The younger bikers at the back snickered. Cole frowned, shifting his weight. His instincts were prickling. There was something off about the jacket. The leather was ancient, deeply creased, and worn white at the elbows. It wasn't fashion. It was a relic.

Martha slowly brought her spoon out of the cup and laid it perfectly parallel to the saucer. "It serves its purpose," she said. Her voice was surprisingly steady, carrying a grounded resonance. It was the voice of a woman who had spent a lifetime surviving things far worse than a loud-mouthed boy.

Jax smirked, leaning heavily against the counter, invading her space. "Yeah? What purpose is that? Keeping the dust off? Cuz it looks like you stole it off a scarecrow, Grandma."

More laughter from the back. Jax was feeding off it. "You know," Jax continued, reaching out a heavily tattooed hand, "people who don't ride shouldn't play dress up. It's disrespectful to the lifestyle."

"Jax." Cole's voice cracked like a whip across the room. "I said knock it off."

Jax held his hands up in mock surrender. "Relax. I'm just telling her." He turned back to Martha, his voice dropping to a patronizing drawl. "Why don't you do yourself a favor and take it off? I'll buy you a sweater."

Martha finally turned her head. She looked up at Jax. Her faded, piercing blue eyes were completely, utterly unimpressed. She looked at his crisp new cut, the bright white thread of his patches, and the arrogant sneer on his face.

"You're standing in my light, boy," she said.

The diner went graveyard silent. Jax's face flushed red. The smile vanished, replaced by a tight, ugly mask of offended pride. To be spoken to like a disobedient child by an eighty-year-old woman in front of his chapter was intolerable.

"Listen here, old lady," Jax snarled, taking a step closer, his hand reaching out to grab the shoulder of the oversized jacket.

"Don't touch me," Martha commanded.

Jax hesitated for a fraction of a second, but his pride pushed him forward. His fingers brushed the heavy, cracked leather of her shoulder.

Before his grip could tighten, a hand the size of a catcher's mitt clamped around his wrist. Jax gasped, his arm twisting as Cole yanked him back. The older biker had moved with terrifying speed. Cole stepped between Jax and Martha, his grip on Jax's wrist tight enough to grind the bones.

"I told you to sit down," Cole said, a lethal, vibrating hum in his chest.

"She was giving me lip!" Jax protested.