Chapter 6
Before Leo could answer, the heavy screen-door of the Silver Spur Diner banged open behind them. Heavy footsteps slammed against the wooden planks of the boardwalk, accompanied by the distinct jingle of spurs and wallet chains. Jax didn't need to turn around to know who was walking their way. The aggressive cadence of those boots belonged to Bull and two of his lieutenants from the Iron Skulls, men who lived for intimidation and thrived on testing the boundaries of anyone foolish enough to cross their path.
"Well, well, well," Bull’s voice boomed over the ambient roar of a passing exhaust pipe. He was a wide, barrel-chested man with a braided brown beard tucked into his belt and a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collarbone. "Look what the desert dragged in. Old Jax, playing family man out here in broad daylight. Never took you for the daycare type, brother."
Jax slowly straightened up from the fender of his motorcycle, placing himself squarely between the approaching bikers and Leo. His posture didn't scream aggression; it radiated the calm, terrifying stillness of a predator assessing a threat to its den. "Back off, Bull," Jax said evenly, his voice dropping into that subterranean register that usually ended arguments before they started. "This doesn't concern you."
"Everything on this street concerns us during rally week," Bull grinned, flashing yellowed teeth as he stepped closer, his chest puffed out like an aggressive rooster. He peered past Jax’s massive shoulder, his eyes landing on the small, pale boy in the oversized denim jacket. "Whose stray is this? Looks like a stiff breeze could snap him in half. You running a charity now, Jax? Thought you rode alone."
Leo didn't shrink back; instead, he took one step to the side, peering around Jax’s leather-clad thigh to lock eyes with the towering biker. The absolute fearlessness in the boy’s hazel eyes seemed to momentarily disorient Bull, who blinked hard before letting out a harsh, barking laugh.
"Takes after his old man, I see," Bull sneered, leaning in closer. "Got that same stupid look of defiance that got you kicked out of the Cheyenne chapter ten years back. What’s the matter, Jax? Can't handle the open road anymore without a little anchor weighing you down?"
The air between them grew dangerously thin. Jax could feel the calluses on his right hand clenching into a tight fist inside his pocket. He knew the rules of this world better than anyone; show weakness, and they tear you apart. Show attachment, and they use it as a weapon against you. But looking down at the top of Leo’s messy brown head, Jax realized something profound—he didn't care about the rules of the club anymore. The club was dead, a hollow shell of broken loyalties and cheap whiskey. This boy was the only real thing left in his entire universe.
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"I said walk away, Bull," Jax repeated, and this time, there was a lethal edge to his tone that made the two lieutenants flanking Bull instinctively drop their hands toward their belt loops.
Before Bull could escalate the standoff further, the screen-door of the diner squeaked open again, and Martha stepped out onto the boardwalk, holding a heavy iron skillet in her hand like a baseball bat.
