Chapter 3: The Cover
The silence between the boy and me stretched, heavy and suffocating, despite the surrounding chaos of the diner. On the photograph, the young face of the man I once was stared back with a foolish, cocky grin, completely unaware of the wreckage he was about to leave behind. My fingers began to tremble—just a slight, involuntary twitch in the scarred knuckles of my right hand. Slowly, almost magnetically, I reached out. Before the boy could say another word, I slapped my palm down hard over the photograph, completely covering it from view.
I forced my breathing to steady, squeezing my eyes shut for a brief second to beat back the rising panic. When I opened them, my face was a mask of calculated indifference. I dragged my hand back, scooping the photo up and sliding it hastily into the deep interior pocket of my leather vest.
"Kid, you've got the wrong guy," I muttered, my voice rough and gravelly, laced with an artificial harshness meant to scare him off. "Take your scrap of paper and get back to wherever you came from."
The boy didn't flinch, nor did he look intimidated by my gruff tone. He just watched me with those big, hopeful hazel eyes, unimpressed by my biker tough-guy act.
Behind the counter, Martha dropped her cleaning rag into the bucket with a wet slap. She stepped closer, wiping her hands on her apron, her gaze drilling straight through me. The casual warmth in her demeanor was entirely gone, replaced by the protective instinct of someone who had watched too many kids get hurt by men like the ones who drifted through during rally week.
"Jax..." Martha said quietly, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned across the counter. "What is that photo?"
May you like
I didn't answer her. I couldn't. If Martha started pulling at this thread, the whole sweater would unravel in front of fifty witnesses, local cops, and my own club brothers sitting in the booths behind us. I grabbed a crumpled five-dollar bill from my pocket, threw it onto the counter without waiting for change, and slid off my barstool.
"Stay out of this, Martha," I said under my breath, turning my back on the counter and walking briskly toward the side exit, praying to whatever gods were listening that the kid wasn't about to follow me out into the blinding afternoon sun.
