Chapter 7
Before Leo could take his first bite of the cherry pie, the low, angry rumble of modified exhaust pipes echoed from outside, drowning out the diner’s jukebox. Three heavy-set bikes pulled up right in front of the window, their chrome gleaming harshly under the afternoon sun.
Jax’s body instantly shifted into a defensive posture. He knew that sound. It wasn't the friendly, weekend-warrior rumble of the Sturgis crowd; it was the sharp, aggressive bark of the Iron Skulls—a local outlaw chapter Jax had severed ties with five years ago.
The diner door swung open with a loud jingle. Two men stepped inside, wearing vests emblazoned with skull patches. Their eyes scanned the room, instantly locking onto Jax at the counter. The leader, a scarred, burly man named Dalton whom Jax had known for too long, grinned with a mouth full of broken teeth.
“Well, look who’s hiding out in a family diner,” Dalton barked, his voice carrying over the chatter of the other patrons. Several diners nervously shifted in their seats, sensing trouble.
Jax stood up slowly, putting himself physically between Dalton and the stool where Leo sat eating pie. “Keep walking, Dalton. I’m not interested.”
“Oh, we figured you weren't interested in anything anymore, Jax,” Dalton said, stepping closer, his boots heavy on the linoleum. “Especially since you skipped out on the club’s last run down in Cheyenne. Word is, you went soft.”
Martha stepped out from behind the counter, her face pale but determined. “We don’t want any trouble in here, Dalton. Take it outside or I’m calling the sheriff.”
Dalton glanced at Martha, sneering, then his eyes flicked past Jax’s shoulder to the small boy sitting quietly at the counter. Dalton’s expression shifted from mockery to sudden, predatory curiosity.
“What’s this? You picking up stray dogs now, Jax? Or did you finally find someone stupid enough to call you dad?” Dalton took another step forward, closing the distance.
Jax felt the familiar, dangerous surge of adrenaline hot in his veins. For years, he would have thrown the first punch without a second thought. Violence was his native language; it was how he solved every problem, how he protected his fragile ego and his hardened isolation. But today, the rules were different. Leo was sitting right behind him, watching with wide, frightened eyes. If Jax started a brawl here, the boy would be caught in the crossfire.
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“Back off, Dalton,” Jax growled, his voice dropping into a low, menacing warning. “This doesn't concern you.”
“Everything in this county concerns the club, Jax,” Dalton snarled, raising a heavy hand to shove Jax’s shoulder.
