Chapter 8: The President's Demand
The wooden floorboards of the salvage yard office groaned under the heavy tread of Vance’s heavy leather boots. It had been three days since Sarah’s quiet passing, three days since Jax had crossed an invisible line in the dirt and committed himself to keeping a promise made over a dying woman's bed. The winter air outside was bitter, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and freezing grease, but inside the cramped trailer that served as the Iron Reapers' makeshift headquarters, the atmosphere was suffocatingly hot. Vance, the club president, sat behind a scarred metal desk, a lit cigarette burning low between stained fingers. He didn't look up immediately as Jax stepped inside, letting the silence stretch thin and sharp.
"Word travels fast on these back roads, brother," Vance said finally, his voice a dry rasp that sounded like gravel grinding under tires. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of blue smoke toward the ceiling fan that hadn't spun in years. "People are saying you've got a stray kid living in your kitchen. People are saying you spent good club money on a funeral instead of the quarterly ledger. That ain't how we operate."
Jax didn't flinch. He stood tall in the center of the room, his worn leather vest unzipped, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. His face was a mask of cold granite, hardened by years of surviving the brutal hierarchy of the club, but his eyes were entirely devoid of their old reckless spark.
"The boy stays," Jax said, his voice level, carrying a quiet gravity that made Vance narrow his eyes. "He’s mine. Sarah’s gone. There’s nowhere else for him to go."
"He’s a liability," Vance barked, slamming his palm flat against the desk so the empty beer bottles rattled. "We got shipments coming down from the state line next weekend. We got heat from the county sheriff because of that salvage yard raid last month. We don't need a crying eight-year-old sitting in the corner messing up our operations. You knew the rules when you put on those colors, Jax. The club comes first. Always."
"I carried this patch for fifteen years, Vance," Jax replied, stepping closer until the edge of his boots touched the toes of the president's boots. "I took every risk, I bled on every highway you pointed me toward, and I never asked for a damn dime outside my cut. But the boy stays. That ain't negotiable."
Vance slowly leaned back in his chair, a cold, predatory smile cutting across his weathered face. He looked at Jax not with anger, but with the chilling calculation of a commander assessing a defecting soldier. "You think you can play family man and wear the Reaper patch at the same time? Let me tell you how this works, Jax. You got until Sunday to drop the kid off at county services. You don't, and you hand over your cut at the clubhouse gates. You're out. And out in this life means you ain't got a brother left in this state to watch your back."
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Jax held Vance’s gaze for three long, agonizing seconds. The choice was laid out bare between them—the violent brotherhood that had defined his identity since he was a teenager, or the terrified, hazel-eyed boy waiting for him in the drafty house down the road. Without a single word of hesitation, Jax unbuckled his heavy leather knife sheath from his belt and dropped it with a dull, heavy thud onto the center of Vance’s desk.
"Keep the cut," Jax said coldly, turning his back on the desk. "I'm done riding."
