Ashes & Asphalt

Chapter Seven – Smoke Before Sunrise

The kitchen was still half-draped in early morning light, the hum of the compound distant behind closed doors. Jax stood barefoot at the counter, steam rising from the mug in his hand. He took his coffee black. Always had. No sugar, no softness.

Kellan was already seated at the small kitchen table, one ankle resting over his knee, nursing his own mug like it was the only damn thing keeping him awake. He gave Jax a slight nod without words—quiet mornings didn’t need them.

It should’ve been peaceful. But peace was a strange thing now. Fleeting.

Because Jax remembered other mornings. Laughter—hers. That soft voice wrapping around Ghost’s sarcastic drawl. Taylor sitting cross-legged on the barstool, stealing bites off Ghost’s plate while Jax pretended to be annoyed but secretly lived for it.

That version of the kitchen didn’t exist anymore.

He took a slow sip, grounding himself in the bitterness.

The door creaked behind him.

Dani shuffled in wearing one of Diesel’s oversized tees, her hair wild from sleep and zero regrets. She squinted toward the coffee pot like it might attack her if she moved too fast.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” she mumbled to Jax, reaching for a mug.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

She poured her coffee and leaned back against the counter beside him. “You’re thinking about them again.”

He didn’t deny it.

Dani looked over her mug at him, her tone softer. “You know, Lark isn’t a bad option.”

That earned him a glance toward her. “Thought you didn’t play matchmaker.”

“I don’t,” she said easily. “But I loved Taylor. You know that. And maybe that’s the problem.”

He frowned. “Meaning?”

“She burned herself into you,” Dani said, voice low. “Not just in your bed. In your skin. In your routine. In your goddamn soul.”

Jax looked down into his coffee.

“And that’s the kind of love that doesn’t leave quietly,” she added. “But maybe… maybe you need someone who doesn’t leave that kind of scar. Someone who doesn’t consume you, just… fits beside you.”

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to forget her,” he said.

“No one’s asking you to,” Dani replied. “But you’re still breathing, Jax. Maybe it’s time to do something with that.”

Kellan watched silently from the table, the steady presence of someone who understood what it meant to carry ghosts and still move forward.

The kitchen stayed quiet after that.

But the coffee didn’t taste so bitter anymore.

Later that morning, the sun had climbed high enough to warm the pavement and dust, the roads humming beneath the tires as Jax and Kellan rode in tandem. The sound of two bikes tearing through the open stretch was a comfort Jax hadn’t realized he missed.

He hadn’t let anyone touch Ghost’s accounts since the day Elias died. It wasn’t just numbers and logistics—it was his legacy. Handing it over to someone else felt like letting go of the last piece of him. But Kellan didn’t press. He just rode, steady and clean.

They didn’t talk much. Didn’t have to.

After two hours on the road, Jax signaled a turn, pulling into a quiet side street in town where a small burger joint sat tucked between a garage and a pawn shop. Old school neon, decent fries, and a place Ghost used to complain about while secretly loving the food.

They parked. Jax pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his dark hair now speckled with dust and heat.

Inside, they ordered, sat down in the corner booth.

“You're not what I expected,” Jax finally said, watching Kellan fold his napkin with neat hands.

Kellan lifted a brow. “Because I don’t talk too much?”

“Because you don’t talk at all,” Jax said, a hint of a smirk threatening. “Ghost would've loved that.”

Kellan chuckled. “He was the one who told me to shut up the first day I walked into the compound two years ago.”

That gave Jax pause. He hadn’t known that. “You two met?”

“Briefly. He was intimidating as hell.”

“Yeah.” Jax nodded slowly. “He was.”

Before the conversation could settle into silence again, Kellan tilted his chin toward the window. “You know her?”

Jax followed his gaze.

Outside, Lark strolled down the sidewalk, coffee cup in one hand, eyes on her phone like the world didn’t exist beyond her screen. She wore a leather jacket again, this one worn around the edges. Blue jeans. Blonde hair falling in waves. Not a spark of glitter. Not a whisper of red heels. Just… soft and grounded.

“She’s the singer,” Kellan added casually. “From the Barrel.”

Jax didn’t respond at first.

He watched her—calm, unaware. Then she looked up and caught his gaze through the glass. She blinked, surprised, then offered a small smile. Hesitant. Like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to.

Jax gave a nod. Cool. Distant.

Kellan didn’t push. But his tone was thoughtful. “She doesn’t look like someone who wants a spark. She looks like someone who stays.”

Jax didn’t reply.

He just looked away, back to the table, back to the ghost of a woman who once danced in red heels and smiled like sin.

Kellan didn’t say anything when they stepped outside. He gave Jax a look—an understanding kind of quiet—and then nodded toward the bikes. “I’ll give you space. I’ll be across the street if you need me.”

Jax appreciated that. No fuss. No digging.

He made his way toward his bike, slowly, deliberately. The metal still warm from the ride. He leaned against it, arms crossed, watching the small town breathe around him. Lark had disappeared out of view, but he knew she saw him. He knew that look. That flicker of hesitation before someone made a choice.

And she did.

A few minutes later, soft footsteps approached. He didn’t lift his head right away. Just stared off into the street, waiting.

“You always look like the weight of the world’s on your shoulders,” Lark said, her voice quiet, not teasing but not timid either.

