** Disclaimer** I don't own Sons of Anarchy. My name isn't Kurt Sutter. Christ, I wish it was.

He closed his eyes, let his head fall against the pillow and sighed. Heavily. He tried to slow the emotions that still coursed through his body. His desperation to hold his son. His nagging need for a cigarette. His mounting concern for his fugitive mother. His insane need for a cigarette His blind rage for Cameron. His barley tolerable need for a cigarette His growing annoyance with Tara. His unbearable fucking need for a god damn cigarette. He groaned and punched the back of the seat in front of him, thankful it was empty.

"Easy there, Champ" said a smooth alto voice.

He let his head fall to the right, towards the direction of the voice. She was sitting in the seat directly across the aisle from him and was watching him intently with bright green eyes and full lips pulled into a sideways smirk. He smirked back, for two reasons. One, she was easy on the eyes. Two, he was Jackson Teller and it was a reaction as natural to him as breathing whenever he encountered reason one.

"Sorry, Darlin." He said huskily as he extended a hand. "Jax"

"Ryan", She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. Jax pulled back as soon as he felt something between their hands. He looked into his palm to find a shiny foil bubble pack. Nicotine gum. He laughed and shot her a glance. She had turned her attention back to the laptop on the tiny tray table in front of her.

"How'd you know?" he asked, popping two pieces free of their plastic confines and into his mouth.

"Lucky guess" Her eyes didn't leave the screen and her typing didn't slow.

"Nah" He shook his head, casually throwing the remaining gum on top of the duffel bag that occupied the window seat to his left and settling his head back into the pillow.

"A Masters in psychology."

"Ah, that would do it" he murmured. He let his eyes focus on the tiny screen embedded in the seat back in front of him. He watched a few minutes of the movie he had been ignoring for the majority of the flight, allowing the nicotine from the gum to calm his craving, his nerves and his thoughts. He was feeling a great deal more like himself when he let his head fall to the right, again. She was still typing on the laptop, though it seemed the more her focus increased the more the distance between her and the screen decreased. Her long hair had fallen forward over her shoulder, forming a light brown curtain that blocked her face from view. He looked her over and realized how completely out of it he must have been when he boarded, the girl was a knockout. She was lean, with an ample chest, noticeable even in her black, loose fitting scoop neck tee. She sat on one of her long, dark washed skinny jean clad legs, while she bounced her free knee to an unheard beat. The foot Jax could see was bare and perfectly pedicured, a gemstone sparkling on each french tipped toe. He caught a glimpse of a dangerously high, dangerously thin black heel with a red sole under the seat in front of her. He recognized it as some fancy french designer that Wendy had hinted she wanted at one point in their relationship. He had shot her down once he had found out the cheap pairs went for seven bills.

"So, what do you do with a Master's in psychology?"

She tossed her long hair back over her shoulder and met his gaze. Her eyes were a light, bright green and almost too big for her heart shaped face. Her nose turned up slightly, and had a splatter of freckles across the bridge.

"You mean other than diagnose addicts on trans-Atlantic flights?" She retorted, flashing him a smile that exposed a dimple in each cheek and very straight, very white teeth. A great deal of time, money and thought went into Ryan's appearance and the fact wasn't lost on Jax. Just because he spent forty hours a week holding a power tool and wearing a shirt with his embroidered on the front, didn't mean he couldn't recognize or appreciate someone who was as well put together as Ryan. He smiled sheepishly at the addict comment.

"Yeah, besides that."

She shifted in her seat, and withdrew her leg from under her body. She stretched both of her legs out in front of her, having to angle them under the seat in order to have the space to do so.

"I'm kind of a sex therapist." she replied, leaning back in her seat, crossing her legs and resting her chin on her shoulder. She glanced up at him, smiling sheepishly, a light blush starting to spread across her cheeks. Jax's mouth feel open slightly making her laugh. "Yeah, I get that reaction a lot."

"No, no, I'm just..." Jax found her laugh infectious and laughed at his own stutter while he searched for the words he wanted.

"The Vice President of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original?"

Jax stopped laughing. He was surprised that the handful of other passengers scattered throughout the first class cabin, didn't shift uncomfortably in their seats as the change in the atmosphere was palpable. Her green eyes were still on him, her smile had returned to a smirk and the blush was rapidly fading from her cheeks, as she watched him intently. He inhaled deeply and sat up in his chair. He leaned towards her and fixed her with his most alluring smile

"You got a last name, Ryan?" he asked, still kind, but firm. She mimicked his action, leaning towards the aisle between and and turning up to corners of her slightly parted lips.

"Doesn't everyone?" she asked coyly, in a low voice. Suddenly, it became clear to Jax that he might not be able to woe information out of this woman.

"You gonna share it with me?"

"Absolutely not."

His nostrils flared and he sat back against his chair in a huff. He was starting to become annoyed with his current position. He had ten minutes, tops, until they landed in London, where the rest of Sam Cro was gathering, preparing to travel to Glasgow. They had traveled separately out of the states on bogus passports, to avoid being flagged by the ATF. He didn't have his cut, his gun, or his knife, so he had no idea how this dame had so easily identified him. He glanced sideways at her again. She had leaned back into her seat as well, but was still watching him intently. Still smirking. Foot still bouncing. Fingers slowly drumming against the arm rest, manicured nails clicking.

"You've heard of the Sons, then?" He asked, trying to keep his tone light.

"I've heard of SAMCRO" she specified.

A chime sounded as the seat belt sign turned on. A stewardess was addressing the plane, letting the passengers know they were making their decent into London.

"Spent some time in Northern Cali, did ya?" he pried, as she shut the lid on her laptop and slid it into the bag in the seat next to her.

"Born and raised." she told him over her shoulder as she fiddled with the clasp on her bag. With her turned away from him Jax had no choice but to notice that her shirt was backless. Her exposed back sported three circular scars closely grouped on her left shoulder. Jax immediately recognized them as bullet wounds.

The tires of the plane met tarmac. Again the stewardess was on the PA, welcoming everyone to Heathrow and giving connection information. Ryan was facing forward again, retriving her shoes from under the seat in front of her with her feet, and sliding her arms into a black twill mechanics jacket.

"Where about" Jax asked through slightly clenched teeth. This game of vague answers was wearing thin on his patience.

"Charming"

The cabin burst into activity as the seat belt sign was turned off and people began collecting their belongings.

"Bullshit" he almost shouted as he stood. She was already on her feet, retrieving her rolling suitcase from the overhead bin. She set the suitcase down and turned to face him, eyes narrowed. Jax noticed that she was almost eye level with him.

"Really?" she said, annoyance clear in her voice.

"Yeah."

"There are almost fifteen thousand people who reside in Charming city limits, Teller. You really think you know them all?" she asked sharply.

"I didn't tell you my last name"

"No, you didn't" she agreed grabbing the handle of her suitcase and walking away from him down the aisle, leaving Jax groping across his seat for his duffel bag. A group of teenaged tourists cut in front of him, and meandered slowly down the aisle. As soon as they reached the jetway, he dashed around them, hurling a few choice obscenities over his shoulder at them. He didn't need this. His main focus need to be getting his son back. He didn't have time to deal with some random stranger who knew too much, but an upbringing in an outlaw lifestyle had taught him better. You didn't leave lose ends, or sure as shit they would come back to bite you in the ass. He hit the terminal at a run, skidded to a stop, his trademark white tennis shoes squeaking against the linoleum. His eyes darted around the terminal, looking for Ryan or at least a group of men gawking after her general direction. He was out of luck, there was no sign of her.