Chapter 6: The Iron Gate
The gravel under my scuffed sneakers crunched loud in the quiet air as I walked up the long drive toward the old auto body shop. A heavy chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the property, and a pair of rusted iron gates stood half-open like an unblinking eye. Inside the fenced yard, several heavy motorcycles gleamed under the gray afternoon light, their chrome pipes catching the dull reflection of the sky. A couple of men in leather vests stood near the open bay doors, talking in low, rumbling tones. They stopped talking the moment they saw me step off the cracked asphalt of the highway and onto their property.
I kept my hands buried deep inside the pockets of my old jacket, my fingers curling around the photocopied birth registry and the original faded photograph. My heart thudded against my ribs, a sharp reminder of the danger, but the hard cardstock in my pocket kept the panic at bay. I walked with a steady, deliberate pace, refusing to look down at the dirt or show any sign of retreat. One of the men, a broad-shouldered biker with a graying beard and a scar across his left cheek, pushed himself off the hood of a parked pickup truck and stepped directly into my path.
"Private property, kid," the man said, his voice deep and gravelly, carrying the weight of a warning. "You took a wrong turn about a mile back. Highway's that way."
I didn't flinch. I stopped a few feet away from him, lifting my chin so he could see my eyes. "I'm looking for Jax," I said, my voice clear and steady in the open space.
The biker narrowed his eyes, looking me up and down, taking in the scuffed sneakers, the frayed cuffs of my jacket, and the small, stubborn set of my jaw. A murmur went up from the other men near the bay doors. Heavy footsteps approached from the shadows of the garage interior, and then Jax stepped out into the pale daylight. He looked older without the diner's dim lighting, the harsh lines around his eyes carved deep into his tanned skin. He froze when he saw me standing there in the middle of his club's yard.
Jax held up a hand to stop the bearded man from stepping closer. He walked slowly toward the gate, his boots heavy on the packed earth, his face a mask of hardened detachment. But I saw the slight twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into a fist against the seam of his leather vest. He stopped just a couple of feet away from me, looking down with a mixture of disbelief and guarded anger.
"I told you to stay away from the diner, kid," Jax said quietly, his voice pitched low so the other men wouldn't catch every word.
May you like
"And I told you I wasn't going anywhere," I replied, pulling the folded birth registry out of my pocket and holding it out toward him. "You can't hide behind these gates forever. My name is Leo, and your signature is right here on this paper."
Jax stared at the folded paper in my hand, his breath catching in his throat. For a second, the tough exterior cracked wide open, revealing the vulnerable, frightened man hiding beneath the leather and tattoos. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, charged with years of unspoken regret and buried history.
