Chapter 12: A Quiet Town
We rolled into Oakhaven just as the afternoon shadows were stretching long and thin across the main street, painting the weathered storefronts in shades of amber and dust. It was a sleepy little town nestled between two low ridges of pine-covered hills, far enough from the interstate to feel forgotten by the rest of the world, which made it the kind of place where nobody asked too many questions about strangers passing through. Jax pulled the old truck up beside a modest, single-story house with white siding and a green shingled roof that looked like it had seen better decades. A weathered wooden sign by the front steps advertised a small local repair shop in the backyard, surrounded by tall weeds and a scattering of spare auto parts. This was where an old friend of Jax's named Hank lived—a retired mechanic who didn't care much about biker politics or past associations, only whether a man could turn a wrench and keep his word. Hank came out the screen door wiping grease off his hands with a blue shop rag, his eyes squinting against the bright sun as the truck engine sputtered and died. He walked over to the driver's side, and he and Jax exchanged that slow, unspoken nod shared by men who had survived things they didn't care to talk about in polite company. Then Hank's gaze drifted past the open window, landing squarely on me sitting in the passenger seat with my scuffed sneakers dangling above the floor mat. "Is this the boy?" Hank asked, his voice like sandpaper rubbing against pine. Jax cut the engine completely, the ticking of the cooling metal block filling the quiet afternoon air before he answered with a firm, unyielding tone. "This is Leo," Jax said, opening his door and stepping down onto the packed dirt driveway. "He's staying with me from now on, Hank. You got that spare room out back cleared out like we talked about on the phone?" Hank didn't ask for explanations or birth certificates; he just looked at me for a long moment, taking in the old jacket and the big hazel eyes, then gave another slow nod. "Roof doesn't leak much," Hank muttered, tossing the blue rag onto the fender of a rusted sedan. "And the water heater actually works if you kick it just right. Come on inside, kid. I'll show you where the pantry is." I climbed down out of the high cab, my legs stiff from the long drive, and followed the two tall men toward the small house that smelled of old wood, kerosene, and coffee grounds. Inside, the rooms were small and cluttered with spare fan belts, carburetor parts, and stacks of old hunting magazines, but it felt warm in a way the motel never had. Jax dropped our two small duffel bags by the front door and walked over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, his broad shoulders filling the narrow hallway. He looked back at me over his shoulder, checking to see if I was keeping up, and offered a small, reassuring nod that made the tightness in my chest loosen just a little bit. For the first time since the diner in the dusty valley, the frantic buzzing in my head began to quiet down into something resembling peace.
