Chapter 8
The motorcycle shop was Jax’s sanctuary, a place of grease, metal, and unambiguous mechanical logic. If a part was broken, you fixed it or replaced it. If an engine misfired, you traced the wiring until you found the short. But on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the orderly world of the garage felt complicated by thoughts he couldn't simply wrench into place.
His phone buzzed on the workbench, interrupting the grinding sound of a bench grinder. He wiped his hands on a greasy rag and checked the screen. It was an unfamiliar number with a local area code. Frowning, he swiped to answer.
"Hello? This is Jax."
"Jax? Hi. My name is Elena. I'm the waitress from the restaurant last Friday night."
Jax froze, the ambient noise of the garage fading into the background. Memories of that agonizing evening rushed back—the weeping woman, the plate of untouched fish, the blunt, piercing truth she had delivered about his mother. "Elena. Yeah, I remember. Is everything alright?"
"Everything is fine with your mother, as far as I know," Elena’s voice came through clear and measured. "That's actually why I'm calling. I get off my shift early tonight, around eight. There's a diner two blocks down from the restaurant. I wanted to see how she’s doing... and maybe talk to you for a moment."
Jax stared at the phone for a second, surprised by the invitation. "Talk to me? About what?"
"About how you treated her," Elena said bluntly, without a hint of hesitation. "I saw the way you looked when she broke down. You're not a cruel man, Jax, but you were blind. I figured you might need someone to talk to who isn't afraid of your biker jacket."
A slow, self-deprecating smile touched Jax’s lips. The woman had guts. She had stared down a towering, tattooed mechanic in the middle of a crowded dining room and put him in his place, and now she was offering him a cup of coffee. "Eight o'clock. The neon diner on Fourth Street?"
"I'll be sitting in the corner booth," Elena replied before hanging up.
Jax tossed the phone onto the workbench, his mind racing. He looked down at his grease-stained jeans and scarred knuckles. For years, he had kept people at a distance, hiding behind his tough exterior and the solemn duty of caring for Clara. The idea of sitting down with a stranger who had witnessed his lowest, most oblivious moment felt terrifying, yet strangely magnetic.
May you like
That evening, he parked the bike three blocks away and walked the rest of the distance through the drizzling rain. The neon diner flickered with a buzzing amber light, casting long reflections across the wet asphalt. Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee, french fries, and floor cleaner. Elena was sitting in the corner booth, wearing a simple gray sweater, her dark hair no longer tied back in a severe bun but falling loosely around her shoulders.
As Jax slid into the vinyl booth across from her, she didn't offer a polite, rehearsed greeting. She just looked at him with steady, intelligent eyes, sliding a menu across the table. "Don't worry," she said with a faint, knowing smirk. "I didn't order the fish for you."
