Chapter 6
The food arrived within minutes, steaming and aromatic. Leo attacked the burger with the unvarnished enthusiasm of an eight-year-old who had survived on gas station crackers and diner toast for the last forty-eight hours. Jax watched him eat, slowly turning the gold ring between his fingers.
“So,” Jax began, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over them. “Mrs. Gable. Who is she?”
“Next-door neighbor,” Leo said around a mouthful of fries. He swallowed quickly, remembering his manners. “She’s nice. She bakes cookies. But she has three dogs and a small house, and her kids wanted her to move to Florida. She gave me twenty bucks and put me on the bus. Said my real home was wherever my old man was.”
Jax winced internally. Your real home. The words felt heavy, foreign, and terrifying. His home was a battered Harley-Davidson parked outside, a rented room above an auto repair shop in Wyoming, and a duffel bag with two changes of clothes. He didn't know the first thing about raising a cactus, let alone an eight-year-old boy.
“She shouldn't have done that,” Jax said grimly. “Putting a kid on a bus across state lines? That’s irresponsible.”
“She tried to call you,” Leo countered, his hazel eyes flashing with a sudden defiance. “She found an old phone number in Mom’s desk. It didn't work. So I told her I’d find you myself. I knew you’d be at the rally. You always went to the Sturgis rally in August. Mom told me that stories about you were like clockwork.”
Jax let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. Of course Clara knew. He was as predictable as the seasons, trapped in an endless loop of highways, bars, and bad decisions.
“You’re a stubborn one, aren't you?” Jax said, shaking his head.
“Takes after his father,” Martha chimed in as she walked past, dropping a paper napkin holder on the counter.
May you like
Jax glared at her back, though he couldn't muster any real anger. He looked back at Leo, who was now eyeing the cherry pie with intense concentration. The initial panic of the confrontation was beginning to give way to a strange, terrifying sense of inevitability. He couldn't put the kid back on a bus. He couldn't hand him over to child protective services without feeling like a complete monster. The road he had been riding for twenty years had suddenly hit a dead end, and there was only one direction left to turn.
“Finish your pie, Leo,” Jax said quietly. “We need to talk about what happens next.”
