A/N: I was in my truck, listening to Hollywood Undead's 'Black Dahlia', when I had a burst on inspiration for this. I found myself wondering, what could turn a child into a person like Tig? And what sort of person could tie Tig down? What would that person be like? And what would happen if two people -equally screwed in the head, from things in their past -met up? This wouldn't be so much a club related fic, with only minor parts of the club coming through. Again, wanted to focus on what sort of relationship Tig could have with a woman. This will be angsty, with mentions of child abuse, and sexual abuse, a lot of violence, a lot of language, and a lot of substance/alcohol abuse. A lot of Tig background, maybe a few other Sons thrown in, but mostly focusing on Tig and my OFC. Basically, this is like a teaser, just to see if anyone is even interested in something like this. So if you are, please let me know, otherwise I won't continue.
Also, this chapter would be the only one focusing on their meeting... more like a background, if you will. If people like it, and I continue, it would jump straight into Tig and her being together, a few years after this takes place, with a few flashbacks.
It had surprised everyone. Nobody ever expected to see Tig's crow landing on someone. Much less that the crazy bastard would make the crazy bitch his Old Lady.
And she wasn't even a good Old Lady. At least, not in most men's sense of the term. Old Ladies kept house, cooked meals, maybe popped out a brat or two. Tig's Old Lady didn't do any of that. Hell, Tig himself had warned them that eating her food would most likely result in food poisoning, if they could even choke it down. Tig's little apartment had gotten messier, not cleaner, when the crazy broad moved in.
And it hadn't helped, her being an ex-pro, and the daughter of a dead member of another MC down in San Bernardino. It was just… weird.
There had been a lot of mocking, questions, and a few downright mean comments, before Gemma had stepped in. Told them all that if they didn't shut their fuckin' mouths, she'd be glad to shut it for them. Word was, she'd made Clay sleep on the couch for a week, and cook his own meals, until he'd agreed to back off. Which in turn, lead to Clay threatening to start breaking bones if the other guys didn't straighten up, since Gemma held him responsible for 'his boys', and had threatened more couch time if she heard a peep about it.
Her name was Miranda Balcom, and she wasn't even Tig's normal type. She was barely five feet tall, with c-cup tits, and a mess of curly black hair, and pale white. She was barely twenty when they had first met, and Tig pushing onto forty, yet another thing the boys didn't get. Sweet butts were supposed to be young –hell that was the point –but Old Ladies were… well, at least old enough not to be your daughter.
No one understood any of it.
Their meeting had been pure happenstance. Started with a pissed off john, and went from there.
"Get back here, you cunt!"
Miranda wasn't about to stop, or even waste the breath to shoot back an insult of her own. She'd seen a lot of her 'co-workers' get the crap beat out of 'em for slowing down to retort.
She never should have let him bring her to the small, ho dunk town. She had no idea where she was, and of course, most shit was closed.
A flash of hope ran through her, as she saw what looked to be an automotive shop with the lights on. She cut a quick left, shaking her high heels off her feet as she did, and fast as lightening, jumped the fence, and kept moving towards the shop.
"Help me!" She yelled, banging on the large shop doors. "Please!"
"Hey, what the hell is goin' on out there?" Came an angry male voice. Miranda turned towards it, and dashed over to the smaller door off to the side.
"Please, you gotta help me," She said breathlessly, before yelping as she glanced over her shoulder, and seen the large john had cleared the fence. She ducked behind the tall, stocky man, peering fearfully over his shoulder.
"Come here, you bitch!"
"You skip out on the deal, sweet cheeks?" The man asked over his shoulder, taking in her mini skirt and tube top. Miranda shook her head.
"No! Guy didn't even pay me! Just started slappin' me around," She said quickly.
The overweight john stopped short when he seen Miranda hiding behind the other man.
"Look, this ain't none of your business, buddy. Just give me a girl, and we can call it a night."
Miranda's savior looked the man up and down, the scorn clear on his face. "Get lost, fatty."
"We had a deal, you cunt!"
"You beatin' the hell outta me wasn't part of the fuckin' deal!" Miranda spat, ducking behind her savior again as the john's eyes popped out of his head, the veins bulging in his neck.
"Hey! Get outta here, before I throw you out!" Her savior snapped. "You're on MC property; you really wanna fuck around?"
The john hesitated for a few moments, before –cussing his big fat lungs out –he turned around, and went back over the gate.
