The mattress under her groans and squeaks in protest of all her wiggling. Sleepy eyes blink awake with a big stretch and a groan. She rubs her eyes and stumbles up and into her well loved slippers to protect her feet from the freezing clubhouse floors.
“Mornin’ pretty princess!”
“Up and at ‘em now, Sleeping Beauty?”
She rolls her eyes, and waves off the men already crowded around the place. Her mother, the gracious woman she is, is standing next to the freshly brewed coffee pot.
“Look who’s up,” Compared to the teasing men, Gemma’s tone is soft. She cups her daughter’s tired face in her slim, cold, hands, and swoops her thumbs under her eyes to rid of the gunk from the crevice of her inner eye. “Good morning, my sweet girl.”
“Mornin’, mama.” She responds, just as sweetly. The two woman aren’t very well known for being well behaved, or even just nice. With eachother though, it’s different. Gemma’s daughter, she’s just a peice of her. What’s not to like about that?
“Rough night, baby?” Gemma asks while the younger woman leans into her hands for a second before allowing her mother to pull back to pour a cup of coffee.
She shrugs in response, and takes the filled mug (her mug, with brass knuckles as a handle that no one else is allowed to use). It’s exactly how she likes it, always is when Gemma makes it — black with a little bit too much Bailey’s.
“Kinda. I totally kicked this dudes ass, but he kicked me real hard—check this out-“ She lifts the grey wife beater from one side of her torso, revealing a giant bruise in the shape of a bootprint from right under her boobs to her belly button.
“What in the hell happened to you?” Jax picks the perfect time to walk in.
“Fought some guy at a car meet last night.”
“I thought I told you to stop going to that shit, you’re gonna get arrested,”
“And I thought I told you to shut the fuck up but here we are, Jackson!”
“Alright,” Gemma cuts through. The woman hasn’t had a moment of peace since the first one was born. Then, nine months later, it got a hell of a lot worse. “That’s enough, now.”
She scrunches her face up and sticks her tongue out, waving her middle finger at the boy from behind her mother.
“What kinda trouble you getting into now, pretty girl?” Tiggy taps his fingers against the counter top, nodding over in her direction. She grins wildly, happy to tell her story.
“Went to this drag race couple towns over with this guy-“
The bar top disrupts at the talk of a possible man in her life. It will never matter how many years go by, the idea of her getting stuck down to a boy will forever be hated. No man, especially no damn boy, could possibly be good enough for SAMCRO’s daughter. For Gemma’s, her own little look in the mirror, daughter.
“This stupid ass guy who gave me his number last week after I fixed his car, I just wanted a free ride, goddamn it!” She clears the air and they finally fall silent. “Anyways, we get there, and this ugly ass dude is walking around touchin’ up on this chick and i’d had a little bit to drink so I just went over there and decked the fuck out of him. Then blah, blah, blah, that guy I went with bailed on me and shit, so I called Tara up and she brought me back. I fuckin’ love that girl by the way, dude,” She looks over to her brother again, with a little bit of a glare. “don’t you dare fuck that up.”
“Quite an eventful night there, princess, huh?” Chibs grins, from Tiggys side. “I’ll take a look at that later, make sure our girls all good, yeah?”
She nods, and then chugs the rest of her coffee. She gives Chibby a kiss on the cheek on the way out, with a thank you and an exclamation of needing a shower.
“Alright, it’s fine, i’m here now! I’m here to solve everyone’s problems, don’t worry!” Obviously, she has to make her entrance into the garage known. She’s wearing the same shirt she’d fallen asleep in last night (it’s fine, she showered and sprayed a little perfume on it, it’s just gonna get dirty anyways) and her usual baggy, work jeans covered in oil and all kinds of other stains.
“Hey, girl,” Juice lifts his head from the engine of a Ford pickup to grin over at her. “Wassup?”
With no bounds for self control or personal space, the duo shares their secret handshake, complete with a brief hug.
“Dude, I gotta tell you about last night,” She starts. “What’s up with this thing, though? I can tell my wonderful, heroic story and save your day while i’m at it.” She nods towards the trucks opened hood.
“I got it, battery just gave out. Keep me some company though, what happened?” He turns the radio perched up against the other side of him down to hear her better before getting back to work.
“Okay, so I went to this drag race meet with some guy-“
Juice had long since left the garage in her hands for the night. Club shit always ends up tearing him, and who ever else had been working away, leaving the closing key in her hands. Not that it bothers her, she’d trade in early mornings for late nights any day of the week. The keys jingle and clang while she spins them around her finger on her walk towards the office.
