Chapter 6: The Long Ride North
The roar of the Harley-Davidson twin-cylinder engine echoed off the weathered clapboard walls of the diner as Jax kicked the kickstand up with the heel of his boot. I stood by the curb, clutching my old jacket against the evening chill, watching the way his scarred hands adjusted the leather straps of a spare helmet. He didn't offer any hollow reassurances or cheap smiles. Instead, he simply walked over, knelt down on one knee so we were at eye level, and held out the helmet. It smelled faintly of aged leather, machine oil, and tobacco—a scent that would soon become entirely familiar.
"Hold onto my belt loops, Leo," Jax said, his voice dropping below the throaty rumble of the idling motor. "Not the vest, and don't wrap your arms around my throat. We've got a forty-minute stretch of county highway before we hit your town. You cold?"
I shook my head, my fingers tracing the scuffed plastic of the visor. "I'm okay."
"Good," he murmured, his gaze lingering on my face for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if searching for some hidden resemblance in the hollows of my cheeks. "If you need to stop, or if the wind's too hard, tap my left shoulder twice. Understood?"
I nodded and let him help me buckle the chin strap, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they worked the nylon clasp. When I swung my leg over the heavy passenger seat, the bike settled down under our combined weight. I reached out and gripped the thick leather of his belt loops, my knuckles whitening against the canvas. Jax eased the clutch out, and we pulled away from the gravel lot, leaving the warm yellow lights of the diner behind us as we merged onto the dark, winding ribbon of Route 9.
May you like
The night air rushed past us, biting at my face through the open visor, but the sheer power vibrating through the steel frame beneath me pushed all the cold away. For the first time in my life, I wasn't walking alone down the shoulder of the road or waiting in the shadows of a silent porch. I was riding behind a man who wore his history like armor, heading toward a reckoning that had been twenty years in the making.
Headlights cut through the deepening dusk, casting long, wavering shadows across the asphalt. Jax rode with a practiced, effortless precision, his body leaning into the curves with a fluid grace that spoke of a thousand miles spent running from the very ghosts we were now going back to face.
