Chapter 2: Outside The Payphone
The silence that settled over our small corner of the diner was heavier than the roar of the Harley engines idling outside. Jax stared down at the cardstock. Even upside down, the faded contrast of the polaroid was unmistakable: a younger, clean-shaven version of the man beside me sat straddling an old chopper, smiling wide while holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a blue flannel blanket.
For two whole seconds, the 48-year-old road veteran looked entirely dismantled. His jaw tightened until the bone showed white beneath his beard, and his thick fingers twitched once, twice, as if fighting the urge to sweep the evidence off the counter and pretend nothing had happened.
Then his mask slammed back down. With a swift, calloused palm, he flattened his hand directly over the photograph, hiding it from view. His dark eyes darted up, locking instantly with Martha, who had paused her wiping three feet away. Her eyes had narrowed into sharp, suspicious slits, her professional warmth evaporating into defensive hostility.
"Jax," Martha said quietly, her voice carrying a steely edge that brooked no nonsense. "What is that photo?"
"Nothing, Martha," Jax replied, his tone flat, strained, and deliberately casual. "Just some trash left behind by a tourist. Mind your business."
"That kid didn't look like a tourist," she shot back, stepping closer, resting her fists on her apron. "He looks like he walked out of a ghost story. You better not be causing trouble in my town, Jax. Not while you're parked outside my kitchen."
Jax didn't argue with her. He knew better than to make an enemy of Martha; she fed half the county and kept the sheriff's ear warm. Instead, he shoved his chair back with a harsh scrape of metal against floor tiles, grabbed the covered photo, and slid off the stool. He towered over me, his shadow swallowing me whole.
"Outside. Now," he grunted, nodding toward the heavy glass door leading out to the sun-baked gravel parking lot.
I didn't hesitate. I turned on my heel and pushed through the door into the thick afternoon heat, the sound of Harley exhaust washing over me again. Jax followed close behind, his boots heavy on the wood planks of the porch. We stopped near the rusty metal payphone bolted to the exterior wall, far enough from the other bikers that nobody was paying us direct mind.
May you like
He pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket, tapped one out with a thumb, but didn't light it. He just held it between his knuckles, rolling it back and forth as he glared down at me.
"Who put you up to this, kid?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Who gave you that picture?"
