Chapter 8
The hum of the motel refrigerator filled the heavy silence that followed Sarah’s plea. Jax stood near the door, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather vest, his fingers brushing against the folded note and the faded photograph. The weight of the world felt suddenly distributed onto his broad shoulders, shifting from abstract guilt to concrete reality. He looked at Sarah, really looked at her, seeing the remnants of the girl he had laughed with beneath the neon lights of a desert highway diner so long ago.
“I don’t do kids, Sarah,” Jax said finally, his voice hard, testing the perimeter of his own excuses even as he knew they were hollow. “My life is a wreck. I sleep on a cot in the back of a mechanic’s shop in Nevada when I’m not hauling freight. I got enemies from clubs I rode with, scars on my back, and a temper that doesn't take kindly to questions. He’d be miserable with me.”
Sarah let out a dry, humorless chuckle that ended in a sharp cough. She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, taking a small, cautious sip before speaking. “Do you think I don't know that, Jax? Do you think I spent the last eight years wondering if you’d turn into a suburban dad with a lawnmower and a station wagon? I don't want a babysitter for him. I want his blood. I want the only other person in this world who shares those stubborn eyes to look out for him when I’m six feet under.”
Leo shifted on the edge of the mattress, his small hand still clutching his mother’s blanket. “I can help in the shop,” the boy interjected quietly, looking directly up at Jax. “I’m good with tools. I can hold the flashlight.”
Jax felt a sudden, sharp ache behind his ribs. The kid wasn't complaining; he wasn't crying or throwing a tantrum. He was negotiating for his own survival with the calm pragmatism of someone who had learned too early that nobody was coming to rescue them.
“It’s not about holding a flashlight, kid,” Jax muttered, running a calloused hand down his bearded face. He walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down, the old mattress sagging under his heavy frame. He looked at Leo, then back at Sarah. “If I take him, he lives my life. No schools in the same town for more than a year. No soccer teams. Just grease, noise, and asphalt. Are you sure that’s better than state care?”
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“State care is a revolving door of strangers who don't care if he eats or cries,” Sarah said fiercely, a sudden spark of life flashing in her hollow eyes. “You might be rough around the edges, Jax, but you aren't cruel. I remember how you looked at stray dogs when we were kids. You’d starve yourself before you let an animal go hungry. I’m betting on that.”
Jax looked down at his own scarred knuckles. The bet was a losing one, he knew that. But looking into those big hazel eyes, he also knew he didn't have a choice.
