Chapter 3: The Call of the Past
Before Jax could pull his hand back, he moved with sudden, practiced speed. With a flat palm, he slammed his hand straight down over the old photograph, covering it entirely from view. The sudden motion made the waitress flinch backward, her hands flying up to grip the edge of the counter. Jax forced his face into a mask of stone, turning his head sharply toward the front windows where the afternoon sunlight beat down on the rows of parked motorcycles.
"You shouldn't be here, kid," Jax muttered, his voice sounding like gravel grinding under a heavy tire. It wasn't angry, but it was hollow, filled with a quiet exhaustion that didn't match the tough biker image sitting out on the boulevard.
"I had to come," I said, refusing to shrink back, even though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Mom doesn't have the rent for next month. And she said you were the only one who would understand why the paper matters."
Jax’s jaw worked, muscles ticking furiously beneath his thick dark beard. He slowly lifted his palm, exposing the curled edges of the photograph again, and then dragged the picture toward himself, pulling it into the shadows beneath the rim of the counter where the waitress couldn't see it clearly anymore. He didn't put it in his pocket; he just held it between his thumb and forefinger, staring down at it as if reading invisible words written on the back.
The waitress crossed her arms, her eyes fixed on Jax with unyielding skepticism. "You know this boy, Jax? Because if this is some kind of trouble following you from the coast, we don't need it in this town. You know how the sheriff gets when outsiders bring their business here."
"Back off, Martha," Jax said softly, without raising his voice, but there was an absolute finality in the tone that made the waitress press her lips into a thin line and step away toward the kitchen doors.
May you like
When Martha was out of earshot, Jax turned his head back to me. His dark eyes weren't cold anymore; they were heavy, carrying a weariness that seemed to pull him down into his stool. He reached into the inner pocket of his vest and pulled out a worn leather biker wallet, flipping it open with one hand while keeping the photo trapped under his thumb. He didn't offer me money, and he didn't offer to buy me a soda. Instead, he slid a heavy brass token across the counter—a local motel key with a room number stamped into the metal.
"Take that. Go sit on the bench by the park across the street," Jax murmured, his gaze dropping back to the picture. "Wait twenty minutes. Don't talk to nobody. I'll meet you by the vending machines."
