May 1995
Driving faster in my car
Falling farther from just what we are
Smoke a cigarette and lie some more
These conversations kill
Falling faster in my car…
"Fucking high school parties." Opie couldn't hold back his irritation as he stepped around a brunette half-passed out on the lawn. "Tell me why we're here again, Jax?"
Jax wished he could answer his friend, but, honestly, he didn't even know. He'd only heard about this party, one last bang-out before graduation, from an old stoner friend of his, a guy so out of it he had thought Jax would be a good person to cheat off of in Spanish. Not that Jax would be graduating. Not that he had even passed Spanish.
It wasn't as if these were his friends, either. Aside from the occasional run-in at the Quik Mart or the fast food joints off of Highway 12, he hadn't seen any of them since December. That was the last time he had seen the inside of a classroom. He could almost laugh. While they were sitting in nice little rows answering dumb-ass questions about The Scarlet Letter, Jax was arm-deep in engine rebuilds, or out on the road, running messages for the club, sun sweet on his face and bike purring between his legs. SAMCRO was his school now, and even though he wasn't a fully patched member yet, he would be, like his father and step-father. There wasn't any point pretending he was meant for anything else. It was a mother-fucking destiny.
But, still, here he was. Around a bunch of people he didn't really know, three-quarters of whom he could tell he scared shitless. He had decided to leave his cut at home – thank God Clay had asked the guys to take it easy on him by not making him wear the Prospect patch – but he and Ope had ridden out on their bikes, engine growl temporarily overpowering the sound of the blasting stereo coming out of the house. They had gotten a few once-overs as they made their way across the front lawn, a few guys' gazes frozen in place as they tried not to make eye contact, a bunch of wannabe-punk girls sipping from red Solo cups appraising them hungrily. Maybe, Jax thought momentarily, if it comes to that.
He roughly clapped a hand on Opie's flannel-clad shoulder. "The beer's free. And the girls…" He left the rest unsaid, pausing only to grin.
Inside, the music was even louder, pumping out a Stone Temple Pilots song that had been playing non-stop on the radio for nearly a year. The lights were dim and the whole place reeked of cigarettes and weed.
"I'll go get us some beers," Opie said, nodding towards the kitchen, where Jax could glimpse a keg surrounded by a bunch of buzz-cut guys in letter jackets.
Moving into the living room, Jax gave it a quick once-over, seeing nothing worth too much notice: a few potted plants, glass-topped coffee table, ceramic figurines lining the fireplace mantle. Some kids were on the carpet near the windows, passing around a joint. A couple sat on the end of the plaid-patterned couch, oblivious to the world, faces plastered together, hands everywhere. On the other end was a dark-haired girl, hands clasped around a cup of beer that she was sipping from. Her eyes stared out emptily into the space in front of her, indicating to Jax that she either had way too much on her mind or way too much to drink, probably both. As she moved the cup away from her face, he realized that he knew her, from where he couldn't exactly say, some vague impression left from the endless days of over-packed, locker-filled halls. For an instant, she glanced over at him, dark brown eyes flashing, only to turn her unsteady gaze back towards the invisible object of her attention.
In that flash, Jax latched on to a memory of a quiet girl two rows across from him in sophomore English – a class he had been taking for the second time – who, without warning one rainy Thursday afternoon, raised her hand and asked why Raskolniknov wasn't, in fact, the hero of the story, not the villain. The teacher had sputtered – "How can a killer, an outlaw, possibly be a hero, Miss Knowles?" – and dismissed the question entirely, but it had woken Jax out of his literal and figurative sleep, if only for a few minutes. She had never raised her hand again, though. What the fuck is she doing here? he thought.
Time to take her home
Her dizzy head is conscience laden
Time to take a ride
It leaves today
No conversation
Time to take her home
Her dizzy head is conscience laden
Time to wait too long, to wait too long, to wait too long…
What the fuck am I doing here? Tara asked herself, already regretting so much about the evening, starting with her original decision to come to this party with her so-called friend Michelle, who had promptly ditched her to run out back to the pool with her crush du jour, and ending with her most recent decision to drink three – make that three and a half – cups of shitty-ass beer.
The original decision could be laid at the feet of her father, who had showed up at home that night already drunk, and who seemed prepared to lay into a fresh bottle of Johnnie Walker as soon as he could manage to get the wrapper off."Goddamn it, Tara, come and help me!" He never stopped yelling, especially when he had too much. In a way, even though she missed her like crazy, Tara was glad her mother hadn't lived to see this, hadn't had to watch this pitiful excuse for a family. Personally, she couldn't wait to get the hell out of this town the first chance she got. For tonight, though, she would settle for being out of that house.
The decision – although it wasn't much of a decision, but more of a resignation – to drink the shitty-ass beer couldn't really be explained quite so well. But what else does one do at a shitty-ass party, when one has been ditched by one's shitty-ass friend? After twenty minutes of wandering around with a cup in her hand – a cup many guys were more than willing to refill – Tara had made her way to the living room, half-heartedly watching the potheads on the floor get mesmerized by the window drapes and actively trying to ignore the couple next to her on the couch busy searching for each other's tonsils.
