Chapter 7
"You boys take that kindergarten bullshit down to the alley behind the pool hall," Martha yelled, her voice cutting through the roar of traffic like a circular saw. She stepped off the boardwalk and positioned herself right beside Jax, the iron skillet glinting menacingly in the prairie sun. "We don't want your kind of trouble wrecking the front of my diner during the lunch rush. The sheriff is finishing his coffee inside, and he’d love nothing more than to hand out a few public disturbance fines to round out his monthly quota."
Bull’s eyes flicked from Jax’s steady gaze to the iron skillet in Martha’s hand, then toward the large front window of the diner where a local deputy could clearly be seen paying his bill at the register. A calculated risk assessment flickered across Bull’s scarred face. Starting a brawl in the middle of Main Street during peak rally traffic with an angry waitress and local law enforcement looking on was bad for business—even for the Iron Skulls.
Bull spat a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the dusty asphalt near the front tire of Jax’s motorcycle. "This conversation isn't over, old man," Bull growled, pointing a thick, calloused finger directly at Jax’s chest. "You carry that dead weight long enough, and you’ll find out why we don't let ghosts ride with us."
With a final, theatrical swagger, Bull and his two lieutenants turned on their heels and marched back down the boardwalk toward a cluster of gleaming custom choppers parked outside the local tattoo parlor.
Jax let out a long, measured exhale, his shoulders relaxing fractionally as the immediate threat dissolved. He turned his head to look down at Martha, offering a rare, tight nod of genuine appreciation. "Thanks, Martha. Didn't need the hardware display, but I appreciate the backup."
"Don't mention it," Martha said, lowering the iron skillet but keeping it firmly in her hand just in case Bull decided to change his mind. She turned her attention downward, her expression softening instantly as she looked at Leo. The boy hadn't flinched once during the entire confrontation. "You doing all right down there, Leo?"
"I’m fine," Leo replied calmly, adjusting the collar of his oversized denim jacket. "The big guy smelled like stale beer."
Martha let out a sudden, barking laugh that startled a nearby pigeon into flight. "He sure does, honey. He sure does." She looked back up at Jax, her eyes searching his weathered face with a mixture of concern and hard-earned wisdom. "You can't stay here on Main Street, Jax. Every lowlife from here to Rapid City knows that bike and knows your face. If you're going to figure out what to do with this boy, you need to get him out of town before sundown."
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"I know," Jax said, his voice grim as he looked down the long ribbon of asphalt stretching out toward the ragged horizon of the Black Hills. "I've got a cabin up past Elk Creek. Nobody goes up there since the logging company pulled out ten years back. It’s quiet."
"Good," Martha said, turning back toward the diner door. She paused and reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a small brown paper bag wrapped in greaseproof paper and handing it to Leo. "There's a couple of turkey sandwiches and an apple pie slice in here. You make sure he eats every bite, Jax. You hear me?"
