Chapter 3
The diner seemed to hold its collective breath. Martha stepped closer, wiping her hands on her apron, her professional detachment completely gone. She could see the white-knuckled grip Jax had on the edge of the counter, his knuckles pale and scarred. The biker was cornered, not by the police or a rival club, but by an eight-year-old child holding a folded piece of paper and a memory that refused to stay buried.
“Jax,” the boy whispered again, the sound carrying a quiet gravity that made the hairs on the back of Jax’s neck stand up. “Mom said you left before I was born.”
The words struck with the force of a physical blow. Jax closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, fighting the sudden constriction in his chest. Fifteen years ago, he had walked away from a hospital room in Phoenix under the crushing weight of his own inadequacy, convinced that his life of perpetual motion and violence would only destroy anyone tied to him. He had convinced himself that running was an act of mercy. Looking at the boy now, he realized how comfortable that lie had been.
“Where is she, kid?” Jax finally spoke, his voice gravelly and rough from years of cheap cigarettes and silence. It was the first time he had acknowledged the reality of the situation, the sound of his own voice foreign even to his own ears.
“She’s at the motel by the interstate,” the boy replied, his voice steady despite the trembling of his lower lip. “In room twelve. But she’s sleeping a lot. She told me to find you before the medicine ran out.”
Martha gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. The implications hung in the air, heavy and sharp. A sick mother, a long-ago abandonment, and a desperate journey across town during a torrential downpour. It was a tragedy unfolding in slow motion right over the sticky formica of a roadside diner.
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Jax looked down at his palm, still covering the photograph. Slowly, he lifted his hand. The image was slightly creased from his grip, but the young face of the man holding the baby stared back up at him. He couldn’t run from this. The road behind him had finally caught up, and the end of the line was right here, sitting on a barstool.
Jax slid off the stool, his tall, imposing frame unfolding to its full height. He towered over the boy, yet he kept his movements slow and deliberate so as not to frighten him. He reached out and gently took the folded piece of paper from the boy’s small hand. His fingers brushed the child’s cold skin, sending a jolt straight to his core.
