Jackson “Jax” Mercer had ridden through storms before.
For nearly twenty years he had crossed the country on his heavy black Harley, moving from town to town the way some people moved between chapters of a book they didn’t want to reread. He was a massive man with shoulders like a wall, long gray-streaked hair tied behind his head, and arms covered in faded tattoos that told stories most people were too afraid to ask about.
But even Jax knew when to stop riding.
The rain had become so violent that he could barely see the road. Water sprayed up from the tires like waves crashing against a boat. Eventually he spotted the dim outline of an abandoned gas station just off the highway. Its rusted metal awning hung crooked above the cracked concrete, barely offering shelter from the storm.
Jax pulled in and shut off the engine.
The sudden silence after the roaring motorcycle felt almost eerie.
Thunder rolled across the sky like distant artillery.
