Chapter 2 - The Weight of Ink
Jax stared down at the photograph, his mind racing faster than any bike he had ever ridden on the interstate. The ink on the edges of the old polaroid was yellowed by time, but the faces were unmistakable. That was him—twenty years younger, free of the heavy regrets that now lined his face, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a blue blanket. He wanted to look away, to push the image back across the counter and pretend the kid didn't exist, but his fingers betrayed him. Slowly, almost magnetically, his calloused hand stretched out until his fingertips brushed the glossy surface of the paper. The photograph was warm, or maybe that was just the fever of panic burning through his veins.
Across the counter, Martha, the forty-five-year-old waitress who had known Jax since his first days running with the local club, stopped wiping down the pie display. Her rag hovered mid-motion as she caught sight of the photo. Her professional smile vanished, replaced instantly by a sharp, suspicious narrowing of her eyes. She knew every skeleton in Jax's closet, or so she thought, but this little boy with the messy brown hair and hopeful gaze was a ghost she had never heard mentioned.
May you like
Panicking, Jax slammed his palm flat over the photograph, hiding it from view with a sudden, violent motion meant to project authority. He forced his breathing to slow down, fighting to regain his tough-guy exterior, but his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Martha dropped the rag completely, her footsteps clicking sharply against the linoleum as she marched closer, leaning over the counter right beside the boy.
""Jax… what is that photo?"" Martha asked, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous quiet that demanded an answer. Before Jax could find his voice, the boy ignored the waitress entirely. With a calmness that belied his eight years, the child looked up, his hazel eyes wide and swimming with a devastating mix of innocence and expectation. Slowly, his small hand slid into his jacket pocket once more, pulling out a second, smaller object that made the air in the diner feel impossibly heavy.
