AUTHORS NOTE: Hi guys! Okay, as you all know, A Dustland Fairytale Beginning was my child - the very first Jax and Tara fanfiction I'd written, with the same concept. I wanted to revisit the idea, but I also wanted to take in suggestions/criticisms and ultimately make this version ten times better. So, basically, this is my original idea, revamped, new, and made so much better! I really hope you guys like it as much as you loved the first. It's rated T for now, but will probably switch to M later on!
1994; Jax
When I turned thirteen years old, the first automotive lesson I received involved the clutch of a Harley beneath my weak grip, accompanied by a thrilling sparkle in my untainted sapphire eyes. I looked to my father for praise and approval – of which I received, but this moment between us could not be entirely happy. No, there was an edge of darkness to it, something I didn't understand until I was old enough to feel it myself. It was in the way my father's forehead creased, and how the corners of his lips turned down as I revved the engine and relished momentarily on the forceful vibrations and how the metal felt between my thighs. It was in his eyes, liquid lapis lazuli, worn down and far away as he saw a self discovery path that I had yet to stumble down.
My father seized the moment – his eldest son sitting on his most prized possession – and he was proud, anxious, angry and enthused in one fell swoop.
It was an evil omen.
And the very moment I sat there, testing my limits, learning the feel of my father's bike, I felt something stirring in my brittle bones, in my Teller blooded veins. It was exhilarating to me, controlling something so powerful in which my feet could barely touch the ground on each end. And, more than anything else, I felt this was what mattered; this moment birthing a generation, a boy into a man. This was my preordained legacy, to sit on this bike. To someday, coat my chest in a leather Redwood Original, brandishing the same patch under my father's clavicle.
President.
When I turned fifteen, I watched as they shoveled the remains of my father's bike into the bed of Piney's pickup truck, my father cold and lifeless in a body bag, somewhere in a morgue. They called him a fighter back then, which was something else I hadn't understood while standing beside his hospital bed. I looked down upon a meaty, bloody vegetable for two long, grueling days and I'd decided that stubborn felt like a better word for him, my father who was smeared like a pancake on the highway. I didn't cry until I was alone at his grave, beating my knuckles bloody on his cold, forever headstone. It took me five months to touch another bike, and seven to ride one. And when I rode one again, I didn't stop. I felt as if I cheated death every time my ride ended, and I was invincible because of it.
I'm invincible now, speeding mercilessly down the highway, a sweet sixteen misfit with a misshapen hole in my chest. Somewhere between deciding to wear my father's rings and prematurely dropping out of high school, I let my hair get shaggy enough to be described as disgusting, grungy surfer and I have to push it out of my eyes to take in my surroundings. I park my bike at the summer carnival, right next to the same truck that once bore my father's bike's remains. A year ago now.
Opie is here, somewhere, stumbling around piss drunk with our intimate group of friends and waiting on me to arrive. The Charming Summer Carnival is the last bash before the season ends and school begins, though Opie, Juice, and I will not be among them. No, our plans are much larger – something crooked, yet hanging in consequence. I pluck a fresh cigarette in my mouth and kick the grass under my white, scuffed sneaker, before I skillfully hop the fence to avoid paying for a ticket like a model citizen. I have the cash, of course I do, but something about disobeying rules pumps adrenaline into my veins and makes me feel... well, like a badass.
The Charming Summer Carnival is swarming with bodies, mother's buying cotton candy's for squealing daughters, preteens tossing rings at bottles for stuffed prizes, and senior citizens lounging about the pie contests. I toss my extinguished bud into a puke smelled trash can before brandishing my flask, stealing a large swig of whiskey from the metal canister and then stowing it away again in my back jeans pocket. I'm not planning to get drunk, and it wouldn't be easy for me, anyway. I've been dipping into the Teller liquor cabinet for as long as I can remember, and my mother used to notice it more, before she took up marijuana and thought she hid the key well enough. Her sock drawer wasn't exactly inventive, and I believe she just gave up the losing fight.
