Chapter 4: The Park Bench
The green wooden park bench was cold against the back of my legs, even through the worn fabric of my jacket. Across the wide asphalt street, the neon sign of the diner flickered in the graying afternoon light, buzzing with an electric whine that cut through the chirping of late-day sparrows. I turned the heavy brass motel key over and over in my palm, feeling the deep-stamped numbers bite into my skin: Room 14.
The minutes crawled by like hours. Every time a motorcycle engine roared to life down by the gas station, my head snapped around, searching through the drifting exhaust fumes for the familiar silhouette of the heavy-set biker with the long dark hair and beard. My fingers curled around the small folded paper still hidden safely inside my inner pocket, right next to my heart. My mom had made me promise not to give that paper to anyone except the man in the photograph, and only after he proved he remembered.
Footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path behind the bench. I didn't turn around right away, but the heavy scent of motor oil, leather, and cedarwood told me everything I needed to know long before a massive shadow fell across my lap.
Jax sat down on the other end of the bench. The old wood groaned under his weight, tilting slightly toward him. He didn't look at me; instead, he rested his forearms on his knees, staring out across the dry grass toward the empty swing set. Up close, without the diner lights and the noise of the crowd, he looked older—the lines around his eyes ran deeper, carved by years of hard nights and bad choices.
"She still living in that place off the interstate?" Jax asked, his voice low and flat, stripped of the gruff performance he put on inside the diner.
"We live behind the laundromat," I corrected him quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the tip of my scuffed sneaker. "The roof leaks when it rains hard. Mom puts pots out in the hallway so the landlord doesn't yell."
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Jax let out a long, slow breath that turned into a faint white cloud in the cooling air. He reached up, running a thick, scarred hand down through his dark beard, his fingers catching briefly on a silver ring woven into the hair near his chin. "She shouldn't be there. I left enough behind so she wouldn't have to scrape by in places like that."
"She didn't take your money," I said, turning my head to look straight into his dark, tired eyes. "Mom said your money came with chains. She said she'd rather scrub floors until her hands bleed than take a dime from a ghost who walked out before I drew my first breath."
