Daughters of Anarchy

Jackson Teller stared at me with a look of bemused interest as I tried to maintain my composure. I saw him in my periphery, off to the right. But I faced Clay Morrow in the sanctuary, the expansive reaper adorned table separating us.

"Why are you here?" The latter man asked gruffly, his elbows on the table, his hands clenched in fists.
"I want in. I want to be a prospect." I said clearly for the second time. This admission was met with silence, much unlike the uproar of laughter that the statement had originally garnered. I was truly thankful for the melanin that hid the blush that was creeping up my neck.
"She comes highly recommended by Avery down in the Dallas charter." Jax replied, looking now to his President, handing over a few sheets of paper, marked with my name Cassia Belle Andrews, which included my head shot. "That's how she's even standing here right now." Even Clay looked impressed at this new information. I prayed a silent prayer for Avery, thanking God that I had won over the right people.
"So Avery likes the way you suck his dick?" Tig asked me plainly.
"He wouldn't know how good my head is. I've never touched him. I'm not a crow eater." I spat back, choosing just the right amount of venom to show my strength but not enough to be seen as a threat. I was thankful, in that moment, that my melanin covered the blush creeping into my cheeks. I narrowed my brown eyes at Tig, trying to intimidate him.
"Then what makes you so special, bitch?" Clay countered. "What could Avery possibly see in you?" I gathered my waist length black waves into a ponytail before I pulled my 357 magnum from its holster on my hip and aimed at the dartboard just above Jax's head. Hitting a bullseye would mean shooting an inch over Jax's skull. I emptied the barrel, each bullet hitting its mark. To his credit, Jax never flinched.

5 years later

"Babe. I don't know where the damn grits are." I called to my boyfriend of 2 years from the kitchen. He poked his head out from the bathroom, a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. His wet blonde hair fell witlessly around his pectoral muscles. I studied the tattoos on his bare chest for a moment, as I did whenever I could see him shirtless. Abel, his son (my almost stepson)'s name was written over his heart. Katherine, our daughter's name, was scrawled around his ribcage. Cassia, my name, was inked in giant cursive letters that descended vertically down his side.

"You're making grits?"

"Yeah, and all I can find is the fake can with the extra blade in it."

"Oh shit, I think I forgot to get them at the store."

"Like you purchased them but left them at the grocery store?"

"No, like I forgot to buy them." I heard the water running before he came out, his pale, creamy skin marked with the wounds of war. He crossed the space between us in a few quick strides, wrapping me in his arms from behind. He kissed my neck a couple times, nuzzling me, rubbing his arms over the tattoos on my forearms.

"Have I told you recently how good the Reaper looks on you?" He whispered.
"You're not going to make me forget that you screwed me over by complimenting me, sir." I feigned sternness. He laughed, the feeling rumbling through the both of us.
"I didn't really want grits this morning anyway…" he was interrupted by my phone ringing. "Don't answer it. I have plans for us right now…"
"What's going on Chibbs?"I answered, ignoring Jax and motioning to him to get dressed.
"Miss America, we've got a small problem brewing at the clubhouse."
"Want to be more specific?"
"There are a few of our Mexican friends here who wish to speak to you and Jacky-boy."
"We'll get there as soon as we can."

Jax and I rode up to the garage, barely braking before hopping off of our bikes, I dropped my helmet on the pavement. I drew my gun and pushed Jax and his President's patch behind me, walking into the room with my gun out.
"Tell your Sergeant at Arms to put the gun down, essay." Alvarez came out from behind a column, flanked by two of his men.
"I'll drop my gun when you tell me why you decided to just break into our clubhouse, essay." I replied for Jax.
"I've always liked her, because she has platinum balls, but Jax I'll shoot her."
"You ain't quick enough ass hole." I replied as Jax stepped around me. Chibbs walked through the back door, his gun drawn too.
"Let's all put the guns down," Jax offered, his hands in the air in a symbol of peace. Chibbs was faster to obey the order, lowering his gun with less hesitancy than I was. I moved slowly in front of Jax, dropping my gun to my hip and taking my finger off the trigger, holding both hands in the air. Alvarez's men did the same, slowly removing the threat and protecting their President at the same time.
"What's going on, Alvarez?" Jax continued, sitting on the bar stool nearest him. He already looked weary, and the conversation hadn't even started yet. I took the seat on his left.
"We have an impending mutual threat, Jackson." Alvarez didn't continue.
"Which would be...?" Jax prompted. Alvarez snapped his fingers and one of his men produced a file from underneath his cut. Alvarez took it and slid it across the bar to Jax. Chibbs shot me a look, asking silently if I had any idea what this was about. I shook my head stiffly, watching Jax's stony face as he flipped through the contents.
"It seems we do. Can I get you a drink, Marcus?" Came Jax's verdict, swift and clean. He passed the file first to Chibbs and then to me as Juice got us all a round of cognac. I flipped back the stiff paper of the folder and withheld the sharp intake of breath that almost escaped my lips. Staring me in the face was a glossy ATF photo of Clay Morrow, alive and well, organizing a small group of leather clad men around a large case of what could only be cocaine.