Chapter 6: Whispers at the Clubhouse
Dawn broke over the mountain ridge with a cold, pale light that cut straight through the thin curtains of Motel Room 14. When I rolled off the stiff cot, rubbing the sleep from my gritty eyes, the room was empty. The small table in the corner was clear except for an ash tray filled with cigarette butts, and the heavy leather vest Jax had worn the night before was gone from the metal chair. But lying right in the center of the scarred wooden tabletop was the small folded piece of lined notebook paper I had tried to give him in the alley.
My heart sank. He had left it behind. He had taken the polaroid, but he had rejected the address, choosing to keep his ghosts locked safely away behind the high walls of his outlaw life.
I snatched the paper up, shoved it back into my jacket pocket, and pushed open the front door. The crisp morning air hit my face like a splash of ice water. Across the gravel courtyard, a group of three heavy-set bikers in matching leather cuts were huddled around a pair of roaring choppers parked outside Room 20, talking in low, urgent tones. One of them—a massive man with a braided red beard and a jagged scar running down his left cheek—looked over sharply as I stepped out onto the concrete walkway.
“Hey, little rat,” the red-bearded man barked, his voice carrying an aggressive edge that made me instinctively take a step backward toward the door. “What are you doing sniffing around our rooms? Jax isn't here. He took off for the clubhouse an hour ago.”
Before I could answer, the heavy screen door of the office rattled open, and the motel manager—a sharp-eyed woman in a faded floral bathrobe—stepped out onto the landing, pointing a stubby finger straight in my direction.
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“There he is,” she snapped, glaring at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “That’s the kid from the trailer park down south. I saw his grandmother’s picture in the local paper a month back when they got evicted from that lot on Fourth Street. Some rough-looking crew has been looking all over the county for them.”
The bikers exchanged sharp, knowing glances. The red-bearded man pushed off the handlebars of his bike, his heavy boots crushing the gravel as he started walking slowly toward me with a menacing grin spreading across his scarred face. “Is that right?” he muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles with a sickening pop. “Old Martha’s grandson, huh? Well, well. Looks like Jax isn't the only one who wants a word with the family.”
