Chapter 2: Cold Engines, Hot Blood**
The heavy oak door of the diner swung open with a violent rattle, letting in the sharp autumn draft and the predatory growl of three idling Harley-Davidsons. Two men stepped inside, their leather cuts bearing the menacing emblem of the Dead Skulls Motorcycle Club—a territory Jax had ridden through without permission.
Clara’s posture stiffened instantly. She slid her hand beneath the counter, fingers brushing the grip of a shortened double-barrel twelve-gauge. "Closing time, boys," she announced with flat Midwestern authority.
The larger biker, a bear of a man named Mack, ignored her. His eyes locked onto Jax’s back. "Heard a stray dog from the Nevada border was sitting at our trough," Mack sneered, running a thumb over the brass knuckles hanging from his belt loop. "You owe the chapter two thousand in road tax, Jax. And you're three days late leaving county lines."
Jax didn't turn around. Slowly, deliberately, he folded the delicate letter and slid it into the inside pocket of his weathered leather vest, right against his ribcage. With his other hand, he gently pressed down on Toby’s shoulder, guiding the small boy down behind the swivel stool.
"Take the boy to the kitchen, Clara," Jax muttered.
"I ain't running from these vultures," Clara snapped back, though she reached over and grabbed Toby’s small wrist, pulling him gently behind the swinging aluminum doors of the prep kitchen.
"You got business with me, Mack, we settle it outside," Jax said, finally rising to his full six-foot-three frame. His broad shoulders blocked the light, casting a long shadow across the diner floor. "Don't bring your noise around the boy."
May you like
Mack laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Didn't know you had a family, old man. Makes things expensive."
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