Chapter 1: The Diner Counter
The hum of heavy exhaust pipes shook the windowpanes of the Copper Kettle Diner, rattling the ceramic coffee mugs lined up near the pie display. Outside, chrome handlebars gleamed under the glaring midday July sun, and leather-clad men milled about the asphalt, laughing loud enough to drown out the jukebox. I didn't care about the noise or the strangers with grease-stained vests. My scuffed sneakers hit the linoleum floor with a quiet squeak as I squeezed between two tall stools near the far end of the counter. My fingers curled tight around the hem of my oversized denim jacket, trapping the chill I had carried all the way from the bus stop three miles down Route 9.
The waitress, Martha, was wiping down the laminate surface with a gray rag, her short silver-streaked hair damp with sweat from the rush. She glanced down at me, her brow furrowing in instant maternal concern. "Hey there, little guy. Where's your folks? You shouldn't be wandering this highway alone during the rally."
I didn't answer her. My eyes were fixed on the man sitting three seats down. He had long, dark hair tied back in a ragged knot, a thick salt-and-pepper beard, and arms corded with ink that disappeared into the sleeves of a heavy leather vest bearing patches I couldn't read. He was nursing a black coffee, staring straight ahead at the reflection of the highway in the greasy window.
I slid along the counter, my boots clicking softly against the floor until I stood right beside his elbow. The air around him smelled of gasoline, tobacco, and stale leather. I swallowed hard against the dry knot in my throat, remembering the exact tone my mother had used when she tucked me into our sagging mattress for the very last time.
"Jax," I said. My voice didn't shake, though my ribs felt hollow.
The big man didn't jump, but the muscles in his forearm locked up instantly. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes narrowing as they scanned down to meet mine. There was no warmth in his gaze, just the defensive squint of a man used to watching his own back in county lockups and highway motels.
"Beat it, kid," he muttered, his voice gravelly and low, vibrating right through the wooden counter. "Go find an adult who cares where you parked."
I didn't move an inch. Instead, I reached into the deep pocket of my jacket, pulled out the square of thick, yellowed cardstock I had guarded with my life since Tuesday morning, and placed it right beside his heavy ceramic mug.
May you like
Jax’s hand froze mid-reach for his coffee cup. His fingers hovered an inch above the formica.
"My mom said this is you," I whispered.
