Chapter 5: The Motel Room
The neon sign of the Sundown Motel flickered with a persistent, buzzing red hum against the gray evening sky. Room 14 smelled faintly of damp carpet, old bleach, and cheap pine air freshener. A single double bed with a faded brown chenille spread dominated the center of the room, flanked by a wobbly nightstand holding a plastic ice bucket.
I sat on the edge of the spare metal cot near the window, my legs swinging slightly because my boots didn't reach the floor. My scuffed sneakers were caked with dried mud from the three-mile trek along the drainage ditch.
Jax stood by the small kitchenette counter, tearing open a plastic packet of instant coffee and dumping it into a stained styrofoam cup. He hadn't spoken since we left the diner, and the silence in the motel room felt heavy, awkward, and entirely unmapped. He dumped hot water from a buzzing electric kettle into the cup, stirred it with a plastic knife, and leaned back against the counter, watching me through the haze of steam.
"Martha’s calling the county caseworkers in the morning," Jax said, his voice breaking the quiet. "She thinks I’m a vagrant who’s gonna drop you off at the state line."
"Are you?" I asked, looking up from my shoes.
Jax stopped lifting the cup to his mouth. He stared at me across the narrow room, his dark beard hiding whatever expression was trying to form around his lips. He took a slow sip of the bitter coffee, set the cup down with a sharp thud, and walked over to the foot of my cot.
Without a word, he dropped to one knee on the threadbare carpet, right in front of my muddy sneakers.
I flinched back instinctively, but Jax’s hand reached out, steady and surprisingly gentle, wrapping around my ankle. He didn't hurt me; he just lifted my foot slightly to inspect the peeling rubber sole of my left shoe, where the cloth had torn away to reveal my gray wool sock.
"Your shoes are shot," he murmured, his thumb brushing a speck of dried mud off the canvas.
"They're my good ones," I whispered.
Jax let out a short, rough sound that might have been a dry laugh if it had any humor in it. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a roll of heavy silver duct tape—the kind bikers keep in their saddlebags for emergency repairs—and pulled the tab free with a sharp rip. Working with practiced, calloused fingers, he began wrapping the silver tape tightly around the base of my sneaker, reinforcing the sole so it would hold together for whatever came next.
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"We ain't going to the state line, Leo," Jax said, not looking up as he smoothed down the final layer of tape. "Not today. Not tomorrow."
Outside the thin window glass, the rumble of another Harley echoed down the motel corridor, and for the first time since my mother closed her eyes, the knot in my chest loosened just a fraction.
