Chapter Two – Burnt Edges & Cold Chrome
1039 Words
The early morning light hadn’t burned off the haze yet, and neither had Jax.
He stood at the head of the war table in the main room of the compound, coffee in hand, eyes sharp, jaw locked.
Around him, the club gathered—Mason, Daryl, Kev, and two newer members still proving their worth. Boots scuffed, patched vests worn, and expressions tight with focus. The room thrummed with quiet tension.
Jax tapped a grainy photo onto the table. “Brent ID’d one of them. The guy’s been sniffing around for weeks, asking questions he shouldn't.”
“Denny’s crew?” Mason asked.
“Yeah,” Jax confirmed. “They’ve been hanging around that garage just outside town. Too quiet for a crew that’s never been shy about loud business.”
Kev leaned in. “So what’s the move?”
“Daryl and Kev—you two watch the place. Stay outta sight. If they move, you follow. If they talk, you listen. I want to know what they’re looking for and who they're working with.”
They both nodded, already keyed up for action.
Jax looked at the others. “The rest of you stay sharp. We’ve been lucky. That ends fast when luck turns into arrogance.”
Then Mason cleared his throat. “You know this could turn ugly, right?”
Jax’s eyes narrowed. “It always does.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Mason didn’t back down, though his voice softened. “We don’t have a second anymore. Ghost—”
“Don’t.” Jax’s voice was razor-sharp. But Mason didn’t flinch.
“I will. Because he’s not here to say it himself. You know damn well Elias would’ve kicked your ass for charging in without someone watching your back. That bastard gave his life for you, Jax. The least you can do is not throw yours away like it means less.”
The silence that followed was heavier than steel.
Jax didn’t answer right away.
Because Mason was right.
Ghost died stepping in front of a bullet meant for him. And here he was—still acting like he had nothing left to lose.
Jax’s knuckles tightened around the coffee mug until it cracked.
Finally, he spoke. “We’ll talk about second in command after we get a handle on this crew.”
“You better,” Mason said. “Ghost might be gone, but his expectations aren’t.”
Jax didn’t argue.
He couldn’t.
Not when his brother’s blood still stained his memory.
Not when the scent of Ghost’s old room hadn’t faded yet.
And not when the photo of the three of them—Jax, Taylor, and Elias—still sat facedown in his drawer.
Jax didn’t look up from the engine. The tools were lined up with military precision beside him, hands blackened with grease as he worked on the bike like it was sacred—because to him, it was. That bike had been a weapon, a shrine, a confession booth. It still smelled faintly of Taylor’s perfume if he let himself believe hard enough.
But he didn’t. Not anymore.
He tightened a bolt, jaw clenching as footsteps sounded behind him.
“You’re going to strip it clean if you keep rubbing it like that,” Dani said, stepping around the workbench.
Jax didn’t answer.
She leaned her hip against the table, arms crossed. “So, she was asking about you.”
That earned her a glance. “Who?”
“The blonde. From the bar. Leather jacket, pale blue dress, legs for days.” She smirked. “Girl looked like she belonged in a vintage vinyl ad or a biker ballad.”
Jax went back to his work. “And?”
“She asked if you were always that broody or if it was just a Tuesday thing.”
“She talk to you?”
“She talks to everyone. That voice? She doesn’t even have to try.” Dani studied him. “You noticed her, though.”
Jax tightened another bolt. “Not in the way she wanted me to.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
He shot her a look.
Dani shrugged. “People miss things when they’re trying too hard not to feel. You’re not made of metal, Jax. Ghost would’ve hated to see you like this. Hollow.”
His throat tightened, but he didn’t let it show. “You done?”
“For now,” she said, pushing off the bench. “But that girl? She’s going to be trouble. The good kind. Might be nice to see you breathing again.”
She walked off, leaving the scent of engine oil and memory hanging heavy in the air.
Jax sat back, staring at the bike.
Pale blue.
He’d seen that dress.
He remembered it.
Jax stayed with the bike.
The garage quieted again once Dani left, but her words stuck like a wrench to the gut.
He ran a hand down the polished chrome, the scent of oil grounding him. This machine didn’t ask questions. Didn’t look at him like he was something to fix.
But now Dani was out there—probably talking to the singer.
Lark.
That’s what Brent called her.
Cute name. She looked the part too. Pretty, in that glossy, soft-focus kind of way. Long blonde hair, eyes that probably knew how to hold a room. She wore confidence the way she wore that leather jacket over her pale blue dress—like armor she didn’t even realize she had.
But she wasn’t Taylor.
There was no snap, no jolt when she entered the bar. No heat in his chest. When he met Taylor, it was chaos from the second she ordered that whiskey. She was fire and fury and heartbreak in heels, burning herself down just so someone would feel it.
Lark?
She was a song on the radio—easy on the ears, forgettable by morning.
Jax grunted, grabbing the rag off the bench and wiping his hands. He stayed in the garage. With the bike. With his silence.
Because no matter how much the world turned, his never moved past the night he lost his ghost—and the woman who carried his soul away when she left.
- Writer
