Chapter 4: The Secret Exchange
The mornings behind the auto salvage yard were quiet in a way that city mornings never were. Before the sun fully cleared the jagged line of rusted semi-trailers on the ridge, the air smelled of stale motor oil, damp gravel, and the sharp, sweet scent of sagebrush waking up in the desert frost. I would pedal my bicycle down the gravel service road with my heart hammering against my ribs, carrying a heavy metal thermos of black coffee that I had poured from the pot while my mother still slept in the front bedroom.
Jax would already be there, rolling up the heavy steel door of Bay Three, his long hair tied back in a loose leather thong, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he checked the oil level on a knucklehead engine bolted to a work stand. When he saw my faded blue jacket bouncing down the dirt track, he wouldn’t wave—he wasn’t the waving kind—but he would set his wrench down on the steel bench and reach for two chipped ceramic mugs he kept hidden behind a stack of old tires.
"You're late, kid," he said the morning the frost had turned the grass white like a dusting of powdered sugar. His breath plumed in the cold air, white and thick against his dark beard.
"I had to wait for the porch light to go off," I said, sliding off my bicycle seat and letting the rusted kickstand drop into the gravel. I handed him the thermos, my fingers stiff and red from the morning chill.
Jax unscrewed the cap and poured the coffee into one of the mugs, taking a slow sip without blowing on it. He looked down at me, his hazel eyes narrowing against the glare of the rising sun hitting the corrugated tin roofs. "Your mother still thinks you're riding down to the creek to skip stones?"
"She thinks I'm going to the library," I answered truthfully, though the library was two miles in the opposite direction.
He didn't smile, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth showed he appreciated the technicality. For the next hour, there were no grand confessions or heavy speeches about the past. Instead, Jax taught me how to hold a flathead screwdriver without slipping and gouging my palm, how to sort rusted washers by size into old coffee cans, and how to tell the difference between a half-inch socket and a thirteen-millimeter wrench by touch alone in the dark. It was quiet, steady work that required patience, and for the first time in my eight years, I felt like I belonged somewhere that wasn't defined by absence.
Yet, safety in a place like the salvage yard was a fragile thing. As the sun climbed higher, casting sharp shadows across the dirt lots, the distant roar of a heavily piped exhaust pipe echoed down the access road. Jax’s head snapped up instantly, his entire body going rigid like a hunting dog catching a scent in the wind.
"Get behind the parts rack, Leo," he muttered, his voice dropping into an urgent, gravelly whisper that left no room for argument. "Now."
I didn't hesitate. I ducked behind the towering wire mesh shelves loaded with greasy transmission housings and old timing chains, holding my breath as I peeked through a gap in the rusted metal. A matte-black Panhead chopper roared into the yard, kicking up a rooster tail of gravel before cutting its engine with a harsh, metallic ping. The rider swung his leg over the saddle with practiced ease—a heavy-set man with a thick blond mustache, wearing a scarred leather vest bearing the patch of the Iron Skulls motorcycle club. His name was Brick, and even from my hiding spot, I could feel the hostile energy radiating off him as he stomped toward Bay Three.
"Hey, Jax," Brick called out, his voice loud and grating against the morning quiet. He didn't look like a friend dropping by for a casual chat; he looked like an inspector checking up on a stray dog. " Club president's looking for you. We got a run down to the county line tomorrow, and you weren't at the clubhouse for the Tuesday muster."
Jax stepped out of the bay, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag, keeping his posture loose and defensive. "I had mechanical work to finish here, Brick. The salvage order for the state highway commission needs these blocks cleared by Friday."
Brick crossed his thick arms over his chest, his cold blue eyes scanning the open bay, lingering for a second too long on the second ceramic mug sitting half-hidden on the workbench. A slow, ugly grin spread across his scarred face. "State highway work, huh? Since when do you give a damn about state paperwork? You've been spending a lot of time alone out here, old man. Word is, you've gone soft since you stopped riding the night shifts."
"Mind your business, Brick," Jax said softly, and the quiet danger in his tone made even the club enforcer hesitate for a fraction of a second.
"Just making sure our road captain hasn't forgotten where his loyalties lie," Brick spat, turning his bike around with a heavy growl of the throttle before spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt and tearing out of the yard.
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When the dust finally settled, Jax walked slowly back toward the parts rack and looked down at me where I crouched in the shadows. His face was set in hard lines, the brief warmth of the morning entirely gone.
"You can't come back tomorrow, Leo," Jax said, his voice flat and heavy. "The club's sniffing around. And I won't have them looking your way."
