Chapter 2: The Alley Behind The Diner
The bell above the screen door jangled, a tinny sound that cut through the low hum of conversation at the back booths. Martha didn't try to stop us. She just wiped down the laminate counter with a damp rag, her gaze following our boots until the heavy wooden door swung shut behind us.
The afternoon heat hit us like a wall the second we stepped out into the alley behind the diner. Gravel crunched under Jax's heavy motorcycle boots as he walked toward the back of the building, his leather vest creaking with every long stride. I had to half-jog to keep up, my sneakers kicking up gray dust from the dry dirt path that ran alongside the Dumpsters.
He didn't stop until we reached the brick wall of the bakery next door, tucked away from the glare of the main street where the roar of Harley engines drowned out ordinary speech. Jax leaned his broad shoulders against the sun-baked brick, crossing his thick, tattooed arms over his chest. He looked down at me, his jaw working as if he were chewing on words he refused to spit out.
“Alright, kid,” Jax said, his voice gravelly and low, carrying that rough edge that usually made people back off. “Talk. And make it quick before I put you back on a bus.”
I didn't back off. I pulled the small folded piece of paper out of my jacket pocket. The edges were fuzzy and gray from being clutched in my hand through three different bus transfers and a twenty-mile walk down Route 9. I held it out toward him on the flat of my palm, just like I had held the photograph inside.
Jax stared at the paper for a long moment before his large, calloused fingers finally reached out. He took it from my hand, his knuckles brushing against my skin. His hands were steady now, or at least he was making damn sure they looked that way. With a slow, practiced motion, he unfolded the paper.
Inside was a single address written in faded blue ballpoint ink, alongside a date that was nearly eight years old—just three weeks before I was born.
Jax's eyes scanned the handwriting. I watched the muscle in his cheek jump once, twice. The tough, unbothered biker facade didn't shatter all at once; it cracked slowly, like dry lake bed under a midday sun.
“Where’d you get this?” Jax asked, his voice dropping an octave.
“She kept it in the tin box under the floorboards,” I answered, keeping my voice level, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped sparrow. “She said if I ever made it out of the trailer park, I should find the man with the crow tattooed on his forearm. She said you’d know what to do with the rest of it.”
Jax looked down at his left forearm, where the black ink of the bird's wing peeked out from beneath the frayed sleeve of his flannel shirt. He slowly closed his fist, crushing the paper just a fraction before catching himself and smoothing it back out with his thumb.
“Your mother’s name is Clara,” he said, more to the brick wall than to me. It wasn't a question.
“Yeah,” I said. “Clara.”
A heavy silence fell between us, filled only by the distant rumble of a semi-truck shifting gears out on the highway. Jax ran a hand over his short, dark beard, letting out a long, slow breath that smelled faintly of black coffee and menthol tobacco. He looked at me—really looked at me—taking in the faded canvas of my jacket, the scuffed toes of my sneakers, and the way I stood with my weight balanced evenly, just like he did.
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“The rally’s starting to clear out toward the fairgrounds,” Jax muttered, pushing himself off the brick wall. He reached down, grabbing my shoulder with a grip that was firm but surprisingly gentle. “Come on. We're getting off the street before Martha decides to play local sheriff.”
He turned and walked toward his bike parked at the end of the alley—a heavy, matte-black machine with chrome pipes that gleamed in the harsh sunlight. I didn't hesitate. I followed him right into the dust, knowing the door we had just opened couldn't ever be shut again.
