Chapter 1 - The Motorcycle And The Man
The hum of heavy engines vibrated through the floorboards of the roadside diner, drowning out the sluggish whir of the ceiling fan. Outside, the annual Sturgis-bound rally traffic choked the asphalt, but inside, the air smelled of stale grease and black coffee. Eight-year-old Leo clutched a curled, dog-eared photograph in his damp palm. His oversized jacket swallowed his thin frame, and his scuffed sneakers scraped nervously against the linoleum. He walked straight to the counter where Jax sat hunched over a heavy ceramic mug. Jax was forty-eight, a mountain of a man wrapped in battered leather, his long dark hair tied back and a thick beard hiding the heavy set of his jaw. Ink bled across his knuckles, ancient tribal patterns fading into gray.
Leo stopped beside the cracked leather stool. He looked up, his big hazel eyes wide and swimming with a desperate, quiet hope.
“Is this your motorcycle?” Leo asked softly, his voice barely cutting through the clatter of silverware.
Jax didn’t look down immediately. He exhaled a long plume of gray cigarette smoke toward the rusted extractor fan before turning his weathered face. His dark eyes narrowed, sizing up the kid with instinctive suspicion.
“What’s it to you, kid?” Jax muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble that sounded like grinding stones. “You lost? Where’s your mom?”
“She’s not here,” Leo said, his breathing shallow. He didn’t back down. Instead, he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small, folded piece of lined notebook paper. He laid it gently on the greasy counter next to Jax’s elbow.
Jax stared at the paper, his jaw tightening. “I asked you a question, boy. Beat it before I call someone.”
“You didn’t answer mine,” Leo whispered, his lower lip trembling slightly despite his efforts to stay tough. “Is that your bike outside? The black chopper with the scratched exhaust pipe?”
A murmur rippled down the counter. Brenda, the forty-five-year-old waitress with tired eyes and a stained apron, paused mid-wipe, her cloth hovering over the counter. She eyed Jax, then the boy, her professional demeanor shifting instantly into sharp suspicion. She reached down, instinctively resting her hand near the heavy brass bell by the register.
“Hey, leave the kid alone, Jax,” Brenda snapped, her voice cutting through the diner noise. “Or I’m calling the sheriff to come sort this out.”
Jax ignored her. His gaze snapped back to the folded paper on the counter. Slowly, with massive, ink-stained fingers, he reached out and unfolded it. Inside, scrawled in shaky, childish handwriting, was an address forty miles deep into the badlands—and a date from eight years ago.
Jax froze, the color draining entirely from his tanned face.
“Where did you get this?” Jax demanded, his voice dropping an octave, raw and trembling.
Leo swallowed hard, his hazel eyes locking onto the biker’s terrified gaze.
May you like
“From my dad,” Leo whispered. “Before he died and told me to find you.”
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