Chapter 10: Trust on the Highway
Jax stared down at the county records file on the wooden spool, his jaw muscles working beneath his thick dark beard as the silence stretched between us like a tightened bowstring. The tattoos on his forearms flexed as he gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white under the layer of engine grease. For a long second, I thought he was going to sweep the papers onto the floor and throw me out into the gravel again.
Instead, he let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his broad shoulders dropping an inch as the heavy armor of his outlaw persona seemed to crack just enough to let the light in. He looked past me toward the open doorway, then down at my scuffed sneakers and my thin, frayed jacket.
“Get on the bike,” Jax said quietly, his voice losing its harsh edge and dropping into something flat, tired, and final.
The red-bearded biker scoffed, taking a step forward. “Boss, you can't be serious. That kid’s got a paper trail that could blow the whole syndicate deal wide open if the wrong people find out what we—"
“I said, get on the bike,” Jax interrupted, turning his dark eyes toward his associate with a look so fierce and absolute that the big man instantly stepped back and bit his tongue. Jax reached into the pocket of his leather vest, pulled out a spare set of heavy metal keys, and tossed them across the workbench to me. They clattered harmlessly against my chest before I managed to catch them with both hands.
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“If we’re going to talk about Martha, and what happened to that house, we aren't doing it in this dump where every loan shark and rival enforcer in the tri-state area can listen in,” Jax muttered, walking over to the nearest chopper and swinging his heavy leg over the leather seat. He kicked the kickstarter down with a sharp, practiced motion, and the massive engine roared to life, shaking the dust from the rafters above us.
I looked down at the keys in my hand, then back up at the tall, tattooed man who had spent my entire life as a ghost in a faded photograph. The road stretching out beyond the clubhouse gates was long, gray, and uncertain, leading straight toward the county hospital where my grandmother was waiting. But for the first time since I stepped off the Greyhound bus, I wasn't walking alone. I tucked the records file securely into my jacket, pulled the strap of my bag tighter over my shoulder, and climbed onto the passenger seat behind my father.
