Chapter 2: The Garage Floor
The grease on the workshop floor smelled like old iron and burnt motor oil, a sharp, heavy scent that made the back of my throat itch. Outside, the gravel crunched under the heavy tread of Jax’s boots as he shoved the side door open with his shoulder, the rusted metal groaning against the frame.
He didn't invite me in, but he didn't lock me out either. He just walked over to a scarred wooden workbench piled with chrome parts and spark plugs, dropped his heavy leather vest onto a grease-stained stool, and stared at the concrete floor between his boots.
I stood by the threshold, clutching my jacket tight around my chest. The afternoon light cut through the high, grimy windows in pale, dusty shafts, illuminating the tiny dust motes dancing in the air between us.
“You shouldn't be here, kid,” Jax finally said. His voice was deeper up close, rough like gravel being dragged across asphalt. He didn't turn around. “This ain't a place for a kid. This ain't a place for anybody.”
“Mom’s gone,” I said.
The words hung in the quiet garage, flat and heavy. They didn't need any decoration.
Jax’s shoulders stiffened under his black t-shirt. He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his chest rising and falling beneath the faded cotton. He reached out, picked up a dirty rag, and began wiping grease off his right thumb, over and over, until the skin was raw and red.
“I heard,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the distant drone of highway traffic outside. “Down at the county line. Word travels fast when you stay in one town long enough.”
“She kept the picture in the drawer by the bed,” I said, taking two small steps forward into the dim light of the garage. “She didn't hate you. She just said you forgot the road back.”
Jax stopped wiping his hand. The rag dropped from his fingers, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. He turned slowly, his tall frame blocking out the light from the workbench. His face was a mask of restrained misery, every line around his eyes pulling tight as he looked down at me—at the pale skin, the messy light brown hair, the hazel eyes that looked straight back at him without blinking.
“You got her eyes,” he said, the words slipping out before he could bite them back.
I didn't answer. I reached into my jacket pocket again, my fingers trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was fading, and pulled out the small folded piece of lined notebook paper. I held it out toward him on the flat of my palm.
Jax didn't take it right away. He stared at the white paper against my small hand like it was something dangerous, something that could detonate if he touched it wrong. Finally, his large, calloused fingers reached out, taking the paper with infinite care.
He unfolded it slowly, smoothing the creases against his thigh. I watched his eyes track across my mother’s familiar cursive handwriting—the slanted loops, the steady pressure of a pen held by someone who knew she was running out of time.
If he won't look at you, look at him until he remembers, the note said.
May you like
Jax stared at those two lines for a long time. The harsh lines of his jaw softened, just a fraction, the hard biker exterior cracking open to reveal the scared, reckless boy he must have been twelve years ago when he walked away from a hospital room in the middle of the night.
“It's getting cold out there,” Jax said, his voice rougher now, though the edge was gone. He pointed a thumb toward the back corner of the garage, where an old cot with a faded army blanket sat beneath a shelf stacked with motorcycle manuals. “There’s a space heater behind the compressor. Plug it in.”
