Chapter 6: The Trailer Hideout
Martha’s eyes narrowed as she let the heavy metal trash bag drop against the damp asphalt of the alleyway. Her sharp gaze flicked from my face down to eight-year-old Leo, who instinctively took a half-step closer to my worn leather vest. The afternoon heat was beginning to bake the stale scent of grease and old exhaust from the diner parking lot, making the air heavy and hard to breathe. I didn't want Martha asking questions she had no business answering, and I certainly didn't want the rest of the club catching wind of a kid standing behind the kitchen doors.
"Everything alright back here, Jax?" Martha asked, her voice dropping into that familiar tone of protective small-town suspicion. She wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes lingering on the way Leo clutched the edge of my jacket with his small, pale fingers.
"Just answering a kid's question, Martha," I said, keeping my voice flat and controlled, masking the sudden racing of my pulse. "He got separated from his uncle down by the main stage. I'm helping him find his way back to the crowd."
Martha didn't look convinced, but the heavy clatter of plates from inside the diner kitchen pulled her attention away. She gave me one last hard look, shook her head, and stepped back inside, letting the screen door slam shut behind her. I let out a slow breath I hadn't realized I was holding, looking down at the boy whose hazel eyes mirrored my own restless past.
"Come on, Leo," I murmured, my hand resting awkwardly on his messy light brown hair for a fraction of a second before pulling back. "We can't stay out here in the open."
I led him past the line of rumbling choppers parked along the curb, weaving through the thick crowd of leather-clad riders and weekend tourists until we reached the far corner of the gravel lot. Tucked away behind an overgrown patch of cedar trees sat my old, beat-up travel trailer—a rusted box of aluminum that had served as my home for the past five years. It wasn't much, just a place to sleep off the noise of the highway, but it had a sturdy deadbolt and four walls that kept the rest of the world at a safe distance.
I unlocked the side door, pushing it open to let out the trapped heat before gesturing for Leo to climb inside. The interior smelled of old coffee, machine oil, and the pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror I'd salvaged from an old Chevy truck. Leo stepped over the threshold cautiously, his big eyes scanning the narrow kitchenette, the unmade cot, and the small workbench crowded with greasy motorcycle parts and scattered tools.
"Sit wherever you want, kid," I said, pulling the door shut and sliding the bolt into place. The sudden quiet inside the trailer felt heavy, almost suffocating, as the distant roar of motorcycle engines faded to a dull, constant hum.
Leo sat down on the edge of the narrow cot, his scuffed sneakers dangling just above the linoleum floor. He didn't touch anything, but his gaze drifted toward the small wooden crate I used as a nightstand. Resting right on top of it was a heavy silver ring with a worn-down eagle stamp—the exact same ring I used to wear every single day back when I lived down in Ohio.
Leo reached out, his small finger tracing the edge of the metal before looking up at me with an expression that felt far too serious for an eight-year-old. "My mom had one just like that," he whispered. "She kept it in a velvet box in her dresser, right next to the photograph."
My chest tightened. That ring wasn't something you bought in a souvenir shop; I had carved it myself with a pocketknife during a long, freezing winter in 2012, before everything fell apart. The realization hit me with the force of a freight train—this wasn't just some stray kid with an old picture. He belonged to my history, a piece of a life I had walked away from under the dark cover of night, convinced I was doing everyone a favor by leaving them behind.
"Where is she now, Leo?" I asked, my voice dropping to a rough gravel whisper as I knelt down in front of him so our eyes were level.
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Leo lowered his gaze to his lap, his small hands clenching into tight little fists against the fabric of his old jacket. "She's at the county hospital in Fairview," he said softly, the fight suddenly draining out of his voice. "The doctors said she’s not getting any better. That’s why I took the bus. She told me if I ever needed someone to help me, I should find the man in the photograph."
The silence in the trailer stretched out, heavy and absolute. I looked at his pale face, seeing the unmistakable exhaustion etched into his features, and knew right then that my days of running from my past were officially over.
