Chapter 7: The Broken Gate
The gravel crunched beneath the red-bearded biker's heavy boots as he closed the distance between us, his massive frame blocking the morning light. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I forced my feet to stay planted on the concrete walkway. The motel manager’s voice still echoed in my ears, warning anyone within earshot that I was alone, vulnerable, and completely unprotected in a town where my last name carried no weight at all.
“You heard the lady,” the biker rumbled, stopping just inches away so that I smelled the stale mixture of tobacco and cheap whiskey on his breath. “Old Martha’s kid. You think you can just wander into our rally, flash some old picture, and expect Jax to roll out the red carpet? He’s got an empire to protect, boy. People like you—people with eviction notices and empty pockets—only bring trouble to his door.”
Before I could reach into my pocket for the small folded paper, a loud metallic screech cut through the air. Across the alley, the rusted chain-link gate of an old auto body shop swung violently open, and a battered black pickup truck backed out in a cloud of blue exhaust. A heavy wrench clattered onto the asphalt as the driver slammed on the brakes, the engine sputtering and dying with a metallic wheeze.
The red-bearded biker turned his head toward the noise, distracted for a single crucial second. That was all the opening I needed. I ducked low beneath his outstretched arm, my scuffed sneakers skidding across the loose gravel as I bolted toward the narrow gap between the motel office and the soda machine.
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“Hey! Get back here, you little rat!” he roared, lunging forward, but his heavy leather vest caught on the metal corner of the ice machine, slowing him down just enough.
I didn't look back. I scrambled over a low wooden fence, scraping my palms against the splintered rails, and dropped down into the overgrown weeds of an empty vacant lot behind the commercial strip. The dry grass whipped against my face, and the distant sound of roaring motorcycle engines faded slightly as I wove my way deeper into the maze of back alleys and rusting storage containers that lined the edge of town. My lungs burned from the cold morning air, but my hand remained tightly clamped over the pocket containing the faded photograph and the address. Jax might have run to his clubhouse, and his men might be looking for me, but I knew the secret now. They were scared of what the past would show, and I wasn't going to stop until I found out why.
