Chapter 8
The Harley-Davidson sat idling in the relentless heat, its twin exhaust pipes vibrating with a deep, rhythmic purr that could be felt in the soles of their feet. It was a beast of a machine, caked in road dust and polished chrome, a relic of countless miles spent chasing the horizon. Jax carefully maneuvered Leo onto the wide leather passenger seat behind the saddle, pulling a spare canvas riding jacket from the sissy bar and wrapping it around the boy’s shivering frame three times until it fit him like a makeshift sleeping bag.
“Hold onto my waist, Leo,” Jax instructed, straddling the heavy bike and gripping the handlebars. “And keep your feet up on the pegs. Don't look down at the road. Just watch my back.”
Leo nodded wordlessly, his small hands locking tightly around Jax’s heavy leather belt. He pressed his cheek against the warmth of his father’s back, feeling the solid, reassuring rise and fall of Jax’s breathing beneath the layers of canvas and hide.
With a sharp twist of the throttle, Jax kicked the bike into gear. The rear tire spun briefly in the loose gravel before grabbing the asphalt with a sharp squeal of rubber. They rocketed away from the Copper Creek Diner, leaving the cluster of colorful tents, roaring engines, and hostile stares of the rival bikers far behind in a cloud of dust.
The highway stretched out before them like a gray ribbon cutting through the endless expanse of brown scrub brush and distant, purple mountains. The wind roared past their ears, a rushing wall of sound that drowned out the rest of the world. For the first time in fifteen years, Jax felt something other than the cold emptiness of the open road. He felt a tether, a heavy, grounding weight that tied him to the earth.
They rode for thirty minutes, turning off the main highway onto a cracked, unpaved service road that wound its way up into the foothills of the arid mountains. The landscape grew increasingly desolate, dotted with stubborn sagebrush and towering saguaro cacti that stood like silent sentinels against the blistering sky.
May you like
As they rounded a sharp bend, the terrain gave way to a rusted chain-link gate hanging off a single hinge. Beyond it sat Jax’s home: a small, weather-beaten wooden cabin with a corrugated tin roof, flanked by an oversized, open-air workshop overflowing with rusted car chassis, motorcycle parts, and stacks of weathered tires. It wasn't much, but it was isolated, defenseless against the elements yet entirely hidden from the prying eyes of the town below.
Jax cut the engine. The abrupt silence that followed was deafening, broken only ticking of the cooling exhaust pipes and the distant call of a hawk circling overhead.
