Jaxon wasn't looking at Arthur. He was staring at the other man in the photo. A tall, muscular man with a crooked nose, a thick mustache, and a very distinct, crude tattoo of a coiled rattlesnake on his left forearm. Jaxon's head snapped up, hitting the underside of the table.
He practically tore the table away from the wall as he sat up violently, his chair screeching against the linoleum. The sudden noise made several patrons jump out of their seats. Jaxon slammed the photograph down on the table right in front of Arthur's face.
His dark eyes were no longer cold. They were blazing with a volatile mix of shock, confusion, and raw, unrestrained fury. "Where did you get this?" Jaxon demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal whisper that carried more threat than a shout ever could. "How do you know this man?"
Arthur stared at the photograph, then up at the terrifying giant leaning over him. The old man's face drained of color, turning the shade of old parchment. His eyes darted from the photo to Jaxon's face, tracing the lines of the biker's jaw, the shape of his eyes.
A realization, heavy and devastating, crashed down upon Arthur. "Dear God," Arthur whispered, his voice cracking. He looked at Jaxon's hands, specifically at the thick fingers resting on the table. "You're Tommy Reynolds' boy."
Jaxon reached across the table, his massive hand grabbing the lapels of Arthur's corduroy jacket. He didn't pull the old man out of the booth, but the threat of violence was palpable. I asked you a question, old man. How do you know my father?
Arthur didn't flinch away from the biker's grip. Instead, tears welled up in his pale eyes, spilling over his wrinkled cheeks. "I know him," Arthur said softly. "Because I am the reason he never came home to you."
Jaxon froze. The air in the diner felt instantly freezing. He released Arthur's jacket as if the fabric had suddenly caught fire. He sank back into his booth, his chest heaving. "What did you say?"
Arthur reached down with trembling hands and pulled the empty satchel onto his lap, smoothing the old leather. He took a slow, agonizing breath, preparing to tear open a wound that had been festering for over 30 years. It was 1991. Arthur began, his voice barely above a whisper. Yet Jaxon hung on to every syllable.
Detroit, the old McMillan steel foundry. You were just a kid, maybe eight or nine years old. Your father, Thomas, he was the best floor manager I ever had. I was the shift foreman.
Jaxon stared at him. The memories of a father he barely knew flooding back. The smell of oil, the rough stubble on his cheek, the massive hands that used to lift him up to touch the ceiling. He remembered the night the police officers came to the door.
He remembered his mother's agonizing screams. The official report said it was an industrial accident, a structural collapse near blast furnace number four. They said it was an accident, Jaxon growled, his hands balling into fists on the tabletop.
They did give out, Arthur said, the tears flowing freely now. But it wasn't an accident. It was negligence. My negligence. The company was cutting corners. Pushing us to meet impossible quotas.
The thermal shielding around furnace 4 was failing. I submitted the reports. I asked for the shutdown, but management threatened to fire the whole shift if we stopped production. I was scared. I had a mortgage, a sick wife, so I signed the safety bypass.