Power
Chapter One
Disclaimer: I do not own anything affiliated with Sons of Anarchy, period. Also, the base of the plot is similar to Savages, the book and movie, by Don Winslow. Not mine. Thanks for reading, please review!
...
Layla Jones slammed the brake pedal to the floor. Her tires screeched as the rubber dragged across the concrete, her Firebird finally skidding to a halt mere inches away from eating the quarter panel of a big, black SUV. It had sped past her, quickly maneuvering and parking sideways across the road.
Her heart pounded in her ears like a deafening bass drum as the doors to the SUV flew open. A group of Hispanic men toting big, automatic rifles surrounded the car. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she threw the car into reverse, but her foot never made it to the accelerator.
One of the guys aimed his weapon at the abandoned house across the street and opened fire.
Layla threw her hands in the air, wincing as gunshots sounded through the air.
"What do you want?" She demanded, directing her attention to the only unarmed dude. He'd exited the SUV last.
"You Layla Jones?" His deep, rough voice was punctuated with an inner-city lilt, his Spanish accent barely audible. She took in his big, diamond encrusted watch and loose fitting, designer jeans. He was a shot-caller.
"That depends on if it'll get me shot or not," her voice rang out, surprisingly steady. Nobody laughed.
He stepped closer to her window. "I'm Tres. I'm with the V13. We want to join you and your brother in a business venture. You all get 7%. We expand. The street loves your product, shouldn't it be available everywhere?"
"We're not looking for any partners at the moment," she smiled coolly. "Thank you, anyway."
He backed up, returning her wry, humorless smile. His eyes were predatory, soulless, like black holes. "We aren't asking. You'll be bringing us a quantity of that fire sometime this week. We'll be in touch."
She watched him climb into his SUV with the rest of the men and pull off, passing her car. Tres watched her until he was out of sight. Layla drew a shaky breath to steady herself, but her heart stayed in her stomach. Anxiety swiftly attacked her, and a jarring panic swept through her chest.
Pushing her honey blonde hair from her forehead, she exhaled. "Oh, shit."
...
Layla's father wasn't the best dad. He was rash, obstinate, unmotivated. The War in 'Nam changed him from a wet behind the ears, bright eyed skateboarder from Venice Beach to a hardened man, skeptical of the system, of "the man." The only times Layla really remembered him being happy were when he was surfing, skating, riding, or smoking. Jay Jones blew trees like it was nobody's business, and he distributed more green across the great state of California than anybody else in the eighties and nineties.
He taught Layla how to ride a wave, make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich, and throw a right hook, but the best lesson was when he taught her how to move.
Even though her dad drastically downsized the amount of weed he sold when Layla and her brother, Lennon, started school, he never stopped. Thus, the police were always hard for him. After the Great Arrest of 2010, when the DEA seized almost all of his assets and their new house, there had barely been any money left. When their father passed away, they were left with little more than a house payment, two cars, and their father's classic Indian.
Lennon, an apprenticing tattoo artist, had no idea how to send his hardworking younger sister to college, and she was denied financial aid. Her position as a bartender wasn't enough to pay tuition at the University of California. So, they made the decision to join the 'family business.'
Lennon nursed his father's pet project, a hybrid strain of premium Cali homegrown buds, to maturity. He and Layla started selling, in short, some of the best weed known to mankind. This shit right here? Fire.
They had weed to make you happy, weed to calm you down, weed to make you horny, weed to take away your pain... And business was booming.
They lived the good life for two years, working with all of their Dad's old connections to put their product up and down the coast, then moving eastward. Business was good, the bills were getting paid, and Lenny was packing away money to open his own tattoo shop in Venice Beach, like he'd been dreaming of since age five. They were steadily progressing to their end game.
It all changed after Layla finished her last final, a beast of a 400 level Jurisprudence course, and found herself held at gunpoint by a member of the Venice 13. That was when they had to call Uncle Nero, and that was when they met the Sons.
...
Layla whipped her black Firebird into a parallel parking spot on the side of the street expertly, right in front of Art&Soul Tattoos. The door was left open to the California breeze, and the familiar sound of a tattoo machine buzzing drifted to her ears. She flew through the entrance, blinking her wide eyes quickly to adjust to the dimmer interior.
Her heart was still racing, and despite swiping her hand over her forehead a few times it was coated with a layer of cold sweat. Lennon was seated at his station, finishing up the last touches on a detailed black and grey portrait of a gap toothed little girl, complete with pigtails.
"What's up, Sis?" Lennon called, grabbing some cream from the counter top. "How was Jurisprudence?"
She stared. "I don't know."
He glanced up at her, and his blue eyes stopped on her face, concerned. "What happened? You studied for days, there's no way you did that shitty. Chill out."
Layla shook her head frantically. "I need you out back. Hurry up."
Moments later, he met her out the back of the shop, lighting up a cigarette. He offered it to her, and she hit it hard, appreciating the calming affect the nicotine spread through her body.
"What the fuck is up?" Lennon demanded.
Layla shook her head, exasperated. "We are SO screwed, Lenny. I just got jammed up by the V13. They want to take us over."
Lennon paled. "Oh, shit."
"I know, right?" Layla sat down. She set her mouth grimly. "We're gonna have to do it."
"No way. We haven't saved up enough to get you through law school yet. I won't do anything with those asshole bangers, they'll probably kill us if we do."
"We don't really have any other options, Lenny," she reminded him. "They'll definitely kill us if we don't."
...
Lennon followed her back to their two story, cottage style house in his Jeep. Layla was more calm now that she wasn't alone, but a deep feeling of dread had settled low in her abdomen. She'd known something like this was going to happen; either the cops or the bangers were going to come after them. They were getting too big.