Miranda's sigh of relief was cut short, as the tall man turned his cold grey eyes on her.
"Get inside!" He snapped. "Christ, you two probably woke up half the fuckin' neighborhood."
Miranda obeyed meekly, figuring at the very least, she owed the man a blow job and a quickie for saving her from the crazy psychopath who'd been chasing her. She stopped by the desk, and then turned.
"Look, I appreciate what you did… How do you want it?" She forced out quickly, before she could lose her nerve. Taking a look at the guy in the light, he was a hundred times more intimidating than the john had been.
He was tall, really tall. Maybe 6'1", or 6'2", with thick arms like tree trunks extending out of the black leather vest he wore. A full head of curly dark hair set just above a well chiseled face, and those beautiful, ice cold eyes.
The guy looked her over for a minute, before gruffly asking, "What's your name, kid?"
"Randy. And I ain't a kid," She said sullenly.
"Randy?"
Miranda sighed. "It's short for Miranda. Look, call me whatever you want, alright? Let's do this, so I can get back, otherwise my pimp's gonna kill me."
"Sit down," The man said curtly, moving over to a large cabinet in the corner. Miranda's heart nearly leaped through her chest in fear, but he returned carrying a first aid kit.
"What happened?" He asked slowly, tending to the cuts and bruises on her face first. Surprisingly, his large, rough hands were incredibly gentle as he cleaned the dirt out of the cut on her forehead.
"He wanted to go back to his place. My pimp said it was cool, so he took me to his house. Went inside, and he just started wailin' on me. So I ran," She said with a shrug. "I don't mind it rough, but he was just beatin' on me."
"Your pimp, huh? Where's he runnin' you out of?"
"Up in Lodi. We ain't welcome in Charming, in case you haven't heard. The…" Miranda's eyes went huge, as she remembered what the man had said about MC property. "Oh shit! Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean… I didn't know this was… Fuck, I'm sorry, I'll go, I didn –"
"Quit squirmin', will ya? Christ, I ain't gonna kill ya for goin' to the only place in town with lights on," The man said, his voice clearly annoyed as he pushed her back down into the chair. "I'll get you patched up, and you can run back to your 'daddy'. Here, take your jacket off for a minute," He said in a tone that left no room for arguing.
Miranda obeyed quickly, setting the red pleather garment on the chair behind her, going to sit down, when the man stopped her. She froze as his hands went to the base of her neck, and then picked up the back of her shirt. She knew he was looking at the tattoo.
"That's some serious ink there, Randy. Looks like MC ink," He said conversationally. "War Boys?"
Miranda nodded slowly, trying to keep from shaking as the man traced over the huge tattoo that covered her back with his hand.
"Yeah. My pop was part of the MC down there 'fore he died."
"Long way from San Bernardino, babe," He observed.
"Yeah well, I don't really have time to spill my guts here. As it is, I've gotta figure out how to make the forty mile trip back to Lodi in the next two hours, or you might as well have handed me over to that fuck ass."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty four," Miranda lied smoothly.
The man scoffed. "Uh huh. And I'm Mohammed Ali. Come on, how old are you?"
Miranda rolled her eyes a bit, before finally answering, "Twenty. I swear," She added, seeing the incredulous look on his face.
"Right. I'm Tig, by the way," He said, as he closed up the kit, and observing his handiwork. "Not too bad. Shouldn't scar too much."
Miranda rolled her eyes again. "Yeah, it might distract from the other ones."
The man –Tig, she reminded herself –sighed, looking her up and down, before motioning towards the garage. "Come on," He said, his voice gruff again. "I'll take ya back up to Lodi."
Miranda froze halfway in the act of standing. "Look, mister, I appreciate the offer, but I ain't got any cash, and my pimp isn't gonna let me do nothin' for a Samcro member."
"Jesus, kid, you're half my age, and you're beat to hell. I ain't lookin' to fuck you, alright? Jesus… You ain't even my type," He said scornfully, opening up one of the large garage doors.
Miranda tried to hide her relief, as she cheekily asked, "So what is your type?"
"Big boobied blondes. What was your old man's name?" He asked, as he motioned for her to jump on the bike behind him.
Miranda hesitated, before sliding her leg over, and getting comfy. Was just like riding a bike, she thought with a rue smile, as she wrapped her arms around Tig's mid-section. Although it was a little bit harder wearing a mini-skirt.
"Donny Balcom. Most people just called him Caf though."
