Chapter 6: The Garage Apartment
The rusted metal staircase rattled under their boots as Jax led Leo up to the second-floor loft above ‘Rusty’s Custom Cycles,’ a sprawling, grease-stained repair shop on the gritty industrial outskirts of town. The owner, an old friend named Hank who walked with a permanent limp and smelled perpetually of WD-40, had agreed to let Jax use the tiny, disused loft space attached to the back of the building. It wasn’t much—a single room with a lumpy cot, a scarred wooden table, a small hot plate, and a tiny bathroom with a stubborn plumbing leak—but it had four solid walls and a locked door, which met the absolute minimum requirements Sarah Vance had demanded.
Leo dropped Jax’s heavy leather vest onto the single wooden chair, his hazel eyes scanning the industrial clutter of the room. Exposed brick walls flanked the small space, and a single window looked out over a gravel alleyway lit by a flickering sodium streetlight. Despite its rough appearance, the room was remarkably clean, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and old wood.
“It’s not a fancy restaurant, partner,” Jax said, walking over to flick on the single overhead bulb hanging from a frayed cord. “And the plumbing makes a weird whistling sound around midnight, but it’s ours for as long as we need it.”
Leo didn’t complain. He walked over to the narrow cot, ran his hand across the faded woolen blanket, and sat down softly. His scuffed sneakers barely brushed the floorboards. He pulled the small, folded paper out of his jacket pocket again, smoothing it flat against his knee before looking up at Jax, who was rummaging through a small mini-fridge near the hot plate.
“Mom said we used to live in a real house,” Leo said quietly, his voice carrying a tinge of distant memory. “Before we started moving all the time. She had a little garden with yellow flowers.”
Jax stopped rummaging, a bottle of water in his hand. His jaw tightened as old memories clawed their way to the surface of his mind. He remembered that house. He had helped his best friend pour the concrete foundation for the front porch back when they were young and foolishly believed the world would bend to their will. That was before the accidents, before the debts, before the club dissolved into a chaotic mess of broken friendships and scattered lives.
“We’ll find a place with a garden, Leo,” Jax promised, his voice low, firm, and entirely devoid of hesitation. “I mean it. Once I get this repair shop gig locked down full-time and talk to Ms. Vance about the legal guardianship paperwork, we’re getting out of this industrial district. You deserve a yard to kick a ball around in, not an alleyway.”
Leo offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. He wasn't used to hearing promises that actually felt real. Most of the adults in his transient life had spoken in vague, shifting terms about tomorrow, tomorrow never quite arriving. But there was something immovable about Jax—like the heavy iron engine blocks he spent all day wrenching apart.
A heavy knock echoed on the exterior metal door downstairs, followed by Hank’s gravelly voice shouting up the stairwell. “Jax! You’ve got a visitor down here! And she doesn’t look like she’s here to buy spark plugs!”
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Jax exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Leo. He wiped his hands on a clean rag tucked into his back pocket and walked briskly toward the top of the stairs, peering down into the dimly lit cavern of the motorcycle repair shop. Standing amidst the rows of dismantled bikes and dangling tools was Sarah Vance, looking remarkably out of place in her tailored suit, holding a thick clipboard against her chest.
***
