Chapter 1: The Boy at the Counter
The roar of twin-cylinder engines vibrated right through the floorboards of the Blue Ridge Diner, shaking the cheap ketchup bottles and rattling the metal napkin holders. Outside, chrome caught the glaring afternoon sun as dozens of motorcycles idled in the packed gravel lot for the annual summer rally. Inside, the air smelled thick of stale grease, black coffee, and unwashed denim. I sat alone at the sticky vinyl counter, staring down into my mug, trying my best to become invisible beneath my heavy leather vest and the thick gray beard that hid half my face. Forty-eight years of hard miles had taught me one simple rule: if you don’t look at people, people don’t look at you.
Then the lightweight scuff of worn sneakers hit the linoleum right beside my stool. I didn’t look up immediately, assuming it was just another local kid trying to get a peek at the bikes outside. But the breathing beside me was too quiet, too deliberate. I turned my head just an inch. Standing there was an eight-year-old boy. He had pale skin, messy light brown hair falling across his forehead, and big hazel eyes that looked entirely too old for his small frame. He wore an oversized, frayed jacket with sleeves rolled up past his wrists, and his scuffed sneakers were laced with mismatched string. He didn’t fidget or look around at the noisy crowd of bikers laughing in the booths. He kept his steady gaze locked right on me.
My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, feeling the old scar on my neck pull taut. The boy’s fingers were clutching something tightly against his chest, crumpled at the edges. When he finally opened his mouth, his voice was barely a whisper above the diner's din, yet it cut through the room like a razor blade.
May you like
"Jax..." he said softly.
The single syllable hit me like a physical blow. Nobody in this county had called me by that name in over a decade. I had buried that identity under dust, engine oil, and miles of empty highway. My hand froze halfway to my coffee cup, my knuckles white against the ceramic. The kid didn't flinch. He just stood there, unblinking, holding his ground amidst the leather and tattoos, a ghost stepping straight out of a life I thought I had successfully burned to the ground years ago.
