Chapter 5
They stepped out of the diner and into the crisp, biting air of late afternoon. The sun was dipping low behind the jagged peaks of the western hills, casting long, bruised shadows across the asphalt parking lot. The roar of motorcycles was still deafening as a fresh pack of riders revved their engines near the gas pumps, smelling of stale gasoline, leather, and cheap bourbon. Leo flinched at the sudden noise, his small hand instinctively shooting out to grab the thick, frayed hem of Jax’s leather vest.
Jax felt the tug on his leather and looked down. Without thinking, he shifted his body slightly to act as a windbreak against the chilly draft, shielding the boy from the chaotic flurry of the rally. He didn’t shrug Leo’s hand off, a fact that surprised even him. For two decades, Jax had lived by a strict code of absolute isolation: no baggage, no permanent anchors, no one to hold onto when things went south. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of a Sturgis-bound biker swarm, playing guardian to a ghost from his past.
“You got a helmet that fits him?” a gruff voice called out from behind them.
Jax stiffened, his hand dropping automatically toward his right hip where a heavy hunting knife was tucked into his belt. He turned slowly to see 'Bull,' a massive, heavily scarred veteran of Jax’s former club, leaning against a customized chopper with high ape-hanger handlebars. Bull’s greasy beard was tangled, and his eyes were bloodshot from a day of heavy drinking. He looked past Jax, his gaze landing on Leo, who was half-hidden behind the biker’s leather-clad frame.
“None of your business, Bull,” Jax said evenly, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous register. He kept his body positioned squarely between Bull and the boy.
Bull grinned, revealing a row of yellowed, uneven teeth. He pushed off the gas tank of his bike and took a slow, heavy step forward. “Didn’t know you were running a daycare service now, brother. Thought you rode solo after that mess down in Cheyenne. Who’s the brat? Looks a lot like someone we used to know. Reminds me of that girl Clara who skipped town with the club treasury keys—or was that just a rumor?”
The air between the two men grew thick and volatile. The casual noise of the rally around them seemed to mute as Jax planted his boots firmly on the oil-stained asphalt. He could feel the familiar, addictive surge of adrenaline—the anger that had fueled a hundred bar brawls in his younger days. But this time, the anger wasn't an end in itself; it was a shield. He glanced down at Leo, who was staring up at Bull with wide, terrified hazel eyes, his small knuckles white where he clutched Jax’s vest.
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“Clara’s dead, Bull,” Jax said, his voice flat, hard, and devoid of any warning. “And the past stays buried. You take another step toward us, and I’ll show you what happens to people who dig in my dirt.”
Bull stopped dead in his tracks. He looked into Jax’s eyes—eyes that weren't playing around—and slowly raised his hands, palms open. A dark, ugly smile played at the corner of Bull’s mouth, but he didn’t advance. “Easy, Jax. Just asking. The road has a funny way of bringing chickens home to roost, that’s all. See you down the line.”
