Chapter 6 - The Cruiser in the Gravel
The harsh glare of the police cruiser’s headlights cut straight through the greasy front windows of the Silver Spur Diner, casting long, skeletal shadows across the checkerboard floor. The engine cut out with a dull tick, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake, save for the rhythmic, ominous hum of the neon sign overhead.
Betty’s hand tightened around the baseball bat hidden beneath the counter, her knuckles turning chalk-white. She kept her eyes locked on Jax, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "I told you. Trouble follows you like a shadow on a bright day. You shouldn't have brought him here."
Jax didn't look at the door. He didn't look at the flashing red and blue light bouncing off the diner's chrome trim. His entire focus remained locked on the waitress’s hardened eyes. "I didn't bring trouble, lady. Trouble was already waiting for us the day they ripped my son out of my arms while I was half-dead on a gurney. Now, are you going to tell me where Clara is, or am I going to walk out that back door and find her myself?"
"You can't walk anywhere," Betty hissed, nodding toward the front glass. "That's Deputy Miller out there. He’s the one who handled your accident report eight years ago. He’s the one who signed off on the state taking the boy into custody while you were in a coma."
Leo let out a tiny, whimpering sound, sliding off the oversized vinyl booth and ducking beneath the table. His small hands covered his ears as the heavy iron latch of the diner door rattled under the weight of a firm, authoritative hand pushing it open from the outside.
"Stay down, Leo," Jax whispered fiercely, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that carried a terrifying promise of violence.
The bell above the door chimed, cutting through the heavy tension like a knife. A tall man in a crisp brown county sheriff's uniform stepped inside, brushing the cold mist off the shoulders of his heavy winter coat. His face was weathered, his mustache trimmed with military precision, and his eyes scanned the diner with the casual arrogance of a man who owned the entire county.
"Evening, Betty," the deputy said, his voice smooth and artificially pleasant. He took two slow steps toward the center of the room before stopping dead in his tracks as his gaze landed on the towering, tattooed biker sitting in the back booth. A slow, knowing smirk crept across the corner of the lawman’s mouth. "Well, well. Look what the highway dragged in. I thought we put you away for good after that little stunt on Route 9, Jax."
Jax remained seated, his massive shoulders squared beneath his leather vest. He didn't stand up, but his right hand slid slowly into his vest pocket, his fingers wrapping around the cold steel handle of his heavy pocketknife.
"You didn't put me anywhere, Miller," Jax said, his voice flat, heavy with a decade of suppressed fury. "You just stole eight years of my life and tried to bury the evidence."
Deputy Miller chuckled, resting his hand casually on the grip of the service pistol holstered at his hip. He took another step forward, the rubber soles of his boots squeaking against the checkerboard tiles. "Stole? Son, the court declared you a hazard to public safety. A man with a record, bleeding out in a ditch, with no stable address and a newborn baby? We did social services a favor by cleaning up your mess."
"Where is Clara Vance?" Jax demanded, finally rising to his full, imposing height. The wooden booth groaned in protest as he stood, towering a full head above the county deputy.
Miller’s smirk vanished, replaced by a sudden, hard glint of suspicion. His hand tightened on his holster. "Clara doesn't live here anymore. And whatever lies she told you down at that hospital—"
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Before the deputy could finish his sentence, the small kitchen door behind the counter swung open with a violent crash, and a panicked voice shouted out from the back rooms.
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