Chapter 1: The Diner Counter
The hum of heavy exhaust pipes rattled the diner's single-pane front windows, vibrating right up through the scuffed linoleum floor. Outside, dozens of motorcycles lined Main Street, chrome gleaming under the merciless afternoon sun, but inside, the air smelled of stale grease, brewed coffee, and cheap tobacco. I didn't care about the noise or the heavy-set men in leather vests crowding the booths. My knuckles were white inside the pocket of my oversized jacket, gripping the edge of something square and fragile.
I pushed past a tall man with grease-stained arms and walked straight down the narrow aisle toward the counter. The waitresses were running back and forth, trays piled high with burger baskets and heavy ceramic mugs, their faces flushed from the heat. Behind the counter, perched on a round stool that squeaked with every shift of weight, sat Jax. He looked just like the man in the picture I had stared at every night before bed, even with the gray threading through his long dark beard and the complicated web of ink crawling up his thick neck.
He was nursing a black coffee, staring down at the speckled formica surface as if it held some kind of heavy secret. I stopped right beside his stool. My sneakers felt too big, sliding slightly on a spilled drop of soda. The noise of the diner seemed to recede into a dull, pulsing roar in my ears. I took a slow, deep breath, fighting the sudden dry tightness in my throat, and forced my voice to stay steady, remembering how many times I had practiced the words in the hallway of our cramped apartment.
"Jax…" I whispered.
May you like
The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the clatter of silverware and laughter around us. Jax didn't turn his head right away. His massive shoulders tightened beneath his worn leather vest, the leather creaking in the quiet space between us. Slowly, with a reluctance that seemed carved into his very bones, he tilted his chin and looked down. His eyes were dark, shadowed beneath heavy brows, sizing me up with the instinctive caution of a man who spent his life expecting trouble. When he saw my pale face, the messy light brown hair falling into my eyes, and the big hazel stare looking right back at him, something shifted behind his guarded expression—a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock that he tried to crush a second after it surfaced.
The waitress behind the counter, a kind-faced woman with short hair and a fading name tag pinned to her apron, paused mid-wipe with her rag. She looked from Jax’s frozen face down to me, her eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion and protective instinct. The heavy silence between Jax and me stretched out, thick and real, while the rest of the diner kept spinning around our small island of stillness.
