? Jackson ?
By end of August, the heat had settled over our trailer like a wet wool blanket and refused to leave.
The box fan in my bedroom window rattled like it was two weeks from death. It shoved around air that was only a degree cooler than my sweat. The thin curtains fluttered, doing absolutely nothing to block the sunlight or the view of the neighbor’s busted Chevy up on cinder blocks.
Welcome to paradise.
“Jax?” Mom’s voice floated down the narrow hallway, thin and scratchy. “Baby, you up?”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. My phone said 10:17 a.m. I’d gotten in around three after helping Mac’s dad clean up from another late-night hangout at the clubhouse. I’d have slept ’til noon if I’d had the choice.
“Yeah,” I called back, swinging my legs off the mattress. The springs squealed loud enough to make me wince. “I’m up.”
I stepped down onto the warped floor, carefully avoiding the soft spot near the dresser where the wood had started to give. One day, my foot was going straight through it and they’d have to bury me under the damn trailer. Maybe that would finally boost the property value. The hallway smelled like stale smoke, cheap vanilla body spray, and the faint sour edge of old beer. The AC unit in the living room window growled like it wanted to quit life. Couldn’t blame it.
Mom lay half-curled on the couch, one arm flung over her eyes. An empty bottle of boxed wine sat on the coffee table, next to an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes. The TV was still on some home shopping channel, the volume low. A woman with perfect hair who was very excited about knives.
“Morning,” I said softly. No reaction. Sometimes she responded. Sometimes she didn’t. Mom had become…background noise. Like the AC struggling in the window, or the dented coffee table, or the peeling laminate. I didn’t try again. Talking to her when she was like this only made the silence feel louder.
The kitchen was a galley barely big enough for one person. Lino curled at the edges. The fridge hummed like a dying animal and had a dent in the side from when Mom’s last boyfriend had kicked it during an argument. I’d put my fist through his truck window later that night. Funny how he hadn’t come back after that.
I filled the ancient coffee maker, scooped in the cheap grounds, and hit brew. The smell was bitter but familiar. I grabbed the mail off the counter while it worked. A shut-off notice for the electric, a credit card bill we’d never pay, a glossy postcard about “BUY A HOME WITH 0 DOWN!” that I wanted to set on fire.
The disability check had hit two days ago. Rent was paid. The rest of it…we’d limp through the month, same as always. As long as nothing big broke, we’d be fine. “Fine” being the Stretch Armstrong of words. The coffee machine gurgled. I poured a mug and carried it to Mom, set it on the table, then went back to the kitchen and dialed the number on the voicemail slip for her disability. Ten minutes of automated hell and one bored-sounding woman later, Mom’s case was “updated” and we were clear for another month.
I hung up and leaned on the counter, letting my forehead thunk softly against the cabinet door. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to live in one of the big houses I rode past on the way to the clubhouse. Fresh paint. Real brick. Driveway not held together by weeds. A mom who woke up early on purpose, not because of a hangover. A dad who, I don’t know, existed.
I thought of the girl from the parking lot. The blonde with the hazel eyes and the voice like broken glass. The way her clothes had fit. The car her parents had been driving. Out-of-state plates. Money practically screaming off them.
Princess.
She’d looked at me like I was something she’d scrape off her boot. And yeah, that pissed me off. But some ugly part of me also figured she probably went home to granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances and a mom who cooked dinner that didn’t come out of a box.
I groaned, pushing off the counter and checking in on Mom before escaping down the hallway. Five minutes later, I was standing under the world’s most anemic shower stream, letting lukewarm water run over my head. The plastic curtain stuck to my back. The shampoo was the cheap brand that burned your eyes if you even thought about opening them. The pipes clanged every time someone flushed in the neighboring trailer. I braced my hands on the wall and let myself say it out loud in the steam, where no one could hear.
“I’m getting out of here.”
A promise. A prayer. A threat. I wasn’t going to end up face-down on a couch that smelled like cigarettes and Merlot. I wasn’t going to disappear into a bottle because life got hard.
I’d seen what that did.
I’d seen what it turned people into.
I was going to becomethat.
College, if I somehow scraped together the grades and money. Maybe a football scholarship. Maybe something else. I didn’t know exactly what my way out would look like, but I knew it wasn’t going to be a lifetime of disability checks and hangovers and hoping the landlord didn’t raise rent. I shut off the water, towel-dried, pulled on my shirt and jeans, and laced my boots.
My bike was waiting out front under the slanted carport—my one beautiful thing in this world. Black as night. Gold pinstripes. Chrome polished within an inch of its life. Helmet hanging from the handlebar, visor scratched slightly at the corner from a drop two summers ago. A gift from August and Hannah when I turned sixteen. I ran my thumb over the paint like I always did.Keep me alive today, baby. I’ll keep you clean.She fired up on the second try. Smooth. Confident. I eased onto the road, gravel spitting behind me.
The heat hit like opening an oven door. The helmet trapped my sweat. The air tasted like exhaust and dust. And still, with the engine vibrating beneath me and the wind clawing at my shirt, it felt like freedom. The closer I got to the clubhouse, the more the scenery shifted. Trailers gave way to small, tired houses. Those turned into newer builds, manicured lawns, actual trees that someone watered on purpose. By the time I turned onto the road that led out to the Mills’ property, it was like I’d ridden into a different world.
The Steel Saints sign loomed ahead. The bay doors were rolled up, fans blasting inside. Rows of bikes gleamed in the sun. The smell of grease, gasoline, and last night’s barbecue drifted out to meet me. Home. The real one. I parked near the other bikes and peeled off my helmet, running a hand through my damp hair. Before I could take three steps, Dalton came barreling out the side door like a golden retriever with ADHD.
“There he is!” he crowed. “Sleeping Beauty. Finally come to pull his weight.”
“Morning to you too, jackass.” I nudged his shoulder. “You’re just pissed because August made you get up at eight.”
“Seven,” he corrected with a shudder. “There was sunlight and everything. It was disgusting. Child abuse, frankly.”
