Chapter 10: Confronting the Road Captain
We didn't take the main path back down to the bikes. Instead, Jax led me through a narrow deer trail that cut straight through the dense cedar thicket behind the garage, shaving nearly half a mile off the walk to the lower ridge. The ground was soft and damp here, carpeted with thick moss that muffled our footsteps entirely. I kept my hands shoved deep into my pockets to keep them warm against the evening chill that was starting to roll down off the mountaintops, my heart beating a little faster with every step we took toward the trailer.
When we finally broke through the tree line near the lower edge of the ridge, the sight waiting for us on the gravel pull-off made Jax stop dead in his tracks.
Parked right beside his custom cruiser was a massive black touring motorcycle with high ape-hanger handlebars and chrome saddlebags stamped with the road captain's insignia. Leaning against the side of Jax's bike was Miller, the red-mustached rider from earlier, smoking a filtered cigarette and tossing a small brass wrench up into the air and catching it again with one hand. Two other club members stood nearby, their arms crossed over their leather vests, blocking the narrow path that led down the final slope toward Mom's trailer.
"Thought you might need some help finding your way back to the formation, brother," Miller called out, pushing himself off the fender of the cruiser as we stepped out of the brush. His eyes flicked from Jax's stony face down to me, a slow, mocking grin spreading across his scarred cheek. "The president's holding a meeting at the clubhouse in twenty minutes. He wants an explanation for why our road captain is playing babysitter out in the sticks."
Jax didn't break his stride. He walked straight toward Miller, his shoulders squared and his chin held high, radiating a quiet, dangerous intensity that made the other two bikers shift uneasily on their boots.
"Tell the president I'm resigning my patch effective immediately," Jax said, his voice completely level and cold as ice.
Miller stopped tossing the wrench, catching it tightly in his fist. His grin vanished, replaced by a sharp, suspicious scowl. "You're what? You've been riding with this charter for twelve years, Jax. You can't just throw down your colors over some stray kid you found eating pie at a truck stop."
"Watch your mouth, Miller," Jax growled, stepping right up until he was towering just inches away from the other man's face. The air between them felt like it could catch fire at any second. "I said the ride is over. Get off my bike, and get off this ridge before I make you walk back to the highway."
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Miller stared hard into Jax's eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation or bluff. Finding none, he slowly lowered the wrench, spat his cigarette into the dirt, and gave a sharp, disgusted shake of his head before swinging his leg over his own chopper.
"You're making a big mistake, old man," Miller muttered, firing up his engine with a deafening roar that shook the dry leaves off the surrounding bushes. "The club doesn't forget people who walk away."
