Chapter 4: Mechanics and Memories
The garage smelled of burning rubber, WD-40, and old gasoline. It was a cavernous metal building on the outskirts of town, lit by harsh fluorescent strips humming overhead that buzzed like angry hornets. Several chrome-heavy motorcycles were parked in various states of repair across the stained concrete floor, wrenches and greasy rags scattered haphazardly over steel workbenches. Jax had walked away from me in the alley without taking the paper, but he hadn't told me to go home, either. I had followed him at a cautious distance, keeping my sneakers quiet against the gravel shoulder until he unlocked the heavy side door of this makeshift workshop.
Now, Jax stood over the engine block of a battered chopper, a wrench gripped tightly in his grease-stained hand as he tightened a stubborn bolt with rhythmic, practiced force. Every swing of his arm flexed the dark ink curling up his forearms, the jagged lightning scar catching the cold overhead light. I sat quietly on an overturned wooden crate near the corner heater, my knees pulled up to my chest, watching him work in silence.
“You’re awfully quiet for a kid who just walked halfway across the county looking for a ghost,” Jax finally spoke up without looking up from the engine, wiping his brow with the back of a dirty forearm and leaving a smudge of black grease across his forehead.
“My grandma says talking too much gets you into trouble before you even figure out what the argument is about,” I replied, my voice echoing slightly off the corrugated tin walls.
Jax let out a short, dry bark of laughter that didn't quite reach his eyes. He dropped the wrench onto a metal tray with a loud clatter that made me jump, then reached for a rag to wipe his hands. He walked over to a rusted minifridge in the corner, pulled out a cold bottle of amber soda, and tossed it across the floor toward me. I caught it clumsily against my chest, the glass cold and sweating against my jacket.
“Your grandma,” Jax said, leaning his hip against the edge of a steel workbench and crossing his thick arms over his chest. “Martha still running that rusted-out trailer park down by the county line?”
“She doesn't run much anymore,” I said, twisting the cap off the bottle with a sharp hiss. “Her lungs aren't very good. That’s why we had to move three times last year. The rent went up, and the people at the management office said we were too much trouble.”
Jax’s expression hardened instantly. The subtle warmth that had flickered in his eyes during our exchange in the alley vanished behind a wall of cold, impassive stone. He looked away, staring down at the greasy concrete between his boots as if searching for an answer buried in the cracks.
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“The world doesn't care about trouble, kid,” Jax said quietly, his voice dropping into a register that felt heavier than before. “It just rolls right over you if you don't have enough steel in your spine to push back.”
“My mom had steel,” I shot back, my voice rising a little sharper than I intended, the soda bottle trembling slightly in my grip. “She worked two shifts at the diner until she couldn't stand up anymore. And every single night, she kept that picture locked in her jewelry box like it was the only real thing she owned.”