She throw the keys on their usual hook, then locks up with her own, personal keys. Benefits of living at the SAMCRO clubhouse (for now, and hopefully very shortly, atleast) are as listed : 1. a key to almost every room and building on the property 2. a tiny dorm room you have the ability to call your own for free 3. no water or electricity bills 4. that’s about it.
Trying to go to bed at a normal time with the constant parties sucks, too. Yeah, she gave up on that one awhile ago. Tonight, there is no party but the club members have no bounds to late nights dealing with motorcycle involved politics. On those days, they’re all crowded around a carved reaper and the rest of the building is barren of nothing but muffled conversation behind closed doors leaking through. She knows more than she should from the thin walls. Like their troubles with the Mayans currently being resolved. And the guns.
On these nights, it’s only her and Chucky. Her mother has long since made her way home. She doesn’t mind that either, just her and Chucky — a free beer or maybe even a whiskey on the rocks in the peice and quiet isn’t all that bad after being arms deep in engines for all too long.
She wipes the grease off her hands and onto her already disgusting jeans as she makes her way over for a drink.
“What’ll it be today, Ms.Teller?”
“Whatever you’re willin’ to give, Chucky.” She grins back at the man, giving him a nod and a thanks when he slides a Modelo over. A man of good taste, indeed.
She takes her time, pretends to be interested in whatever stupid fucking football game is playing with Chucky. He likes that shit, and it’s nice for people to like what you do sometimes. Once she tips her head back for a final time to find the bottle empty, she places it behind the bar, and makes her way to the shower once more to rid of the garage smell she’s been consumed in (in comparison to the alcohol that was spilling off of her this morning).
10:30 pm: oh, what the hell, one more won’t do anymore harm, will it?
Now, she might have grabbed a nice, refreshing, shower-beer as she happened to pass by the fridge on the way to the bathroom.
After throwing her ‘nice’ clothes on — fitting jeans and a tight top — she glides back on out in search of a time-to-wait-for-my-ride-beer. Surprisingly, the men are already out of their meeting and have taken up most of the seating at the small bar. A couple have taken up a game of pool.
“Hey, Hap.” She nods, and takes the barstool next to the tall man. He nods back while pushing the beer Chucky had slid in her direction the tiniest bit further so that it would finally reach her. “Thanks.”
“Couple people I know are hitting some house party up in half an hour.” He glances over, finally breaking his stare from the TV. Hap’s one of the guys really into football, too. It was kind of surprising at first, given how quiet he is next to the screaming men at the other side of the bar, but unlike them, his eyes never left the screen for anything.
“Need a ride?” Hap nods, again. He’s always done that a lot. She’s always liked it, too, and how straight to the point he is.
“Nah,” She grins back at his concerned eyes, and gives his bicep a fist bump. “They’re picking me up. I appreciate it, though.”
“Stay safe, girl.” His face is trained back on the TV.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Hap, i’m a big girl with a mean right hand. Also, I have a Glock in my purse.” This time, he nods twice in approval, and even gives her a little grin.
12:00 am : party rockers in the house tonight
Usually, house parties kinda suck. This one…this one absolutely does not. An hour and a half in, everyone is either too plastered to tell a difference between the noise of the mediocre band and the rest of the insanely loud crowd, or just tipsy enough to think they sound great. She’s somewhere right in the middle, and the rest of her Jack and Coke plus the shot some random guy will inevitably want to do with her, will undoubtedly send her toppling over into the plastered category.
The best thing about these parties, is always that there isn’t a single club member in sight. Her, and the few hot ass, absolutely beloved girl friends (aka her only friends outside of the club) shes got, can shake as much ass as they please, no matter what music is playing.
Tonight, it’s something warranting a mosh pit. A shitty, poorly maintained circle pit, but a mosh pit nonetheless. After the rest of that Jack and Coke, it seems like a great idea to join into that, which goes about as good as it sounds.
1:50 am: the party rockers have rocked just a little too hard
Mia, a tall blonde in a tiny blue dress, is throwing up out of the window in the seat next to her. Her sobbing isn’t making it much better, but Mia usually gets like this after drinking too much too soon after a break up. All you can do is hold her hair back, and get her the fuck home.
Rachel, from the drivers seat, tries to console the girl by yelling nice things over the sound of the wind waving in through the open window, and Sam has been passed out in the passenger seat since she got in the damn car. Somehow, it seems Teller girl is doing the best of the drunk people, so Teller-Morrow Automotive is the first stop.
