Chapter 4: Dawn At The Garage
The amber glow of the space heater had burned itself out sometime before dawn, leaving the air in the garage thick with the chill of an early spring morning. I woke up stiff, my bones aching from the hard wooden pallet Jax had rigged together with a spare piece of plywood and an old mechanic’s pad. For a second, I didn't know where I was. The smell of motor oil and stale cigarette smoke filled my nose, and the corrugated metal walls loomed gray and unfamiliar in the predawn light. Then I heard the low, heavy idle of a motorcycle engine rumbling out on the gravel road, and everything came rushing back.
Across the room, sitting on an overturned plastic milk crate with his elbows braced on his knees, Jax was wide awake. He hadn't changed out of his leather vest, though he had pulled a thick wool-lined flannel shirt over his arms. His long dark hair was tied back in a loose knot, and his deep-set eyes were fixed on the crack beneath the heavy roll-up door. The rumble of the engine grew louder, vibrating through the concrete floor, right before twin beams of high-beam headlights swept across the grimy windowpanes, painting long, distorted shadows across the stacked tires and engine blocks.
“Stay behind the parts locker,” Jax said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that brooked no argument. He didn't look at me as he spoke; his gaze remained locked on the entrance. “Don't make a sound. If you sneeze, or drop a wrench, you stay quiet. Understand?”
I nodded, scrambling backward on my hands and knees until I was wedged neatly in the narrow gap between a heavy steel parts cabinet and a stack of discarded truck rims. It was dark back here, smelling of old rubber and greasy metal, but through the gap in the wire mesh of the cabinet, I had a clear view of the front workspace.
The heavy door rattled on its tracks with a screech of dry steel. A pair of heavy boots stepped over the threshold, kicking a spray of loose gravel across the concrete floor.
“Jax,” a voice called out—rough, carrying the lazy arrogance of a man who owned the county roads. “You’re up early for a Tuesday. Thought you’d be sleeping off that third round at the tavern.”
Vince stepped into the pale morning light. He was road captain for the club, a bulky man with a shaved head, a thick blond mustache, and faded tribal ink crawling up his thick neck. He wore a heavy leather cut with the club patches sewn heavy on the back, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets as he strolled through the garage like he owned the square footage. His eyes swept the perimeter, sharp and suspicious, taking in the empty coffee cups and the extra jacket tossed over the workbench.
Jax didn't stand up right away. He slowly picked up a greasy rag from his knee, wiping down an already spotless socket wrench with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
“Got work to finish before the highway patrol starts running speed checks through the pass,” Jax said, his tone flat, refusing to match Vince’s casual swagger. “What do you want, Vince? We don’t ride till Friday.”
“Just checking the roster,” Vince said, his boots clicking heavily against the concrete as he walked closer to the workbench. He stopped right beside the milk crate where Jax sat, looking down with a half-smile. “And checking on you. Word down at the diner is you had a shadow trailing you yesterday. Some kid with hazel eyes and an old leather jacket. Looked a bit too much like the ghosts you swore you buried years ago.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a loud, frantic drumbeat that I was certain Vince could hear across the quiet room. I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting the copper tang of iron.
Jax’s hand didn't tremble. He set the wrench down on the metal table with a dull, heavy clink.
“People in this town talk too much when they've got nothing better to do,” Jax said slowly, his voice dropping into a register that made the air in the room feel three degrees colder. “If I wanted a crowd, Vince, I’d buy a ticket to the county fair. If you came out here just to gossip, you picked the wrong morning.”
Vince chuckled, but there was no warmth in it—just a flat, calculating edge. He reached out, his thick fingers drumming twice on the edge of the workbench, right beside the hidden pocket where Jax had tucked my birth certificate the night before.
“Just making sure you’re still squared away with the brotherhood, brother,” Vince said, leaning in just a fraction. “The president doesn't like loose ends. And a man with old ties coming out of the woodwork... well, that’s the kind of loose end that ruins a club’s reputation. You know how it is. We protect our own, but we don’t carry dead weight.”
“I’m carrying my own weight,” Jax said, standing up suddenly. He towered over Vince by half a head, his broad shoulders filling the space between the shelves. The raw, menacing physical presence that had kept him safe in county lockups and highway brawls rolled off him in a palpable wave. “Now check your oil and get out of my shop before I help you find the door.”
Vince held Jax’s gaze for three long, agonizing seconds. A muscle twitched in the road captain’s jaw, testing the boundary between warning and open defiance. Then, slowly, Vince let out a dry breath and stepped back, shaking his head.
“Take it easy, man. Just looking out for you,” Vince muttered, turning on his heel and heading back toward the rolling door. He threw one final, lingering glance around the shadowy corners of the garage—his eyes sweeping within six feet of my hiding spot—before stepping out into the pale morning sun.
The heavy door slammed shut behind him with a crash that rattled the glass in the front office.
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Inside the garage, the silence rushed back in like water filling a hole. I waited in the dark, my breath coming in shallow, careful hitches, until I heard Jax’s heavy boots moving across the floor toward the back of the shop.
“He’s gone,” Jax said softly, his hand appearing in the gap between the cabinet and the tire stack, pulling the metal door open just enough to let the gray light in. “Come on, Leo. We’re moving before he decides to circle back.”
