Chapter 9: The Paper Trail
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the flat desert sky in bruised shades of purple and orange, when Jax finally sat down at the wobbly table with the small folded paper I had given him the day before. He had smoothed it out a dozen times, the edges of the hospital birth record soft and frayed from his calloused thumbs rubbing against them.
I was sitting on the edge of my cot, watching him through the dim light of the single overhead bulb. He hadn't turned the television on all afternoon. The only sound in the room was the occasional hiss of a semi-truck passing by on the interstate outside.
"Your mom," Jax started, clearing his throat like it was full of gravel. "She didn't mention me much toward the end, huh?"
"She didn't mention you at all until she got sick," I answered honestly. "She kept a little metal box in the back of her closet under some old winter sweaters. When she couldn't get out of bed anymore, she gave me the key. She told me to take the photo and this paper, and she said if I ever found the man on the bike, I should tell him his name was on the register."
Jax stared down at the paper. I could see the faded ink of the hospital stamp from the county seat two states away—the same place where he and my mother had crossed paths years ago before the club pulled him north.
"She was stubborn," Jax murmured, almost to himself. "Lord, she was the most stubborn woman I ever met. I told her I wasn't cut out for settling down. Said the road was all I had. And she looked me right in the eye and told me I'd die lonely in a ditch with nobody to hold my hand." He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Looks like she was half right, anyway."
"She wasn't mean about it," I said quickly, feeling a sudden need to defend her even though she wasn't there. "She just coughed a lot. And then one morning she didn't wake up."
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Jax reached across the narrow space between the table and my cot, his large, rough hand resting awkwardly on my knee. It was the gentlest touch I had ever felt from a grown-up, let alone a biker with a record and a reputation.
"She was a good woman, Leo," Jax said quietly. "Better than I ever deserved."
