Chapter Five – Dented Armor
1119 Words
The next morning hit harder than most.
Jax stood in the garage, knuckles bruised from fixing a dent that hadn’t needed fixing. Kellan’s initiation into the crew was in motion, but it didn’t ease the pressure mounting inside his chest. The club needed steady hands, trusted minds. And his... were still split between memory and duty.
Mason appeared in the doorway, tossing a clean rag at him. “You didn’t sleep again.”
“Didn’t need to.”
Mason didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned against the metal bench, arms crossed, watching Jax like he was measuring the break lines before a crash. “Lark’s been asking questions. About you. About the club.”
Jax gave a small shake of his head, tightening a bolt too hard just to feel the snap of resistance. “She’s not a threat. Just a singer passing through.”
Mason snorted. “She sang last night like she wanted to bury herself in your skin.”
Jax wiped the grease off his hands. “And I’m not in the mood for distractions.”
“Then stop looking at her like you are.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because Mason wasn’t wrong.
But before Jax could dissect that, Kellan showed up—on time, clean cut, no bullshit. They headed out back to start the patrol drills, Kellan keeping pace, asking the right questions, following Jax’s orders without hesitation.
And yet… every so often, Jax saw a flicker. In Kellan’s stance, in the way he scanned the horizon, in the way he didn’t flinch from hard truths. Ghost’s shadow. But never Ghost himself.
As the day stretched on, news arrived.
A second shipment—their contact out of Carson—had gone dark. And Denny’s crew was too close to it for coincidence.
Jax’s jaw locked tight. “Double the watch on the south routes. Nobody moves without me knowing.”
“Understood,” Mason said.
But Jax’s thoughts were already on the next problem. He felt the weight shift again—the way things used to be divided between him and Ghost. And for the first time, he looked at Kellan not as a replacement... but as a blade he might need to sharpen.
Later that night, the bar would be full again. Lark was set to perform.
And Jax knew damn well he couldn’t keep avoiding that storm.
They rode out just after sunset. No club noise. No distractions. Just engines humming under them and the dark stretch of backroad carved between dust and pine.
Kellan didn’t talk much.
Good.
Jax hated chatter for the sake of it, and too many recruits in the past had used the silence to fill it with ego. But Kellan just rode. Kept his distance. Matched Jax’s pace like he’d done it for years.
By the time they stopped at the overlook—the same ridge Ghost used to take when he wanted to think—Jax lit a smoke, leaned back against his bike, and watched Kellan walk the edge like he already knew what this place meant.
“How long were you military?” Jax finally asked.
“Six years,” Kellan replied, not turning around. “Two tours. One breakdown. The usual.”
Jax gave a grunt. “What brought you to us?”
Kellan’s lips quirked. “Ghost’s name still rings in certain places. I heard stories. One of them led me here.”
Jax looked away, jaw tightening.
Kellan continued, his voice steady, “Didn’t come to replace anyone. Just came to find something real. I’ve had enough of hollow brotherhoods.”
Something about the way he said it sliced through Jax’s armor. Not loud. Not proud. Just… truth. And truth was a rare damn currency in his world.
Too rare.
Jax dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. “You’ll run the south side with Mason for a week. After that, we talk again.”
Kellan nodded. No pushback. No pride. Just a crisp, “Understood.”
And that’s what rattled Jax the most.
It was easy.
Too f*****g easy.
The kind of easy he hadn’t known since Elias was beside him. Like the universe was trying to sew over the bullet hole Ghost left behind. And Jax wasn’t sure if that was comforting—or betrayal.
When they returned to the compound, Mason was waiting on the porch, talking with Diesel and Dani. Jax handed over the update, brief as ever.
As he walked off, he heard Dani mutter, “He’s settling in. Scary fast.”
And Mason: “Jax won’t like that.”
And they were right.
Because Jax could feel the cracks forming. The kind that came when you started breathing again.
He just didn’t know yet if it meant healing—
Or forgetting.
Jax leaned over the books, red pen dragging lines through shipment logs and crew rotations. The numbers didn’t lie. The crew was tightening up, Kellan was pulling his weight, and for the first time in a long time… things didn’t feel like they were teetering on the edge.
So of course, Dani knocked once, didn’t wait for a response, and strolled in with trouble written across her face.
“We need a party.”
Jax didn’t even look up. “You need a new hobby.”
“I’m serious.” She dropped into the chair across from him and folded her arms like she was ready for battle. “It’s been months since Ghost… and Taylor left. Everyone’s been walking on glass. It’s time we remember we’re not ghosts too.”
Jax let out a low breath, rubbed the back of his neck. “A party’s not going to change what we lost.”
“No, but it reminds people we’re still living.”
That hit. Not because it was some profound truth. But because it mirrored what Mason said the other day. What even Kellan’s presence was starting to whisper: life goes on.
He met her gaze. “Keep it small. No outsiders.”
Dani’s smile said he’d already lost this battle. “Of course. Just club family. A little music. Some drinks.”
Jax narrowed his eyes. “You’re not planning anything else?”
She tilted her head, all innocent. “You don’t trust me?”
“Not even a little.”
She stood, smirking. “That’s fair. But still—thanks, Jax.”
And with that, she was gone.
What he didn’t see was the message she sent from the hallway:
You’re invited. Tomorrow night. Bring that blue dress. – D.
To Lark.
Because sometimes, grief needed permission to loosen its grip. And if Jax wasn’t going to give that to himself… Dani damn well would.
- Writer
