Chapter 6
Bull spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the pavement and swaggered back toward his chopper, climbing aboard with a heavy grunt before kicking the starter pedal. The engine sputtered, caught with a deafening roar that shook the store windows, and he tore out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of blue smoke and the sharp stench of burning rubber in his wake.
Jax exhaled a slow, controlled breath, loosening the grip on his belt. He looked down at Leo, whose small frame was still trembling slightly from the confrontation. Without a word, Jax unzipped his own heavy canvas-lined riding jacket—the one he wore over his leather vest when the mountain winds got too biting—and slipped it off his massive shoulders. He draped it over the boy. It swallowed Leo completely, the sleeves dragging past his hands by six inches, but the thick wool lining instantly trapped his body heat.
“Thanks,” Leo whispered from deep inside the folds of the oversized jacket, his hazel eyes peeking out over the frayed collar.
“Don’t mention it,” Jax muttered, turning toward his own machine parked at the end of the row. It was a matte-black 1984 Harley FXR, stripped down, battered, and reliable as a stray dog. It didn't have the chrome flash of the newer bikes in the lot, but the V-twin engine had been rebuilt by Jax’s own hands a dozen times. He walked over, pulled a spare canvas strap from his saddlebag, and secured Leo’s small, ratty backpack firmly against the sissy bar behind the passenger seat.
“Can you ride on the back of a bike like this, Leo?” Jax asked, looking back over his shoulder. “It’s loud, it vibrates your teeth, and there ain’t no seatbelts. If you fall asleep, you fall off. You got to hold on tight.”
Leo stepped up to the massive machine, running a small, pale hand over the cold, scratched metal of the gas tank. There was no hesitation in his eyes now, only that strange, quiet bravery that seemed to anchor him against the chaos of the world. “Mom said you were the best rider on the highway. She said you never crashed unless someone else forced you off the road.”
Jax’s jaw tightened. Clara had remembered that much, at least. He swung his heavy leg over the saddle, planted his boots firmly on the asphalt, and kicked the starter. The FXR coughed once, twice, and then roared to life with a deep, rhythmic thrum that vibrated right through the soles of Leo’s scuffed sneakers. Jax reached back, took Leo’s small hands, and wrapped them securely around his own waist, right over the heavy leather of his belt.
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“Hold on to the leather, kid,” Jax shouted over the rising roar of the exhaust. “And don't look back.”
He dropped the bike into first gear, let out the clutch, and rolled out of the diner parking lot. They pulled onto Highway 9, heading north away from the rally, away from the neon lights, and deeper into the gathering shadows of the pine-covered mountains where the road narrowed and the real secrets were kept.
