Chapter 12: The Gravel Road
The sun was dipping low behind the jagged peaks of the western hills, painting the desert sky in bruised shades of purple and orange as we roared down County Road 44. The restored panhead hummed beneath us, its twin pipes vibrating through the metal frame and right up into my spine as I clung tight to the small of Jax’s back, my face pressed against the warm leather of his jacket. The wind whipped past our ears, carrying the sharp scent of sagebrush and hot engine oil. We had put fifty miles behind us since leaving the compound, and the tension that had gripped Jax’s shoulders ever since he dropped his colors was finally beginning to ease into the rhythmic thrum of the machine.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic ping echoed from beneath the engine, followed instantly by a violent shudder that shook the entire frame of the motorcycle. Jax swore loudly beneath his breath, his hands tightening on the rubber grips as the rear tire fishtailed on a patch of loose gravel. My heart leaped into my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, my arms wrapping around his waist with all the strength my eight-year-old muscles could muster as the heavy bike swerved toward the dusty shoulder of the road.
Jax fought the handlebars with a lifetime of instinct, pumping the rear brake gently and feathering the clutch until the heavy machine slewed sideways in a cloud of white dust and came to a grinding, shuddering halt just inches from a deep drainage ditch. The engine sputtered once, coughed a plume of black smoke from the exhaust pipe, and died completely, leaving us in a sudden, ringing silence that was broken only by the ticking of the cooling exhaust pipes.
“You alright, kid?” Jax asked instantly, his voice sharp with adrenaline as he kicked the kickstand down and swung his leg over the saddle. He reached back, his strong hands lifting me off the passenger seat and setting me down safely on the packed dirt of the roadside before I could even catch my breath. He knelt down on one knee in the dirt, his dark beard catching the last orange rays of sunlight as he reached under the chassis to inspect the damage.
I wiped a streak of gray dust from my forehead with the sleeve of my old jacket and peered down over his shoulder. The rusted primary chain guard had shaken loose on the washboard gravel, and the chain had jumped the sprocket, chewing a nasty groove into the aluminum housing. There was no way we were riding another foot until that housing was bolted back down and the chain was reseated with a breaker tool we didn't currently own.
“Can we fix it?” I asked quietly, my voice small in the vast, empty desert evening.
Jax looked up at me, the worry lines around his eyes softening into a tired, crooked smile. He reached out and ruffled my messy light brown hair, his calloused palm warm against my scalp. “Fix it? Kid, I built this engine out of three different junkers in a trailer park before you were even a gleam in anybody’s eye. A snapped chain guard isn't going to strand us out here with the coyotes.”
He stood up, brushing the red desert dirt from the knees of his jeans, and pulled a heavy canvas tool roll out from the leather saddlebag along with a battered metal flashlight. The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the highway into sudden, cool twilight, and the first pale stars began to prick through the indigo sky above us. There were no houses for miles, no glowing neon diner signs, no paved parking lots—just the open road, the wide desert sky, and the two of us standing beside a broken machine.
Instead of panicking or cursing the bad luck, Jax pulled a checkered wool blanket out from under the bungees and spread it out on the dry earth right beside the bike. He pulled a couple of foil-wrapped sandwiches and a canteen of lukewarm water from his pack, handing half my dinner to me before sitting down cross-legged on the blanket.
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“Eat up, Leo,” Jax said, taking a long pull from the canteen and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’re camping right here tonight. Tomorrow morning, when the sun comes up over that ridge, we’ll patch this old girl up and finish the ride home.”
I sat down beside him, chewing the dry turkey sandwich as the desert wind began to cool the air around us. For the first time in my life, sitting out under a billion glittering stars with a man who was once a stranger, I didn't feel scared or lost or unwanted. I looked up at the Milky Road stretching like a white ribbon across the dark sky, and then down at the old faded photo I still kept tucked safely in my breast pocket. The man in the picture—the tough biker holding a tiny baby twenty years ago—wasn't a ghost anymore. He was sitting right beside me in the dirt, sharing his water, smelling of motor oil and tobacco, and telling me stories about the highway until my eyes grew heavy and I fell fast asleep against his shoulder.
