Chapter 2: Shadows of the Past
The restaurant’s ambient noise seemed to recede into a distant hum as Leo climbed awkwardly onto the oversized chair. His scuffed sneakers dangled a few inches above the plush carpet. Officer Miller gave Jax a curt nod, tipping the brim of his hat before quietly stepping back toward the foyer, leaving the two of them alone in the spotlight of curious diners. The waitress lingered for a heartbeat longer, her eyes narrowing slightly at Jax as if warning him not to cause any trouble, before she finally turned away to fetch a glass of water.
Jax stared at the boy across the table. Up close, the resemblance was undeniable. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror that reflected a version of himself from thirty-eight years ago—the same stubborn chin, the identical slope of the nose, and that fierce, quiet intensity in the eyes. Jax reached into the breast pocket of his leather vest, his calloused fingers brushing against a worn leather wallet. He didn’t pull it out yet. Instead, he rested his heavy forearms on the white tablecloth, trying to steady his breathing.
“What’s your name, son?” Jax asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral, though a tremor betrayed the effort.
“Leo,” the boy replied softly, his hazel eyes never leaving the silver watch on Jax’s wrist. “My mom said if anything ever happened to her, and I couldn't find the shelter, I should look for the man who wore this watch. She said you were a brother to my father.”
Jax flinched. The word brother carried a mountain of unspoken history, guilt, and pain. Twenty years ago, the interstate highway had been their playground, and the motorcycle club had been their entire world. But roads diverged, choices turned into concrete walls, and people disappeared into the night. Jax had spent two decades believing he was the last survivor of that particular chapter of his life, a lone wolf wandering from town to town, working odd mechanic jobs to keep his past at bay.
Leo carefully placed the faded photograph flat on the pristine white tablecloth. The edges were soft and worn from decades of handling, but the image was still clear. It showed a younger, clean-shaven Jax with dark hair pulled back into a short ponytail, grinning broadly as he held an infant wrapped in a blue blanket. Standing beside them was a man with the exact same facial structure as the boy sitting right here.
Jax reached out with a trembling hand, his large, tattooed fingers tracing the edge of the photograph. A lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. He remembered that day vividly. It was the summer before everything fell apart, the day his best friend—his blood brother—became a father and asked Jax to be the godfather. Promises had been made under a neon sign outside a roadside diner, promises Jax had ultimately failed to keep when the heavy hand of the law and personal demons tore their small circle apart.
“Where is she, Leo?” Jax asked quietly, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “Where is your mother?”
May you like
Leo lowered his gaze, his small shoulders slumping slightly. He didn't cry, but a profound sadness settled over his features. He reached down and gripped the small, folded paper he had been holding all this time, turning it over and over in his palm.
***