She thought about going home, although she had no ride, and Michelle would no doubt be occupied for a while. Just then, she saw a shadow move near the door to the hallway and glanced up for a moment.
Jax Teller was staring at her. What the ever-loving fuck?
She knew Jax Teller. Everyone knew Jax Teller. If you were smart, you kept your distance, and if you were even smarter, you pretended he did not exist. His family was part of some biker club who everybody knew was carrying all the time – God, he probably had a gun on him right now – and who seemed to have a handle on things in this town in a way she didn't even want to understand. He had slept through most of the English class they had been in together, never handing in a paper, never cracking open a book, and had disappeared after the end of the fall semester. She knew he was working in his step-father's garage, wearing his biker leather around town like it was an invitation to try to mess with him, and now he was standing not fifteen feet away, hopefully no longer looking at her.
"Here you go, man. Bottom of the keg, though." This voice was lower – not his, she somehow knew – and then, thankfully, she heard the metallic jingle of wallet chains and the two shadows in her peripheral vision were gone.
She let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. And promptly downed the remainder of her beer.
Fifteen minutes later, she decided she had had enough of waiting for Michelle, of this party, of this goddamn night in general. She stood up, only to realize her head was circling somewhere around her knees, and promptly sat back down again on the couch. Everything was swimming – up, down, right, left – and she blinked several times to refocus. Goddamn it. She couldn't even stand up. Her father's fucking daughter, after all.
She took a grip on the couch arm, using it to push herself up. Trying to keep her head level – and not clue in anyone else as to how ripped she had gotten – she moved slowly towards the hallway, hoping to make it to the banister and take a minute there before she tried to go anywhere else.
Halfway across the hallway, nearly within reach of the railing, Tara suddenly felt something slam into her from the side, causing her to spill across the floor, hands splayed to catch her fall.
"Oh, shit, baby, I didn't see you there," a male voice echoed through the hallway. She felt arms come around her waist and shoulders as she was hauled back up on her feet, landing in the arms of a total stranger. Attempting to refocus her vision again, she first saw the faded logo of his Pink Floyd t-shirt, then looked up into his face; he seemed amused, perhaps at the situation they were in, but then as he glanced up and down the length of her, a harder, more directedlook began to appear in his eyes.
"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, his eyes staring a little more closely into hers.
Was he looking to see how messed up she was? Oh, God, she had to get out of here. Where the fuck was Michelle?
"I'm fine." Tara tried to push away from him a little bit, but his hold was firm on her upper arms. He pushed a lock of hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. Shit, did he think that was sexy? Despite the danger to her equilibrium, she turned her head away from his touch.
"I don't know… You look a little out of it." He snaked an arm across her shoulders, holding her in tighter.
"I'm fine," she repeated, as if saying it again would have a different effect. She knew the words weren't coming out as strongly as she wanted. She tried to pull back a little more forcefully. There were people coming in and out of the hallway. Why weren't they doing anything? "I just need to find my friend…"
He began to pivot her towards the stairs. "No, I think you may need to lie down. Let's go find someplace for you to…" Oh, God, no, she could not let him finish that sentence. She could not let him…
She felt the jarring clamp of a hand coming down on his shoulders, as it reverberated through her own.
"She said she was fine."
She looked behind her. Holy fuck, it was Jax Teller. And everyone was staring.
Too much walking shoes worn thin
Too much trippin' and my soul's worn thin
Time to catch a ride
It leaves today
Her name is what it means
Too much walking shoes worn thin...
He almost didn't see it. Opie had gone off to see some of his old friends from the JV baseball team, and like fuck Jax was going to stand around and talk about team sports, so he had gone back to the house to get another beer. The girl from the couch – the girl from his English class, he corrected himself – was standing in the hallway with some guy, looking pretty friendly as his arms were draped all over her. Good for her, man, he thought, until she turned and he saw the look in her eyes.
When he was eleven, his father had taken him camping up at Los Vaqueros. They were just messing around, seeing if they could find some squirrels for Jax to practice shooting at with his BB gun, when they came across a coyote with its leg caught in a rusted bear trap. It was the look of confusion, panic, and terror on that coyote – up until the point that his dad had shot it in the head – that he never could quite forget. She looked exactly the same.
He could hear her quiet protests that she was fine. He could hear the guy's reply about needing to lie down. And, unfortunately, Jax knew exactly what lying down would mean for her. If she had this little fight in her now, she'd have none by the time he got her upstairs.
And without really knowing what he was doing, he paced over to them, palming the guy's shoulder with enough force that he got the message.
"She said she was fine," he said slowly.
Sometimes he had to thank God for the reputation he had. Because when the guy looked back to see who had touched him, the face of easy confidence slipped, replaced by the realization that he was now in deep shit.