"Teller!" I hear Opie's booming voice pointed at my back, and I turn around to greet it. Opie is there by the ferris wheel, accompanied by Juice, Wendy Case, Donna Lerner, and some girl named Amber or Andrea or Ashley or something that doesn't stick because I don't care. "Get your ass over here!"
I grin wickedly, sauntering over to meet them while Juice hands ticket stubs to the carny. When I reach them, Opie familiarly hugs me like a bear, patting my back like an earthquake on my spine.
All three girls are wearing next to nothing, leaving no room for imagination and boring me endlessly – I've been with quite a few of them, actually, the white trash femme fatales that I seem to perpetually attract. But I have belonged to none, and none have belonged to me, because I get this aching sensation that something is horribly amiss every second I try to connect with them. Though I fit into the mold of this life, there's something deeper in me – something none of them can understand. Mostly because I can't understand it myself.
"Jax, you're with Alana." Juice says, nudging me pointedly but all I can think is, so that's her damned name.
"Is that okay?" Alana regards me with a seductive look about her smile, tossing her unnaturally blonde hair over one tattooed shoulder. It's a heart with an arrow through it, and it makes me smirk, because if she tries this tango with me? That's exactly what will happen to her.
I'm usually a gentleman with women, though. Gemma Teller would never let me get away with less than that. It isn't their fault that they always end up an uncanny prop in my whirlwind life.
"Sure, darlin'." I respond respectively, even allowing her to wrap an arm around my middle as if she's claimed me. She hasn't, but I can let her pretend.
I watch as Opie slides onto a ferris wheel seat with Donna, and I give them a knowing look as Op puts his arm around her frame. When Opie catches me staring, he lazily winks in my direction, and though it's all fun and games for now, I know there's something deeper in the way their eyes stick to one another and how Donna always seems to smooth out Opie's clothes and push his sandy hair out of his eyes. I don't try to understand it, because I'm not sure I can. Love isn't a concept I'm familiar with – not even by the example of John and Gemma Teller, a cold distance thwarted between them toward the final dying breath of their relationship.
Juice slides in to the next car with Wendy, who looks high out of her fucking mind as she sways where she sits. Juice's eyes are brimmed red, and I'm positive he's had a taste of whatever it is, too. Drugs don't necessarily bother me, but I don't do them. There isn't enough space in my body for unmanageable emotions.
"Jax, we're next." Alana gets my attention, sliding into the third car before I follow suit. After we're secure, the rickety old ferris wheel spins into life, pushing our car upwards into the air. I feel the thrill in the pit of my stomach, always a junky for any shred of adrenaline. I love heights – a testament to all my years sitting on the top Teller-Morrow Automotives, no matter how many times my mother halfheartedly screamed at me to get down. There's a reckless abandon in me that I can't seem to stifle, and as I age, it tugs at me harder. Pushing me towards...
I feel it grow each time I sit at my father's grave, just a few paces from where my brother also eternally rests. Thomas. A sliver of me that barely got the chance to exist.
Alana purposely pushes herself against me expectantly – given the fact that Opie and Donna and Juice and Wendy are all tongue locked. But my attention has been compromised by the body down below, buying a caramel apple for a small brunette.
David Hale.
Immediately and without warning, a rage flutters in my veins, causing my grip on the safety bar to involuntarily tighten. It drips like an IV filled with acid in my mind, and all is lost but one thought. Kill.
My last day at Charming High had nearly been a bloody one, and I regretted each second I spent without that promised blood coating my knuckles. David Hale, the arrogant son of a bitch (and also the son of the county judge) had smarted off, bashing my father, my mother, and the Sons of Anarchy in one go, believing no retribution would be had on account of my leave of permanent absence. But retribution would be had. Yes, it fucking would. I owe him a bruise or two, and debt would be collected tonight.
