Chapter 4: Beyond the Highway
Jax slid off the red vinyl stool with a heavy, deliberate thud. At forty-eight, he moved with the economical grace of a man who had spent decades taking hits and dishing them out, but right now, every movement looked stiff, as if his joints had suddenly rusted up. The patch on the back of his vest—a skull wrapped in barbed wire—seemed suddenly heavy and out of place in the bright, fluorescent-lit diner.
"Come on," Jax said, not looking at Sarah or anyone else in the room. He tucked the folded paper securely into the breast pocket of his vest and scooped up the old faded photograph, slipping it carefully inside his leather jacket next to his heart.
"Jax, wait a minute," Sarah said, stepping around the counter and blocking his path toward the front door. "You can't just take the boy out of here without an explanation. Everyone in town knows his mother’s been sick. If you’re who I think you are—"
"You don't know who the hell I am, Sarah," Jax said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual rough bluster. It was quiet, dead serious. "And you don't know what happened twenty-eight years ago, or eight years ago either. Back off. I'm taking the kid outside where we can breathe."
I looked up at Jax, then back at Sarah. Her face softened, the suspicion turning into deep, worried concern. She reached out and touched my shoulder, her fingers warm and steady. "You okay, Leo?"
"I'm okay, Miss Sarah," I said, my voice small.
Jax didn't wait for Sarah to argue further. He gently placed a large, calloused hand on the back of my oversized jacket and guided me toward the glass front door. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully, a ridiculous sound compared to the heavy, suffocating silence that now hung between us. Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on the hot asphalt of Main Street. Dozens of motorcycles idled by the curb, their exhausts thrumming through the soles of my shoes, smelling of gasoline and hot oil.
May you like
We walked off the wooden porch and down the sidewalk toward the alley beside the hardware store, away from the roaring engines and the laughing crowds of bikers in fringe vests and tinted sunglasses. The shade between the brick walls offered instant relief from the glare, but the air smelled of damp earth and old iron.
Jax stopped beside a massive, matte-black chopper parked against the brick wall. He turned to face me, his bearded face tight with a conflict that made him look older than his forty-eight years.