He released the girl, pulling his hands up in a protest of innocence. "Hey, man…"
The girl, now without a source of support, listed towards the wall, barely catching herself with her hands. A crowd of onlookers had apparently gathered in the doorways, waiting to see what would happen next. The guy still stood there, playing like he was the injured party, and with every passing second, Jax wanted more and more to punch him in the face.
"Get the fuck out of here," Jax quietly growled. And, luckily, the guy didn't need much more convincing than that and took off down the hallway. Jax looked around the room, daring anyone else to keep standing there staring at him.
The girl was still leaning precariously against the wall, seemingly holding herself up by will alone.
"C'mere," he said, as he lightly grasped her shoulders and helped her sit down on the stairs.
Time to take her home
Her dizzy head is conscience laden
Time to take a ride
It leaves today
No conversation...
No one would believe her. That was the thing. Even she wouldn't have believed her. If someone had said to her that morning, Tara, by the end of today, you will get shit-faced at some random party, and Jax Teller will not only prevent you from being physically assaulted, he will then play nice with you and sit with you on the stairs while you sober up, she would have told them they were fucking insane.
But this was what was happening.
She didn't know what to say to him. Honestly, what could she say to him? But she had to say something. She couldn't just sit there, so close to him, knowing she had almost been the reason for a fight, not understanding for the life of her why, thinking about how he probably beat the shit out of guys all the time, probably for no reason at all, smelling him, and damn, he smelled really good.
"Thanks."
"Yeah," he replied, with a little nod.
He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, distractedly picking under his fingernails, the napped flannel of his shirt stained near the cuffs with what looked like motor oil.
She kept looking at him, catching little glimpses, until she realized she was full-on staring. What was she thinking? Jax Teller isn't someone you just look at. He chose just that moment to glance back at her, his blue eyes catching hers in a way that made her breath pull up against her chest. And, oh, God, definitely no one would believe her now. He was really and truly looking right fucking at her. And she couldn't help herself; she stared at his mouth, at the blond lengths of his hair, at his neck where it met the jaw, sprouting a tiny, half-day's growth of beard.
She should have been running scared. She should have been fucking terrified of him.
But she wasn't. Sitting here, with him, she suddenly realized how tired she was. Tired of playing house with a drunk dad, trying to pretend that everything was fine. Tired of staying quiet and unobtrusive, like a fucking scared little rabbit, hoping no one would notice her. But this boy next to her, he was danger and freedom, he was a gigantic middle finger to the world, and goddamn it, he was so beautiful.
The words came out of her mouth before she even knew she had thought them. "Have you ever just wanted..." she started.
"What?"
"To be somewhere else?"
He smiled a little, warmth seeping into his eyes. "Yeah."
She smiled back at him, still not understanding what was happening between them. Goddamn, she must still be pretty trashed. That was the only way to explain the words that were coming out of her mouth.
"You've got a motorcycle, right?"
Time to take her home
Her dizzy head is conscience laden
Time to wait too long, to wait too long, to wait too long
Conversations kill
Conversations kill
Conversations kill
She held onto his shoulder as they walked across the lawn, partially for balance, but he could tell she was in better shape than she had been when he first saw her. He caught Opie's glance in the distance – his friend was circled round with a few other guys, smoking and knocking back beers – and in return earned a clear nod of acknowledgement regarding the girl by his side and the direction in which they were headed.
He still didn't quite understand what she wanted. Hell, he didn't even understand what he wanted. She had asked to see his bike, and that normally meant something pretty clear to him, but he sensed that wasn't really what she was after. She still hadn't completely sobered up, so he knew he should have tried to help her find her friend, who would get her home safe, but he wasn't ready to say goodnight to her just yet. There was something there, in her small movements, in the dark pools of her eyes, in her ability just to sit with him in the quiet.
Once they got to his bike, she circled around it, taking in the metal and chrome, the silver SAMCRO decal of the grim reaper. To his surprise, she sat back against the seat, looking at him again like she had on the stairs, seeing something he wasn't sure he even recognized.
"Will you… will you just take me…" Her voice trailed off.
"Take you where?"
Her eyes were full of desperation and alcohol. "I don't care. Anywhere."
Somehow, he knew exactly what she was asking for.
"I can do anywhere."
He handed her his helmet, and watched her struggle awkwardly to get the clasp shut. Grasping her hands – small, thin, warm – he attached the clasp with a little click, but didn't immediately move away. He could feel the smoothness of her neck against the back of his fingers, the tiny motions of breath and blood. He turned to straddle the bike, inviting her to get up behind him. As she threw her leg over the seat, her hands squeezed tight around his rib cage, constricting his breathing in a way that he found surprisingly enjoyable.
"What's your name, darlin'?" he asked, as the engine roared to life.
"Tara," she half-yelled into his ear.
"Tara," he repeated, turning the word over in his mind. "Nice to meet you. I'm Jax Teller."