And not in the sweetwe planned a surprise cakekind of way. More like a slow unravelling I haven’t been clued in on yet.
I pull into the car park and immediately notice the pickup truck.
It’s old but not rusted. Clean, polished chrome, careful wear. A vehicle with history. The kind that doesn’t end up in our yard by accident.
My stomach knots.
The air changes the second I walk inside. It’s not the usual late-arvo noise—tools whirring, music cranked, the boys ribbing each other over oil stains and smoko orders. This is silence. Thick. Tense. The kind of quiet that prickles over skin.
Then I see him.
He’s by the Charger. Back turned, head bent into the engine bay. His posture is familiar it’s deliberate but relaxed. A man used to grease under his fingernails and the weight of a socket wrench. The kind of silhouette burned into my childhood like oil stains on cotton.
Doc.
For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. The workshop tilts around me, soundless, weightless. My chest compresses as if someone’s reached in and yanked all the air out with their bare hands. My mind flashes through memories like postcards: grease-stained overalls, half-smiles over busted car parts, the way he’d ruffle my hair and call mesprocket likeit meant something.
I haven’t seen him in six years. But I’d know him anywhere.
A switch flips.
“What is he doing here?” My voice is sharp, loud enough to slice through the silence.
The entire workshop freezes. Every head turns. Every hand halts mid-task. The tension becomes suffocating.
Doc straightens slowly. Turns. His face is older, more worn than I remember, like time dragged its fingers over him harder than most. Our eyes lock, and for the briefest second, something flickers—guilt? Regret? It’s gone before I can catch it.
“Stella,” he mutters, voice rough.
