Chapter 3: The Garage Apartment
Jax’s place wasn't much to look at from the outside—a converted metal garage behind an auto body shop on the ragged edge of town, surrounded by rusted oil drums and spare tires piled five high. But inside, it smelled like motor oil, cedar shavings, and old paper. A narrow iron cot sat in the corner beneath a slanted window, and a single halogen lamp cast a yellow pool of light over a workbench covered in carburetor parts and socket wrenches.
“Sit,” Jax said, tossing his leather vest over the back of a scarred wooden stool. He didn't offer me a drink or ask if I was hungry, but he pulled a crate of tools away from a folding chair so I had somewhere proper to sit.
I sat down, keeping my hands folded in my lap, my eyes scanning the room. There were no pictures on the walls, no sign that anyone else had ever lived here. Just tools, a small hot plate, and a stack of greasy motorcycle magazines piled neatly by the sink.
Before I could ask where I was supposed to sleep, heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel outside. Three sharp raps sounded against the corrugated metal door, followed immediately by the squeak of the hinges pushing open.
Martha stepped into the dim light of the garage, holding a white paper takeout box in one hand and a small paper cup of coffee in the other. She looked around the space with a critical eye before fixing her gaze entirely on Jax, who was leaning against his workbench with his arms crossed over his chest again.
“I figured you’d need backup, Jackson,” Martha said, her voice dry as she closed the door behind her. She walked right past me, setting the box down on the workbench next to a disassembled spark plug. “A kid walks out of nowhere with a face that looks like a photocopy of yours from twenty years back, and you just walk him out the back door like stray livestock.”
Jax didn't move. His jaw tightened. “This isn't your concern, Martha.”
“Everything in this town is my concern, and you know it,” she snapped back, though there was no real heat in her tone—only a weary, hard-earned familiarity. She turned her attention to me, her sharp eyes softening just a fraction at the edges. “You want some pie, kid? Cherry. Fresh out of the oven.”
“No, thank you, ma'am,” I said quietly.
Martha nodded once, satisfied with the politeness, then looked back at Jax. “Clara Miller. That who you're thinking about?”
Jax flinched, the movement so slight that only someone who knew him well would have caught it. “Drop it, Martha.”
“She was a good girl before everything went sideways,” Martha continued, ignoring his warning as she leaned against the edge of the workbench. “Quiet. Worked the register at the diner down in Oakhaven before the copper mine shut down. Then she just vanished one night. Everyone figured she went west.”
“She didn't go west,” Jax said, his voice dropping low, cutting through the space between them like a knife. “She stayed put where the rent was cheap and the air was bad. Until she couldn't anymore.”
Martha let out a long breath, her eyes shifting from Jax to me and back again. She reached out and patted Jax’s forearm—a brief, grounding gesture that he didn't pull away from.
“You can’t hide out in this garage forever, Jackson. The past has a way of catching up, especially when it wears sneakers and carries your old photographs.” She turned toward the door, pausing with her hand on the latch. “I’ll leave the box on the counter. If you need anything else—real food, or some decent blankets—you know where to find me.”
The door clicked shut, leaving us alone in the yellow glow of the halogen lamp.
Jax stood in silence for a long time, staring at the closed metal door. Then he turned off the lamp over the workbench, plunging half the room into shadow. He walked over to the iron cot, picked up a spare gray wool blanket, and tossed it across the room toward my chair.
May you like
“Hit the cot, kid,” Jax said, turning his back as he reached for a wrench. “Tomorrow morning, we’re taking a ride.”
I caught the blanket, wrapped it around my shoulders, and lay down on the narrow mattress. Clutching the faded photograph in my hand, I watched the shadows of the motorcycle parts stretch across the corrugated ceiling until sleep finally pulled me under.