As soon as the ferris wheel lets off, I lividly storm off in a blind rage, not even stopping to pay heed to my friend's confused shouts at my back. I know Juice and Opie will follow regardless – they know what I look like when I've been tipped over that edge, like I am now. Like a vulture set on prey, I'd watched David's moves from the ferris wheel, saw him make his way through the carnival to the cluster of games, and followed each of his specific tracks. He's by the popcorn stand now, standing with a group of his friends and the same small brunette. Good. The more the merrier, and I crave a brawl.
Control it, Jax. Control.
"Hale." I get his abrupt attention by forcibly shoving his back, causing David to drop his bag of popcorn. The fluffy bits pollute the pavement in wild scatters, and we now have the bystander's full attention. I'm ecstatic. I want them to see this fucker fall.
"What the – " David growls, spinning around to regard me with a fierce expression that doesn't even begin to intimidate me. "Teller."
Opie and Juice flank me now, just as I predicted, sleeves rolled up and fists poised for action. I grin a bit evilly, jaw strict and tight with my intention. I feel the hunger eating at my insides and the poison drip, drip, dripping, urging me to let the rage explode. Like Pandora's box, once opened it could not be undone.
"Once in for all, Hale," I spit at his boots, nostrils flared. "Let's finish this shit."
As soon as we step towards one another, the tiny brunette accompanying David steps forward, a pillar between him and me with her palms held out. What the hell.
"No. Stop." She says, so strong and sure I can't help but pause. Who is this girl?
"Tara, get out of the way." David unaffectedly says, never taking his eyes from my face. I feel his searing gaze on me, but I'm not paying attention. My attention has been compromised; I'm looking at the girl. She's all wide hazel eyes, skinny and small, and her dark hair sweeps her elbows in a careless sort of way, like she simply doesn't care to care about it. She's pretty in that vulnerable way that makes you want to protect her, but it seems Tara doesn't need any protecting at all.
I'm intrigued immediately. She'd had enough balls to stand between my fists and their target.
And she looks familiar, too. I've probably seen her at school before I left – and now that I think of it, I have. In the same circles that David dances in, "social hierarchy" at its finest. But the summer has done something to her maturing face and body, and I have this weird thought. Something like I wish I would have noticed her before it happened, because maybe then it wouldn't be so cliché to find her beautiful right now.
"No," She says again, her eyes trained on mine. Because I'm the threat here. I'm the danger. I'm so wickedly interested that I barely even notice when the rage starts to lessen. "You're not going to hurt anyone." Tara adds.
I bark out a deeply amused laugh, finally dragging my eyes away to regard David again.
"You see, Hale? Even your girl thinks I'll beat your ass," I muse, and my friends chirrup laughs behind me. I hear female giggles, too. Wendy, Donna, and Ashley or Andrea or whatever must have joined the commotion, crow eaters and old lady's in the making. I don't want them here. If shit goes south, I'll be too distracted by their safety to fight the way I want to fight – recklessly, endlessly, bloodily. I'm even worried about Tara, this tiny stranger suspended between me and my enemy. She might as well be the enemy by guilty association, but my first instinct is to protect her.
Why is that?
David turns beat red, and grabs Tara's arm in a way that I really, really don't like, pulling her towards him. "Shut up, Tara."
I'm grabbing his wrist and wrenching his arm away from her before I even make the conscious decision to do it. David swings for me and misses as I dodge, fist nearly connecting with Tara's face. Before it can happen, I shield her body with mine. His fist hits my chest instead, and I'm helpless to the rage now, boiling and spilling over the heated pot of my brain.
I black out.
When I surface from the darkness, I'm in handcuffs, being escorted away from a broken nosed Hale by the Charming Police. I can taste the bitter, coppery liquid swishing in my mouth, but I'm painless. I'm so weightless, so high on my animosity that I begin manically laughing like a goddamned lunatic, and I hear Opie's laugh, too, a chorus sung for a winning brawl.
The last thing I see from the window of the cop car is Tara, watching me.
Tara
I'm not sure why I decide to go. All that I really know is that I want to see him again.