Tig turned and looked at her in surprise. "You're Caf Head's kid?"
"Yeah. You knew my pop?"
Tig shrugged as he started rolling the bike out of the garage. "Knew of him. Only met him a few times, long time ago. Same job title, and all that. Didn't know he'd died. Sorry."
"Yeah well, it was six years ago. Hey, you mind if we grab my heels? They're just outside the fence."
"Sure kid, no problem. Just lemme close everything up, and we can go. You still remember how to hold up a bike?"
She couldn't resist sticking her tongue out at him, and he laughed as he got off the bike.
Damn. She had forgotten how heavy they were. She held it upright, but the weight of it had caused her to fumble a bit.
When Tig came back, he stopped a few feet away from the bike, and stared for a moment, arms crossed across his chest, head tilted slightly to the side.
"You mind tellin' me how the daughter of a War Lords Sergeant at Arms ends up turning tricks in Lodi?" He finally asked, not moving from where he stood.
Miranda rolled her eyes. "Long story."
Tig grinned. "Well seeing as how you owe me one… consider this my payment. Must have at least an hour, right?"
Miranda sighed. "I ain't tellin' it holdin' up this fuckin' bike," She finally grumbled.
Tig laughed again as he reached over her to set the kickstand down, and she got off, smoothing her skirt down as she did, before cursing loudly.
"What?" Tig asked, tensing up, his eyes glancing around the parking lot.
"That fuckin' shit head! I left my purse at his house!" She buried her face in her hands. "Adam's gonna fuckin' kill me."
"That your pimp?"
Miranda dropped down on the picnic table, nodding. "Yeah. Had all my night's earnings, my cigarettes, and… My dad's lighter. Only thing I got from him," She admitted.
"How'd he die, anyways?"
Miranda drummed her fingers on the table nervously. "You got a smoke? I don't like talkin' without a cigarette." When Tig handed her one, and flicked the lighter close to her face, she slowly inhaled, feeling the tension easing a bit.
After a few more drags, she pulled her feet up underneath her, and said, "You ever heard of the League of Aryan Nationalists?"
Tig thought for a moment, before shaking his head. "Nah. Don't think so."
"It's a skin-head group. All legal, across the board, respectable men. Didn't approve of the War Boys sellin' guns to the Mexican gangs. In one of the raids on their meth labs, one of 'em shot my pop. He lingered in the hospital a few days, before my mother showed up, and dragged me up to Lodi. Pop died a few days later. A few members of the club tried lookin' in on me up in Lodi, makin' sure I was okay, but they stopped when my ma started callin' the cops on 'em. Think they set me up some sort of trust fund or somethin'," She said with a shrug. "Was a long time ago."
Tig blew a ring of smoke from his cigarette. "Where's your ma stand with the hookin' shit?"
Miranda frowned as she stood. "What is this, question the hooker day? Look, I'll give you the fuck of your life if that's what you want, but this talkin' shit… I can recommend a few good therapists if you want someone to talk to," She said scornfully. "My shit is my shit."
Tig grinned. "Not if you want a ride to Lodi it isn't."
"I'll walk," Miranda spat, moving towards the gate.
"Alright. Hopefully that john ain't waitin' for ya somewhere. Shouldn't get too cold tonight, although you're definitely gonna feel it in that mini. But hell, it's only a three to four hour walk, right?"
"I'll call a cab," She said through gritted teeth, hating the smug look on his face.
"With what money?" He taunted.
"Fuck!"
"So, you were sayin' about how your mother feels?"
She'd given him the fuck of a life time, rather than tell him; all rough, hard, and fast. She really was the fuck of a life time. He'd decided to let well enough alone, and had driven her back, although his curiosity had nearly killed him.
Of course, it hadn't happened over night. Wasn't exactly 'slow', but it had taken two weeks before he'd gone looking for her again. Another month and a half before he'd started bringing her back to the club for the night. Two months after that, he'd actually invited for her to hang out for a while.
After that, though, things had fallen into place relatively quickly. She'd started hanging around the shop, helping Gemma with paperwork and shit; one of the few things she was relatively good at, seeing as how she'd helped the War Boy's president's Old Lady keep their mechanic shop in order. Once in a while, she'd venture out to see him, hand him tools or what not, before making her way back in after a bit.
They didn't talk much. Well, to each other at least. Few people ever seen them talk, other than the occasional insult thrown back and forth, or small conversation about the vehicle he was working on.
But it seemed to work for them.
