Chapter 3: The Vinyl Booth
I kept my chin up, refusing to shrink back from the wall of leather and scarred skin. "Nobody put me up to anything. Mom kept it in the bottom of her cedar chest underneath the extra quilts. She told me where it was before she went to sleep at the county hospital and didn't wake up."
Jax stopped rolling the cigarette. His breath caught, a microscopic hitch in his chest that only someone staring as hard as I was would ever notice. The rough exterior didn't crack open, but the edges frayed just a fraction.
"What's your name?" he asked, his voice losing a bit of its aggressive gravel, turning into something brittle and thin.
"Leo," I said. "Leo Miller. Mom was Sarah Miller. You remember her? She worked the diner in Crestview ten years back before you took off down south."
Before Jax could answer, the diner door swung open behind us and Martha stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on a fresh towel. She didn't look at Jax; she looked straight at me, her gaze softening instantly. She had a paper plate stacked with a thick slice of apple pie and a tall glass of milk in her hands.
"You look like you haven't eaten a square meal since Sunday, Leo," Martha said, ignoring the tension radiating off the biker. She crouched down so her eyes were level with mine. "You come on back inside with me. There's a corner booth out of the draft and away from the smoke. Jax can stand outside and smoke his lungs out until he remembers how to talk to a human being."
I looked from Martha’s kind, lined face back up to Jax. The biker looked away, jaw working as he stared across the highway at the rusted-out shell of an auto body shop. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod—not permission, but surrender.
Ten minutes later, I was sliding across the cracked red vinyl of the back booth. The slice of pie sat untouched while I clutched the cold glass of milk with both hands. Martha stood guard at the end of the aisle, keeping the other patrons at a distance.
May you like
The bell above the diner door jingled again, and heavy boots crunched on the floorboards. Jax walked in, ducking his head slightly beneath the low lintel. He didn't sit with the other club members holding court by the jukebox. Instead, he walked straight to our booth, hooked a heavy wooden chair from the neighboring table, and sat down backwards right across from me, his arms resting on the chair back.
"Talk," Jax said quietly, his eyes boring into mine. "And make it quick before my brothers wonder where I went."
