Chapter 5: The Unlikely Sanctuary
The heavy steel roll-up door of Iron Horse Custom Motors groaned downward, guided by Jax’s powerful arm until it locked securely into the concrete floor with a heavy thud. The outside world—with its cold rain, distant sirens, and watching eyes—was sealed away. Inside, the garage was bathed in the warm, amber glow of old Edison bulbs hanging above the workbench. Jax turned around to find Leo standing awkwardly near the wood-burning stove in the corner, holding his soaked jacket tightly around his shivering frame. Without a word, the biker walked over to a battered metal locker, pulled out a thick, oversized flannel shirt that smelled faintly of motor oil and cedar, and handed it down to the boy.
"Put that on before you catch pneumonia," Jax said, his tone gruff once more, though the sharp edges were gone. "There's a dry towel in the back bathroom, and hot water if you know how to work a stubborn handle."
Leo nodded gratefully, clutching the thick flannel shirt against his chest. It swallowed him completely, the sleeves rolled up four times past his small wrists, but the lingering warmth of the fabric felt like a miracle after hours in the freezing rain. While the boy cleaned up in the small, grease-stained washroom, Jax walked back to the workbench where the old photograph and the folded note still lay side by side. He stared at the handwriting for a long time, tracing the letters with a rough thumb. The memories rushed back—a life he had walked away from to protect the people he loved from the dangerous wreckage of his old motorcycle club days. He had thought that staying away was the safest gift he could give them. Now, looking at the faded photo, he realized distance hadn't protected anyone; it had just left them vulnerable to predators like the Vances.
When Leo emerged from the back room, his hair damp and messy, looking smaller than ever in the oversized flannel, Jax was pouring two mugs of instant hot cocoa from a chipped kettle sitting on a hot plate. He handed one to the boy, making sure it wasn't too hot, and pulled up a pair of metal folding stools near the wood stove. The crackling fire cast dancing shadows across the brick walls, filling the cavernous garage with a quiet, grounding heat.
"They're going to look for you," Jax stated flatly, blowing gently across the surface of his own mug. It wasn't a threat; it was a cold, hard fact of life. "Men like the ones who put you in that glass house don't lose track of their investments. To them, you're just property that wandered off."
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"I'm not property," Leo said fiercely, his big hazel eyes flashing with a sudden, stubborn defiance that made Jax pause mid-sip. "My mom said I belonged to nobody but myself. And she said you were the only person in the world who knew how to fix things when the engine broke down for good."
Jax let out a short, dry chuckle that held zero humor, yet his chest warmed in a way it hadn't in nearly a decade. He looked down at his grease-stained hands—hands built for tearing down engines and throwing punches—and wondered how on earth he was supposed to protect an eight-year-old boy from a corporate empire. But looking into Leo's hopeful eyes, he knew he didn't have a choice. The engine was already running, and there was no turning back now.
