Chapter 2 - Shadows at the Door
The heavy brass bell above the diner door rattled violently as Brick strode into the room, his heavy boots shaking the floorboards beneath the counter. The ambient chatter of the biker rally instantly died down, replaced by a tense, heavy silence that suffocated the air. Brick was a mountain of a man with a jagged scar running from his right ear down to his collarbone, clad in the unmistakable black-and-red leather of the Devil’s Disciples. He didn't look at the other patrons; his cold, dead eyes locked entirely on the back corner where Jax sat shielding the faded photograph with his massive hand.
“Well, well, look what the interstate dragged in,” Brick sneered, his voice cutting through the quiet like a rusted blade. “Thought you ditched your colors for good, Jax. Turns out you’re just playing babysitter in a dusty spoon-feed joint.”
Jax slowly rose from the booth, his towering frame unfolding like a switchblade. He kept his right hand planted firmly over the photograph on the counter, his fingers curling against the wood. His jaw worked, muscles ticking along his scarred cheek.
“Get out of here, Brick,” Jax warned, keeping his tone dangerously low. “This ain't your patch. Take your bike and ride.”
“Not until I see what you’re hiding under that greasy paw of yours,” Brick laughed, taking another heavy step forward.
Sarah grabbed a heavy metal coffee decanter, her knuckles turning white as she stepped between the counter and the aisle. “There ain't no trouble here, Brick. You want coffee, sit at the back or get out.”
Brick ignored her, his gaze darting down to the eight-year-old boy standing beside Jax. A cruel, knowing smirk spread across Brick’s weathered face. He tilted his head, studying the boy’s pale skin and big hazel eyes with an unsettling intensity.
“Well, what do we have here?” Brick purred, stepping closer. “A little piece of your past coming back to haunt you, Jax? Didn't know you had a habit of leaving souvenirs lying around the county.”
The boy stepped backward, his small boots scraping against the linoleum. He clutched the folded yellow paper tighter against his chest, his knuckles white.
Jax’s eyes flashed with sudden, blinding fury. In a blur of motion, he grabbed Brick by the collar of his leather vest, slamming him hard against the cigarette machine by the door with a deafening crash that rattled the windows.
“I said walk away,” Jax hissed, his face inches from Brick’s.
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Brick didn't look scared; instead, he smiled wider, coughing slightly before whispering something in Jax’s ear that made the older biker’s blood run completely cold.
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