The gates are locked, like usual, but unusually, there are men conversing on the other side. Rachel just pulls up beside the gate as she usually does, and waits until she’s closed and locked it back up behind her. The tires squeal while Mia waves bye with teary eyes and a snotty nose. With her heels in hand, the world still blurry, and the concrete wobbling under her feet, she walks back to the clubhouse.
Soon, she realizes that these men aren’t Sons. Their hair is dark, and even from far their voices don’t sound familiar. What really gives it away, though, is their bikes. Low to the ground, with high handles, and gorgeous, vibrant, colors. Her favorite. She has to stop herself from taking a seat on the vacant, dark green one. Everything these men are saying sounds like gibberish, but so did everything she’s heard in the last two hours. She’s only able to tell that they’re speaking Spanish when she’s close enough to make out a few words.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” She shouts, halfway to the club house.
The men startle out of their conversation. The farthest one with midlength hair looks like a stick figure next to the other one with muscles bulging out of his shirt and a little bit of a goatee going on. The cigarette breathing smoke and shortening as ash hits the concrete almost falls from the skinnier one’s fingers.
“Am I gonna get an answer here, or?” She trails off, finally coming to a stop in front of them.
“Mayans—are you supposed to be here?” He takes a puff of the cigarette before speaking.
“Am I supposed to be here? I live here you crackhead looking motherfucker!” She throws her hands up. “I’ll fuck you up!”
“Alright, alright,” He raises his hands with light laughter, and the bigger one actually looks kinda scared. “My bad, girl.”
“Yeah, it is your bad, bitch.” She mumbles, and continues making her way towards the club house doors.
“What the fuck just happened?” An unfamiliar voice speaks before she closes the door, so she assumes it’s the big guy who hadn’t answered. The door slams shut behind her, and she tries to chuck her shoes at the bar but they just scatter across the floor.
One of the pointy heels hits Jax in the knee. He turns, to see what the hell is going on, and yells her name.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“What the fuck are you doing, man!” She throws her purse on top of the bar, and it actually lands next to him this time. “And what are these hot ass Mexican dudes loitering outside doing?”
The clubhouse has gone silent since the moment she began clambering through, but she only seems to notice it now that she’s taking a second to look around.
“Matter of fact, what’s goin’ on with the hot ass Mexican dudes in here…” She leans against the bar next to Jax’s seat, muttering out a ‘goddamn’ and sending the stranger on the other side of her brother a nod. Pitch black hair is slicked back, and cut shorter on the sides. There’s a little grey growing in his beard, and his pretty, brown eyes are framed by thick eyebrows.
“Can you just fuckin’-“ Jax sighs, and rubs his face. “Just go to fuckin’ bed, please.”
“Well, I was working on it, but now that you said that, I’m gonna go figure out what this hot guys name is, bitch.” She starts leaving before he can give more of a response than her name, sighed and strained, and shoves his head a little on the way.
“Well, hello,” The trip is short, considering he was one bar stool away.
“Tryin’ to get me in trouble here, pretty?” A blush coats her cheeks, and she pokes at his arm with a giggle. It’s firm, and muscly, and warm, and the flannel covering it is soft.
“Me? Never!” She grins at the man, and clambers onto the barstool beside him Jax isn’t taking up. “Which one of them bikes is yours?”
“Green one.” He takes a gulp of the beer in front of him with a smug grin when her eyebrows raise.
“No shit?” He nods, clearly proud. “You wanna take me for a ride, someday?”
“We’ll have to see about that one, won’t we?”
She scooches in closer, and murmurs, “You tryin’ to let me ride somethin’ else, first?”
He chuckles against the lip of his bottle, placing it down while he shakes his head at her.
“You are nothin’ but trouble, Chiquita. Nothin’ but trouble.”
1:30 pm : repeat it all again
The next morning is much rougher than usual. Combined with the big ass bruise over her torso, the hit she took to the head in that dumbass mosh pit, and the torturous migraine already pounding her skull, the day is set to be interesting.
She can’t remember anything after that hot guy, except an older, hot guy a couple inches shorter (seemed like those inches were packed away somewhere else, if you asked her), and a flash of her own voice arguing with Jax some more.
Goddamn, she thinks, the Mayans better come around more often. Well, time for a coffee.
She pulls pants on, and stumbles down the hall.
“Oh, good morning, princess!”
“How was your beauty sleep, our lovely lady?”
