Chapter 5
Jax slid off the barstool with a heavy, deliberate motion, the leather of his chaps creaking in the quiet diner. At six-foot-two, he towered over the counter, casting a long shadow that enveloped Leo completely. Despite the intimidating size and the crude tattoos covering his arms, Jax moved with a sudden, unexpected gentleness, pulling a crumpled cotton handkerchief from his back pocket and wiping away the milk mustache from Leo’s face with surprising dexterity.
"Finish your milk, Leo," Jax said, his voice softer now, stripped of the defensive growl he usually reserved for strangers. He looked up at Martha, who was watching them with a mixture of apprehension and profound respect. "Keep the tab open, Martha. I’ll be right back out front. Just need some air."
"You be careful, Jax," Martha warned quietly, leaning in across the counter. "Bull and his boys have been drinking since nine this morning. They're looking to flex, and they see a stray, they're going to ask questions you might not want to answer."
Jax gave a single, curt nod, acknowledging the warning without a word. He reached down and gently placed a large, scarred hand on Leo’s thin shoulder, guiding the boy away from the counter toward the heavy glass door. The afternoon heat hit them like an open oven door as they stepped out onto the wooden boardwalk of Main Street. The roar of motorcycles was deafening out here; bikes of every description—choppers, baggers, and roaring sport bikes—lined both sides of the street for three blocks, their chrome gleaming blindingly in the pitiless South Dakota sun.
Leo squinted against the glare, instinctively pressing a little closer to the solid wall of Jax’s leather vest. He didn't look scared; rather, he looked with wide-eyed fascination at the massive machines rumbling past, recognizing the distinct purr of a V-twin engine the way a city kid recognizes subway cars.
Jax led him toward his own motorcycle parked near the curb—a battered, flat-black 1995 Harley Heritage Softail with high ape-hanger handlebars and a worn leather tool roll strapped to the front forks. It wasn't flashy like the chrome-laden custom bikes owned by the Iron Skulls club members, but it was mechanically sound, built for endurance rather than show. Jax leaned against the rear fender, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at the boy.
"So," Jax said, breaking the rhythmic roar of a passing trike. "You walked all the way from Rapid City with a jar of coins and a picture of a guy you barely knew. You got more guts than brains, kid. Where did you think you were going to find me?"
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Leo reached into his denim jacket and pulled out a grease-stained matchbook from a roadside motel twenty miles north of town. "The lady at the trailer park said you used to work the brakes at the salvage yard outside Sturgis. She said if I asked enough bikers, someone would know where the old bear hibernated."
A faint, humorless ghost of a smile touched the corners of Jax’s bearded mouth. "The old bear. Sounds like Martha’s kind of talk." He reached out and tapped the matchbook with a thick finger. "Well, you found him. Now what happens?"
