He slams into her. It isn't romantic, and he doesn't love her. He can't see her face, and he doesn't remember her name. She tries to slow him down, slow down to a pace where she can savour being with him, but he doesn't. He doesn't care about her, or her needs. She is just a hole to fill, a place to pass the time. He grinds his hips into hers as he reaches his climax, thinking of her, the one he wishes he were with, as his orgasm pushes him over the edge. He collapses onto the bed. She tries to curl up next to him, but he's done with her.
"You should go," he says unemotionally, reaching for a cigarette on the bedside table.
She climbs out of the bed and begins to gather her things. Looking back at him she asks him, "Will you call me?"
He takes a long drag of his cigarette. "No," he exhales, the word hanging in the smoke.
She leaves the room, and he doesn't see her again.
The next morning he gets off the bed and walks to the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and looks into the mirror, disgusted at himself. "Get it the fuck together, Jax," his inner monologue admonishes him. He runs his hands through his hair as he exits the bathroom.
He picks up a photo lying on the ground. Half of a photo. Ripped asunder in drunken frustration. He searches unsuccessfully for the other half, giving up after a few moments. He examines what's left of the photo. In the photo he's smiling, sitting on his bike with her, the day he got his kutte. She's not in this half of the photo, but he can remember what she looked like exactly; her long dark hair lightly tousled because of the wind, a mysterious smirk in her eyes. It was his favourite photo of her, and he never forgave himself for tearing it apart. Sighing, he tosses the photo back on the floor, gets dressed, and leaves the room.
The hallway is pungent – the smells of smoke, booze, and sex overwhelming his every sense. No one has cleaned the clubhouse dorms since the patch-in party two nights previous; Jax steps over empty cans and bottles, discarded clothes, and other mess. Reaching the kitchen, he pours himself a mug of coffee. It's shitty, but it's still warm, and quite frankly, he doesn't drink it for the taste, anyway.
He sits on the bench outside the clubhouse. The sun, just barely risen, lights up the sky in a golden hue. At one time, Jax loved sunrises, but not anymore. Now they remind him that he must face another day without her. He can't even bare to think her name anymore, Tara, though that doesn't stop him. She's all he thinks about. Sighing, he takes a swig of his coffee, not enjoying it, but drinking it nonetheless. He used to like coffee, too. She always made the best coffee. He finishes the rest of his mug in one big gulp.
It's still early, so the lot is quiet. No one, save for his brothers who never made it home from the clubhouse the night before, will be getting to the garage any time soon. Jax relishes this fact, and climbs on his bike. He no longer finds joy in a lot of things; early morning rides are not one of them. He takes off down the street, the roar of the bike filling the silence of the early morning. After a while, he reaches his destination. No matter where he initially sets off to, he always arrives here, their clearing. He gets off his bike and walks towards the green field. He sits down when he gets to a large oak tree. He studies the inscription on the bark, tracing and retracing his index finger over the engraving, "J.T. + T.K. forever". It was her idea to carve their initials and Jax had hastily agreed, reaching into his belt for his knife. It wasn't the first time they had professed their love, but it was the first time they had mentioned being together forever. Jax sighs at the memory, and closes his eyes, leaning back against the familiar tree.
He's unsure how long he's slept; the only indication of how much time has passed is the sun's new location overhead. He figures it's around noon, but with no watch, he can't be sure. He clambers upright and haphazardly brushes the dirt and debris off of himself as he makes his way back to his bike. Riding back to the garage he thinks he catches a glimpse of her. Long dark hair, petite frame; it isn't her, he quickly notices, but his heart beats out of his chest anyway.
He's only just parked his bike when he's bombarded with the first degree.
"Where the hell have you been, Jackson? Clay is looking for you," Gemma's interrogation an unwelcome interaction.
"Just out," he answers with a shrug. He's not in the mood to be grilled by his mother, not now, not ever. He starts to move past her, but Gemma reaches out and stops him.
"Don't blow the club off, Jackson, I don't care how much you're hurting, that gash isn't worth—"
"Don't you dare speak about her," Jax snarls in a warning. Gemma backs down, and he continues towards the clubhouse, leaving his mother stunned behind him.
He gets the same, and worse from Clay, but he can't brush his club president off as easily as he can his mother. Clay's word is law. Still, Jax only half-listens to his lecture, picking up key words and phrases instead. Finally Clay sets Jax free. He walks to the bar inside the clubhouse and sits down next to Opie, his best friend.
He and Opie have been friends ever since Jax could remember. Jax and Opie grew up together immersed in the motorcycle culture that they were now part of. Jax's favourite thing about Opie was the fact that they could communicate without speaking. Opie, a man of few words, only spoke when he had something worthwhile to say; something Jax had always admired.
"Not doing so hot, huh." Opie comments knowingly. He recognized Jax's impending downward spiral after Tara left before Jax had. Jax maintained that he was fine, "better without her", but Opie knew better; he was there through the worst it.
"Don't," Jax says softly, almost a whisper. He's always worn his heart on his sleeve, and talking with Opie now would threaten to undo the months of hard work he's done to build a mask hiding his emotions. Opie nods, and hands Jax a beer, the two friends drink in silence.
Another night, another meaningless physical connection. The blonde croweater – Jax vaguely recalls her name, Wanda, possibly Wendy – tries to get Jax to be present in the moment, but he's elsewhere. He's with Tara, her soft, knowing hands caressing his body as his hips grind expertly against hers. He tries to shake Tara out of his mind, but she's unyielding, his memories of her clouding everything. Frustrated, Jax hammers into the woman – with Tara's face – beneath him until he expels into the croweater.
"Hey, Jax," she croons, satisfied and seemingly unaware of the role she's just played. "That was great." Jax falls back on the bed and reaches for a cigarette from the bedside table. The blonde reaches for hers too, and lights Jax's cigarette.
"You should go," Jax exhales a cloud of smoke.
"Yeah, okay," she hesitantly begins to organize herself to leave. "Jax?" she calls back as she reaches the door.
He says nothing but looks up.
"I know what this was, and I know I'm not her. This was fun though," she turns on her heel and leaves. Jax watches her go, smoke filling the room as she exits.