Chapter 4: Under the Desk Lamp
The garage sat at the edge of the industrial district, tucked behind a row of shuttered warehouses where the city's concrete gave way to overgrown weeds and rusted rail spurs. The sign above the corrugated metal door had lost its neon letters years ago, leaving only the rusted iron frame rattling in the damp wind. Inside, the space smelled of heavy machine oil, solvent, and old rubber. A single yellow bug light burned above a workbench cluttered with wrenches, spark plugs, and greasy rags, casting long, crooked shadows across the concrete floor.
Jax pushed the heavy side door shut, throwing the iron deadbolt with a loud, final clack that echoed off the tin roof. Outside, the rain drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against the metal, but inside, the air was dry and thick with the residual heat of a kerosene heater smoking quietly in the corner.
"Sit," Jax said, pointing a thumb toward a battered vinyl armchair with stuffing poking out of the arms. It sat right next to the workbench, directly under the harsh pool of light from the desk lamp.
I scrambled up into the chair, pulling my knees to my chin while my soaked sneakers dripped onto a piece of cardboard on the floor. Jax didn't offer me a towel right away. Instead, he walked over to a small metal sink in the corner, ran cold water over his hands, and scrubbed at the grease under his fingernails with a stiff-bristled brush until his skin was raw. He dried his hands on a filthy rag, then reached up to pull the heavy leather vest off his shoulders, hanging it carefully over the back of a stool. Beneath it, he wore a faded gray flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms webbed with old scars and faded tattoos of motorcycle chains and tribal bands.
He pulled a wooden stool up close to the armchair, sitting down so that his knees were nearly touching mine. His face was weathered and lined, the beard graying at the corners of his mouth, but his hazel eyes—the exact same shade as the ones looking back at him from under my messy light brown hair—were sharp and unblinking.
"Give me the photo," he said quietly, holding out a large, calloused palm.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the dog-eared Polaroid, placing it gently into his hand.
Jax pulled the gooseneck desk lamp closer, tilting the shade down until the yellow beam washed directly over the faded surface of the picture. He studied it with an intensity that felt heavy, almost painful, as if he were trying to burn the image into his memory all over again. With the tip of his thumb, he rubbed the bottom corner where the white border had yellowed and cracked with age.
" nineteen-ninety-eight," he muttered, his voice dropping into a register so low I almost had to read his lips to catch it. "July. Behind that diner down in Bristol County. The sky looked just like it did tonight—gray, mean, and ready to drop."
He flipped the photo over. On the back, written in my mother's neat, sloping cursive, were three lines: Jax Miller. The road ends where the heart starts. Don't let them take him.
Jax stared at the handwriting for a long time. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking in his cheek. The tough, indifferent biker exterior he wore like a suit of armor seemed to peel away piece by piece under the harsh light of the desk lamp, leaving behind something rawer and far more fragile.
"She told you to find me?" he asked, looking up from the desk.
"She said you were on the road," I answered, my voice small but steady. "She said you had a shop with a green door and a dog that barked at trucks. But the shop wasn't there anymore. There was just a parking lot and a sign for a bank. So I went to the hotel because the lights were bright and I thought someone might give me a warm place to sleep for five minutes."
Jax let out a dry, humorless sound that was half-laugh, half-cough. He shook his head slowly, running a large hand through his long, tangled hair.
"The Grand Royal," he spat out, the name tasting like poison in his mouth. "That's where the high-rollers go to pretend they never stepped in mud a day in their lives. You're lucky that doorman didn't call the county wagons on you."
"The blonde lady asked me why I was standing there," I said, remembering the sharp, judgmental look under the hotel awning. "And the doorman said I was just a poor kid."
Jax’s eyes narrowed instantly, the pupils contracting until they were nearly black. The easy, weary posture vanished, replaced by a sudden, coiled tension that made the air in the garage feel thin. He didn't yell or slam his fist on the workbench—his anger didn't work like that. It was cold, silent, and dangerous.
"Did she?" Jax whispered, his voice dangerously flat. He reached down and picked up a small brass nut from the workbench, rolling it slowly between his thumb and forefinger until his knuckles turned white. "Well, kid. People like that spend their whole lives building walls so they don't have to look at the world they built the rest of us in. They think a fancy coat and a black Rolls-Royce makes them bulletproof."
May you like
He stopped rolling the nut and set it down on the wood with a sharp clack. He looked me dead in the eye, the hostility draining out of his face to leave behind a quiet, iron resolve.
"They don't know who they're dealing with," Jax said softly. "And tomorrow, we're going to remind them."