It's been a week since the fight at the summer carnival, and it's two weeks until Charming High opens it's rusting gates for the start of fall term – to which, I am dreading in wages of honors classes. David has stopped by the house four times to no avail; my father, though useless in many other aspects, provided advantageous in protecting my privacy. I've dodged David's phone calls, and pretended to be "otherwise engaged" when he casually rang the doorbell every evening, though I know at some point I'll have to face him despite my non-confrontational problems.
He's been my best friend since first grade, my shoulder to lean on when my mother passed, and my supposed date to the upcoming homecoming dance in September. But all I can think about is his brash hands, and the way his fist had nearly connected with my cheekbone had it not been for...
I want to see him. Something in me is screaming for it.
Jackson Teller. Jax.
White trash, gang affiliated, bad-news-Teller had been him since I could remember; when I was a little girl my mother held my small, dimpled hand and warned, "Stay away from the Sons of Anarchy." They were and are the kings of Charming, leather studded God's with guns strapped to their waists and authority wafting from their skin without even rightfully claiming it. I was afraid of them. I was afraid of Jax, the rebellious child who rode to school on the back of a Harley, and threw an immaculate right hook at the age of ten. I'd seen the street wars, and the chaos when the Sons clashed with the Mayans. I'd heard the gunshots, and the blazing of the motorcycles in their wake.
And as I got older, I was entranced by them. Entranced by Jax Teller, the teenage dropout with a darkness festering in his blue eyes.
It wasn't uncommon to wonder about Jax, the beautiful blonde boy with an exterior so rough, it would cut you in close proximity. So many of the girls fawned over him in school, whispering gossip about giving him sexual favors and crying in bathroom stalls when he disposed of them as he disposed of the others. He had fists of iron, a smirk that broke hearts, and a somber quietness that left me staring on more than one occasion, who is he?
After he dropped out, I stopped wondering. And the night of the carnival, it regrew like weeds in the garden of my mind.
Who is Jax Teller?
Heather, a sort of friend, was invited to Opie Winston's party, and allotted to bring a guest, she chose me. Heather had been a nice girl once, when our friendship first came about through library encounters and accelerated classes. But as she grew a C cup and lost her virginity, her niceness melted away and the crowd she flocked with was no longer mine. We stayed friends, despite our polar opposition, and though she'd invited me to several parties in the past, I never agreed. Until tonight.
I knew he would be here. Curious enough to reside on this side of the tracks, I'd said yes.
So we go. We arrive with our hands linked, and my chest thrums like a hummingbird in my chest.
The party is... wild. I assume it's Opie's house we're standing in, and I can't help but wonder how angry his parents will be when they return home. It's in shambles; the structure is shaking with the loudest classic rock, bodies are spilling beer from plastic cups and making out left and right. The boys are rowdy, loud, and ridiculously plastered; every girl is wearing belly shirts and jean shorts that might as well be underwear, just as Heather is. I immediately feel out of place in my jeans and black tank top, so sober that all I can do is stare.
"Tara!" Heather shouts over the music, grabbing my hand in hers. "Come on, lets get a drink!"
She pulls me towards the kitchen, weaving through bodies and stopping a few times to hug friends, most of which I only vaguely know through school. They stare at me with wide, judgmental glances, and I know what they're thinking. She doesn't belong here.
And they're right. I don't.
But I have to see him. Is he here?
When we get to the kitchen, Heather strategically ducks through masses of people and grabs two beers from one of the ice buckets, handing one over to me when she weaves back through. I've never drank before, I've never smoked. I've never stayed out past curfew, or wore anything I couldn't wear to school in accordance with the dress code. I look at the bottle in my hand and think about twisting off the cap and just, doing it, but then I think of my father out cold, lying in his own puke, and I can't bring myself to. I just hold it in my hands, following Heather like a lost puppy when she goes out the sliding door to the back lawn.
There's a bonfire back here, and even more bodies crammed than there were inside. Glass crunches under my black leather boots, the ones that were my mother's before she passed. Broken beer bottles. As soon as we hit the grass, a boy grabs Heather and pulls her up into a dramatic hug. I recognize him from the carnival and as Jax's sidekick – I know his last name is Ortiz from an English class we used to share, but he has a strange nickname that I can't remember now.
