Chapter 5
Jax scooped the faded photograph off the counter and slipped it carefully into the inner pocket of his leather vest, right next to Sarah’s note. He didn't take Martha’s truck keys; instead, he looked down at his motorcycle parked right outside the steamy diner window, its chrome gleaming dully under the gray afternoon sky.
“No truck,” Jax said quietly to Martha. “We go on the bike.”
Martha stared at him, her eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “On that death trap? In this weather? The boy’s eight years old, Jax, he’s not a piece of cargo!”
“He’s mine,” Jax replied, and the absolute finality in his tone brooked no argument. It was the first time he had claimed the title, and the words felt heavy, anchor-like, grounding him to the earth in a way he had never experienced before.
Leo’s eyes lit up with a sudden, cautious spark of excitement. Despite the grim circumstances, the prospect of riding on the back of his father’s massive motorcycle offered a thrill that cut through the gloom. Jax crouched down so he was at eye level with the boy.
“You ever been on a bike before, Leo?” Jax asked, his voice softening.
“Once, on a postcard,” the boy whispered honestly.
Jax gave a slow nod, reaching behind him to unbuckle his spare leather riding jacket. It was far too big for an eight-year-old, but when he wrapped it around Leo’s small frame, folding the heavy sleeves back twice, it enveloped the boy like a warm, protective shell. It smelled of motor oil, old leather, and cedar—the unmistakable scent of Jax’s life on the road.
“Hold on tight to my belt loops,” Jax instructed, standing back up and taking the boy’s small, cold hand. “Don’t let go, no matter how loud the engine gets. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” Leo said, his voice small but firm.
May you like
They walked out of the Rustwater Diner together, the heavy glass door swinging shut behind them. Martha watched from the window, her hands gripping her apron tightly as she tracked their progress across the gravel lot. She saw Jax carefully lift the boy and settle him onto the passenger seat of the heavy V-twin, adjusting the oversized jacket to make sure he was secure. Jax swung his own leg over the saddle, kicking the starter. The engine roared to life with a concussive boom that rattled the diner windows, cutting through the damp air like a blade.
With a slow, deliberate twist of the throttle, Jax pulled out onto the wet asphalt, heading south toward the interstate and the reckoning waiting in room twelve.