“Maybe it is,” Jax said evenly.

She stepped closer. “You don’t seem the type to let anyone close.”

“I’m not.”

A pause stretched between them. She shifted her weight, trying to read him, but his face remained unreadable.

“I just thought I’d say hey. Since the other night you didn’t exactly give me a chance to say anything at all.”

Jax finally looked at her. “I’m not the kind of man people approach without a reason.”

Her smile was soft but steady. “You’re also not the kind of man who lets a compliment land.”

“I don’t need one.”

Lark tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t offering it for your sake.”

That made his mouth twitch. Almost a smile.

She tilted her head slightly. “So… you gonna let me sing at your next party? Or is that a line I shouldn’t cross either?”

Jax leaned off the bike just a little, still guarded, still unreadable. “You can sing. Doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“Didn’t ask to be,” she said. “But I’m not going to lie and say I’m not curious about you.”

Jax’s voice lowered, calm but firm. “Curiosity is dangerous in my world.”

“So is staying still,” she replied.

That caught him off guard.

He watched her for a moment. Really looked. Blonde hair, blue eyes. No fire in her smile—but something steadier. Like she wasn’t looking to burn him… just stay close enough to warm the cold.

He didn’t want warmth. He didn’t want anything.

But he didn’t walk away either.

“You done?” he asked.

“For now,” she said. “I’ll see you around, Jax.”

She turned, walking off like she hadn’t just poked the edge of something he thought long buried.

He waited until she was gone before glancing back across the street.

Kellan stood near the bikes, watching but not interfering.

Jax finally swung his leg over his seat and muttered under his breath, “s**t’s getting complicated again.”

Then he fired up the engine and pulled away.

Back at the compound, the weight of the outside world peeled off Jax’s shoulders—just enough to feel the difference.

The garage door rolled shut behind them, the metallic clatter echoing like punctuation. Jax pulled off his gloves, tossed them on the workbench. Kellan did the same, dropping into the rhythm like he’d always been there.

Jax didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He handed over a stack of paperwork from Ghost’s old files—now Kellan’s to run point on. The club's finances, drop routes, the intel pipeline Ghost used to keep clean without anyone even noticing.

Kellan flipped through a few pages, nodding. “Ghost had a clean system.”

“He was good at what he did,” Jax replied simply.

Kellan didn’t say more. He didn’t need to talk about Ghost to prove he respected him—Jax could feel it in the way the man handled the files, like each one held weight. Like Ghost’s legacy wasn’t just paper and ink, but a blueprint worth following.

They worked in near silence for a while, save for the low hum of an old radio in the background. Jax caught himself glancing over at Kellan once or twice. The guy didn’t try too hard. Didn’t posture or fill silence with noise. He was just there—steady, dependable.

And for the first time since Ghost’s death, Jax didn’t feel like someone was filling a space they didn’t belong in.

This wasn’t replacing Ghost.

This was building something different.

Jax grabbed two beers from the office mini-fridge and handed one off without a word. Kellan took it, cracked the cap, and leaned against the doorway.

“Dani says the club’s finally settling again,” Kellan said after a beat. “You think so?”

Jax exhaled slowly. “Feels like the ground’s not shifting under my feet for once.”

Kellan nodded. “Good. Because you’ve been carrying this place on your own for too long.”

There wasn’t a thank you. Jax didn’t offer one. He just took a long drink and tipped his chin in quiet acknowledgment.

They stood there, two shadows in the fading light, bound by loss and leadership.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was something.

And Jax didn’t hate it.

The kitchen was quiet when Jax walked in. The rest of the compound had wound down for the night, but Dani was still at the counter, barefoot, her hair a mess, spoon deep in a jar of peanut butter like she had nothing to prove.

She didn’t look up when she spoke. “You’ve been quiet.”

Jax leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Didn’t realize I needed to announce every damn breath I take.”

Dani gave him a look, amused but tired. “You know what I mean.”

He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, took a long sip before answering. “Lark’s been circling.”

“She has.”

“I’m not there,” he said bluntly. “Not really. Not in the way someone like her probably wants me to be.”

Dani finally met his eyes. “You think she’s looking to pick out wedding flowers?”

“I think I still wake up expecting Taylor’s perfume on my pillow. I think sometimes I forget Elias is gone until I turn to tell him something and remember it’s just air. So yeah… I think starting something with Lark wouldn’t be fair.”

Dani put down the spoon. “You didn’t promise her anything.”

“That’s exactly my point. I haven’t promised her anything… and I’m not sure I have anything to give.”

Dani stepped away from the counter, folding her arms. “Look. If Lark knows what it is—knows it’s physical, knows there’s no future tied up in ribbons and champagne—then it’s not on you to protect her from herself. She’s a big girl. She writes heartbreak songs for a living, she’s probably romanticized worse.”

Jax gave a quiet grunt of laughter.

Dani softened. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, Jax. Not every connection has to come with a future. Sometimes people just need someone in the now.”

Jax set his glass down, eyes distant. “Taylor was all fire and forever.”

“I know,” Dani said gently. “But forever left, Jax. And you stayed.”

That silenced them both.

For a long moment, they stood there in the still kitchen—two people who had lost too much, too soon.

Finally, Jax nodded, not really in agreement, but not in denial either. Just… acknowledgment.

Maybe now was all he had left.

And maybe that had to be enough.