She was playing her strengths; sitting at a small round table, a mug of coffee and a heap of shiny folders set before her -the folders full of her work, her pieces - a portfolio of sorts.
She was wearing a small simple patterned dress, buttoned to the throat; high heels the shade of manila envelopes, stockings to smooth her legs, hair down – fried and long, - a bowling cap, and her reading glasses.

She was taking a sip of her coffee when the door chimed announcing his arrival. He ambled inside, a dark man, well pressed, and kind faced. He scanned the room and found her eyes, walked over, sat down in the seat across from her place at the table. The waitress came over, aproned, to pour his cup of coffee. He nodded his thanks and then spoke to the girl in the dress.

"Lucille Lott, if I recall correctly, and what, may I ask, is the purpose of this meeting?"

"Lieutenant, I have a proposition for you."


She was playing her strengths, barging into the clubhouse as if invited, her ego showing, she'd undone the top three buttons of her ensemble - revealing a bit of the small red lace that lay beneath - she'd swapped her professional heels for a glittery pair on the taxi ride over.

"Who's the boss here?"

A room full of shaggy heads turned to look, a dozen studded men who should have been intimating.

"That'd be me. Who are you?" A large man stepped front and center, his presence looming, a stature of power.

She stepped up, into his shadow.

So this was Jackson Teller, spoken word's reputation did no justice.

She stretched out her hand, an offering. He simply gazed upon it, with no quickness to move. She withdrew.

"I'm Lucy."

"And what do you want, Lucy?" An Irish voice from the crowd.

"I have an offer for you boys."


"What kind of proposition?"

"An offering; my expertise as an investigator."

"They told me you were a journalist."

"An investigative journalist."

Lieutenant Eli Roosevelt looked at her for a moment, then down at the table. He picked from the top of her stack of folders, opened it. He extracted a stapled piece and began to read.

"It's good. You should stick to your day job."

"It's fluff work. I want the real stuff. The action."

"There's only one source of action you could be after in Charming,"

She nodded. "SAMCROW."


"Are you a cop?"

"I'm not a cop. I'm a writer."

"Fucking journo," that same Irish voice.

Jax held up his hand, "hush Chibs. "

"Hey, no names!" Chibs said as he stood up from his seat, he spat on the cement on his way out the door.

Jax fixed his gaze on the girl, Lucy. "What d'you want?"

"Oh, the hostility." She looked around for a moment, absorbing, mentally, a picture of the room. "I'm moving on. I want a way out of the media world. I'm looking for a new start."

"And where does that put me?"

"I'm going to need protection. " She crossed her stockinged thighs and put her elbows on the table, leaning forward. "It's a trade, you see."

"I don't see. Maybe you could clear it up."

"You want the Sons. I can get you the sons. What I ask for in return; security, a safeguard. Both physically an - and from the law."


"And what does that have to do with my club?" He bit his bottom lip, flicking his eyes across the room, probably shooting a look at one of his boys, a second hand or just an old friend.

She wondered briefly what he thought of her, standing there, within the club's dingy atmosphere, looking rough but still well pressed in comparison. She could almost see the place where her heel's print had disturbed the layer of dust on the floor.

She took a few small clicks closer to Jax, close enough to rest her hand on his chest.

"Everything." A small step back, an intake of breath. "I hope. I have an in. With Lieutenant Roosevelt. I'll keep him off you, feed him false trails, keep you and your guys proper warning of all activity. "

"What's this do for you?"

"Well honey.. all I need is to be let in. Be my out."


End of Chapter One.