A/N: I have not finished work on Same Song, Different Story. I just post stuff when my creative juices begin to flow before I forget. When I was in the hospital after my accident, friends and I got hooked on Sons of Anarchy-and got our doctors and nurses hooked on Sons of Anarchy. And to any of those reading this who have read any of my other stories, I haven't abandoned those either. It's just right now my muse seems to really be focused on hot outlaw bikers.

Her mother always told her she was going to end up here. She shrugged-and kept on walking. Hopefully there was a gas station nearby. She needed some running water. She was tired, hot, sweaty, and hungry. The last bag of chips had been scarfed down a couple of hours ago. Her feet were aching in her cowboy boots-boots that had seen better days. Her back was sore. And she was nursing a busted lip and few bruises. She shrugged again. That was life. And she refused to cry about it. Crying never helped anybody-all it got you was a headache.

Hearing the rumble of a motorcycle she turned her head and stuck out a thumb with a heavy sigh, with the other hand she pushed her sunglasses up the bride of her nose. The bike came to a steady top. The guy on the big black Harley was big-tall, well built, wearing a pair of aviators like her own, long hair pulled back of his face. She didn't miss the cut.

"Need a ride?"

"Yeah."

"Where you headed?"

"LA-but as far as you can take me."

She hoisted the vintage army duffel bag across her ample chest. She felt his eyes look her over and she resisted the urge for a deep breath that always came with these assessments. She knew what she looked like. Dirty. There was dirt and dried blood on her pale legs-put on display by a pair of scantily short denim cutoffs.

"You sellin'?"

"Seventy-five for the full deal."

For twenty bucks she could get a bed to sleep in. The room itself might have a few creepy crawly friends but when all you had been eating were bags of chips and stolen candy bars for the past three days and the only place you had been able to catch a few hours of sleep were bathroom gas stations, then a few cockroaches did not bother you.

"Get on."

Climbing on back of the motorcycle, she wrapped her arms tightly around him. He smelled like leather, open air, soap, and some inherent masculine scent that most big strong men carry. She loved being on the back of a bike. There wasn't a time in her life where she had felt more free than when she was on the back of a bike. It was the openness, the wind ripping against you-it was moments like these where she felt no worries, like she had a place in the world. And despite her split lip-she smiled. But the moment ended too soon as he pulled into a rinky dink motel. She knew places like this. She hooked at places like this. Slept at places like this. Lived at places like this,

She followed his lead, past the half-lit and broken sigh on the window that read VACANCY. The biker flipped the small graying man behind the bar window in an old olive green polyester collared shirt from the 1970s a twenty. And kept walking. To the back where there was an empty room. Apparently he had done this before. She wasn't surprised-he didn't look like a newbie. Examining the back of his cut- Sons of Anarchy, a logo that looked to be like some sort of a reaper except with some automatic gun, maybe a M-16, SAMCRO, Redwood Original. He locked the door and she dropped the bag, "I only got three rules. You have to wrap up. I do not kiss on the mouth. And my safe word is puppy dog tails. If you choose not to abide by said rules, the play is a no go and I will be forced to take action."

One eyebrow rose but she stood her ground. There was a knife at his waistband and a patch on his cut that read Men of Mayhem. You didn't have to be a genius to know what the meant. When he nodded and removed his cut, she bent over and pulled a pack of condoms from her bag. Tossing on the rickety nightstand by the bed, she approached him, tugging his shirt over his body. He was heavily tatted, the tattoo on his chest resembling his cut. She wasn't surprised. Once his shirt was off she worked her mouth down his chest, his stomach, pausing to undo his jeans. She liked the feel of his body, warm, hard, well muscled. Most men who picked up chicks on the side of the road were not physically attractive.

Guys like this never had problems picking up chicks. So she knew it was emotional, loneliness, just looking for a release, etc. it varied from guy to guy. He was half-hard when she put her mouth around the tip of his cock. Mustering that gumption she always knew she had, she employed her technique. She knew how to bring a man to his knees. Had been working it ever since she turned fifteen and grew into her body. Now, ten years later, she had become a master at it. Not blowjobs in particular-not to be misunderstood because she was damn good at being able to work her mouth- but the art of her femininity. By the time she was done, he was close to coming. She didn't finish him. Instead she guided his hand to the sensitive tip and let him take care of itself. Watching almost clinically as she tugged off her jacket, her baggy black and white striped tank top, and her black lace bra. She sighed. He was big. Really big. And she was wet. Thank God, because she didn't have any lube. It was rare that she found herself physically attracted to the men she picked up. Not that this was something she did on a regular basis. Just when she was seriously strapped for cash. In this case, besides the fact that he was smoking hot, there was something about him that intrigued her. Maybe it was the silence.

"So…how do you wanna do this?"

"On the bed. Hands and knees."

She wasn't surprised. And honestly, she preferred not having to look at him during the deed. She toed her boots off and slipped out of the shorts and the matching undies before scooting to the edge of the bed. He was impatient. He pushed inside of her in one single fluid motion. Hard. Her nails, covered in chipped and fading black polish, tugged at the sheets and she let out a gasp. He didn't wait for her to adjust to his size. She felt full. A satisfaction she hadn't experienced sexually in a long while. Another point in his favor. When he moved, it was hard. Intense. He wasn't concerned about her and that was fine because she was not concerned about him. She knew how to take care of herself. So she slipped he hand between her legs, toying with her clit. Between her fingers and his thrusting it didn't take long. He came again and she followed.

Once they had both reached release, he pulled out of her, slipped the condom off and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket before setting his clothes back on order. He was facing the beat up desk on the other side of the room when she pulled herself up off her hands and knees.

"What's your name?"

"Maggie," she answered, liking the quiet deep timbre of his voice.

"Thanks for the um-."

She shook her head and uttered a small mile. He raised another eyebrow. And instantly she regretted it. He left out the door, silently. She stood up and made her way towards the desk. And there, on the desk, were three bills. All fifties. Her mother said she would always end up here. Maybe mothers know best.