Layla's mind was racing, searching for some grand scheme or bargaining chip to get the V13 off their backs. She was drawing up blank. They were completely powerless.
Her brother went into the house first, looking around suspiciously, and Layla followed him closely. He grabbed a pistol out of the side table drawer, handing it to her. His automatic handgun was already drawn. After a minute, when she was confident no one was going to jump out and yell "boo!" or start shooting, she navigated to the bathroom to clean up. She pushed the door open and flipped on the light, then dropped her purse in surprise.
"Lennon!" she called out. He flew into the room, gun at the ready, his eyes widening as they took in the red paint on the huge, decorative mirror.
V13.
It wasn't even threatening, but Layla knew it was a message of ownership, of possession. They were making it known they could come into their home whenever they wanted.
She pulled out her cell without a second thought.
...
Nero Padilla was Layla's uncle. His younger sister, Layla's Mexican-American mom, was a junkie no one has seen since she packed up and hightailed it from California twenty years ago. Despite her absence, Uncle Nero visited Layla and Lenny in SoCal often when they were young. He was the only family they had left.
He was also an OG.
When Lennon called Nero and asked to meet a couple hours north of L.A., their uncle agreed immediately. They had a nice dinner, and then Layla explained their current predicament over drinks.
"Sounds to me you've got no choice," Nero shrugged, leaning back in his chair with his Corona. "Either you give in, you get out, or you fight back."
Lennon crossed his arms, his muscles bulging under his tattooed skin. "I'm not giving them everything. Layla still has two years of law school, at least. Law school that's significantly more expensive than an undergrad program. I'm just a tattoo artist, I can't pay her tuition."
Nero raised an eyebrow. "Even with what you made this year? I heard business has really taken off."
"Not that much," Layla shook her head. "We're comfortable, but we don't have nearly that much money. It would be safer to just give them what we have and get out, Len. I don't want trouble."
"But they do," Lennon laughed bitterly. "I wish we could give them some."
Nero's eyes locked on Lennon. "You are so much like your father sometimes, Lennon," he smirked. "I have new partners that may be able to help you out. It would be an expense, but it would be worth it. They aren't as unreasonable as these Venice shitheads."
"Who?" Layla arched a brow. Considering the establishment her uncle ran, it probably wasn't good news.
Nero's hesitation was evident. "Tell you what," he shrugged. "Give me a half quarter. Go home, get some things, and some more ganja. Then ride on out to Diosa in the morning and we can have a meeting."
Layla simply nodded, hoping, praying that Nero could help them out of this jam. "Now tell me more about this lady you're seeing, Tio, Gemma?"
...
The next morning, Layla and Lennon threw some things in the Jeep and took off. Five and a half hours later, they pulled into Diosa. As she climbed down from the seat and adjusted her pencil skirt, she surveyed the large, plain building and the number of high priced luxury cars and motorcycles in the lot.
What an odd combination.
They entered the escort service together, and spotted Nero chatting with some guys in jeans and leather in the waiting area. They all looked wild, rough, and out of place amongst the upscale, relaxing decor of Diosa, like they'd be more comfortable at a dive bar.
They were in a brothel, though, so Layla didn't have to reach to logically associate the men with the business.
Nero caught her eye and smiled, gesturing her and her brother over. She touched Lennon's forearm, dragging his attention from the flirting Lolita secretary. "Keep it in your pants, skanky. We have bigger things to worry about right now."
He smiled. "I always have time for beautiful women."
Nero laughed. "Don't we all? This is my nephew, Lennon Jones, and this lovely young woman is my niece, Layla. Lenny and Layla, this is SAMCRO. Chibs," he nodded to a weathered man with longer, salt and pepper hair dressed in leather pants. "Bobby," a guy with crazy frizzy, long hair, a 1970s print shirt, and a big jelly belly waved his hand. "Tig," skinny, bright blue eyes, and curly, unruly dark hair nodded. He looked a little crazy. "And Juice," Nero clapped a hand on the back of a caramel skinned younger guy with a tattooed, shaved head.
The all had on matching leather vests, cuts, depicting a grim reaper and various other patches. Layla assumed they were in a motorcycle gang.
"Nice to meet you," Layla replied politely. Lennon nodded, immediately engaging Juice in a discussion about his ink.
Nero put his arm around her in an affectionate half hug. "As soon as their president gets here we can talk shop, figure something out about these V13 bustas."
Layla spent the next few minutes talking and laughing with her uncle's friends, establishing a good rapport. She was quick witted and sweet, and had grown up trash talking and joking with men. These were the kinds of guys she knew. She learned that SAMCRO stood for the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club (Redwood Original), that they were partners in Diosa, and that they were always in trouble, according to Juice.
"So where's the Prez?" Nero raised a brow at Chibs. "Not like him to roll without you all."
Chibs shrugged, and the group sobered. "Jackie-Boy is having a tough time since his Old Lady was locked up the other night. He's going through it. We all are, at the moment."
Her attention was drawn to the entrance as another, similarly dressed man came into the waiting room. Layla took in his shoulder length blonde hair, his clear blue eyes, and the stubble on his masculine chin. He was wearing a navy tee shirt, low slung, baggy jeans, and the same leather cut as the rest of the guys, labeled with a President patch. He had a taller build, strong shoulders and arms, and a slow, confident swagger. Layla lost herself for just a moment, desperately trying to school her features into a mask of calmness. It was difficult; he was devastatingly sexy.
The guys all chimed enthusiastic greetings, shaking his hand and fist bumping. Chibs looked at Layla. "This is our President, Jackson Teller. Jax, this is Nero's niece, Layla, and her brother Lennon."
The SAMCRO President's eyes lingered on her for a minute, dragging over her figure and her face leisurely. His eyes looked tired, cold. "Let's talk business, babe."