"Those taste better when you open them." A voice says over my shoulder. I spin around to regard it, and he's there. Disarrayed blonde hair, casual smirk, big blue eyes that almost look illuminating in the moonlight. My heart skips as my chest constricts, immediately nervous and terrified and captivated.
Jax.
He doesn't wait for me to say anything – he grabs the beer bottle from my hands and pops the top off, surrendering it back to me. I stare at him. He stares back. I watch as his breathtaking eyes breathe me in, seizing me up as all the others had but there's something... different about the way he does it now. I think of his bloody knuckles and David's broken nose, and how it took two officers to pry Jax off of him. There's a healing cut on his lip now, but nothing else – David had so obviously lost that fight, with his purple eyes, purple nose, and split open cheekbones.
Why am I not afraid of Jax? The violent creature that only destroys?
"What are you doing here?" He finally says, addressing what everyone is already thinking.
I don't belong here.
"Babysitting a friend," I only half lie, tilting my chin up to exude strength. I can handle myself, or haven't I already proved that? I decide to be feisty with him. "Shouldn't you be in prison or something?"
Jax laughs at me, all husky and low with a dangerous cast to it. "Seems your pussy boyfriend isn't pressing charges. Wouldn't surprise you, would it?"
"He's not my boyfriend." I deadpan, shoving the beer in my hand back to him. I do it to make a point, I don't want anything of yours. But I can't help it – I'm curious about him. So curious that I can't bring myself to stop the masquerading, and get the hell out of here.
He looks at my beer in his hands with his eyebrows raised, glancing back to me with this expression – I can't quite put my finger on it. As I'm looking at him I understand how so many girls fell into his trap without a second's hesitation; he's so beautiful, it's hardly fair. Something so dangerous and evil should be wrapped in the ugliest packaging, I decide, a jagged knife turned human so that everyone would heed warnings about getting too close.
But he's not a jagged knife. He's everything that aches in the pit of my stomach, and I hate myself for it.
"Where's this friend you're babysitting?" He says, challenging me with a knowing smirk. I want to smack it or kiss it off his face, I can't decide which. "Seems to me like you aren't doing too great of a job – those parents should get their money back."
I look around then, because the bastard is right. I've lost Heather. A small bit of panic rises in me – one for being alone at this out of hand party, and two for Heather ending up drugged or raped or something heinous because I had stopped paying attention to her.
"I have to find her," I start to leave, but Jax stops me.
"Don't worry. She's having a very... juicy time right now, I'd imagine." It's a private joke that I don't understand, but he laughs a little and it chips away at my anxiety. "At her request, I'm babysitting you now, Tara."
When had Heather talked to Jax? Did she seriously tell him to keep an eye on me? Why him, of all people? My cheeks flush red and I grimace at him. "I don't need your help."
Jax looks at me a bit seriously and says, "But don't you?"
I know he's referring to the carnival incident, when he'd put his body in front of mine to protect me from David, and so I don't say anything. I bite my lip and look at my shoes, unable to say what I should have. Thank you. Even if that had been the reason I began to annoyingly wonder about him again, it was still a kind thing for him to do, protecting me. I didn't mean anything to him – in fact, most of my friends had been his enemy since elementary. But something in him wanted to protect me that day.
"Seriously, what brought princess out of her castle?" He muses, bringing my gaze back to his. He's smiling – not his usual smirk, full of innuendos and double meanings. It's a genuine smile, and I want to tell him that I like him better this way.
I smile back a bit ruefully. "What brings the criminal to the princess's rescue?"
Jax grins, offering a hand to me. I hesitate for a moment, seizing him up and his intentions, trying to decide what path this would ultimately carry me down. And then I take the leap off the cliff, no regard for consequences or fear or any other reason that I should not be taking Jax Teller's hand. I slide mine into his. They're strong, calloused, and engulf mine in size.
"Curiosity." He answers, and then, "Welcome to our world, Tara."