Disclaimer: I don't own Sons… If I did, Chibs would have a nice little hottie of his own…
Her club was the outcasts of the outcasts; those that didn't fit into any other MCs, simply because they didn't have something swinging between their knees. She rode into Charming in hopes of striking up a deal with the Sons…
Chapter 1
He knew she was trouble from the moment he saw her. When the nurse laid her in his arms, and she looked up at him with those electric blue eyes, James Smart knew the world would never be the same. She had a handful of distant admirers from the time she was five; distant, because she had a tendency to beat the shit out of them if they got too close. He couldn't count the number of times she was suspended from the start of kindergarten through her 16th birthday, when she dropped out. She took off the next day, on the brand new Harley she'd just gotten from her father, and he didn't see her again for another ten years. But she was busy those ten years… very busy.
Magdylena Smart rolled back into her hometown of Barstow on the same bike she'd left on. But that was the top of a short list of things her return had in common with her departure. Her black hair had grown out, fanning out from under her helmet to the point that she was nearly sitting on it. A faint white scar colored her face from eyebrow to chin, casting a slightly sinister look across her angular face. And riding behind her, as if they'd always been there, were seven other women, each looking battered in some way or another, each with her own assortment of scars, piercing, and tattoos. The patches on the backs all read the same… 'The Reject's Daughters' splayed across the top, 'California' across the bottom, and a nude, bat-winged woman draped across a bike in-between.
She stopped for a few minutes at her father's house, paid her respects to her recently deceased mother, and got back on her bike for the remaining 150 miles to their destination: Charming.
Eight bikes pulled up to the Teller-Morrow garage, but only one of the riders left the bikes.
"Keep a steady eye, Mama," she said as she went to walk away.
"Aye, Mag," the one called 'Mama' said, the VP patch bright on her right breast. "The same to you."
Mag nodded, heading over to where one man was working on a Honda's breaks.
"Can I help ya, lass?" he asked with a Scottish lilt, looking up when he noticed her.
"I'm looking for Clay Morrow," she said. "I've got some business to discuss with him."
The man nodded, stood up, and lead her further into the garage. "Having problems with that bike of yours?" he asked conversationally.
"This inquiry isn't for Clay the Mechanic," she said, loud enough to catch the attention of the rest of the men in the garage. "This is a proposition for the Sons."
"You got a proposition for me?" asked the gorilla-faced man she recognized as Clay, elbow deep in engine.
"Heard you had a little fire, thought the Daughters could help," she said.
"The daughters?" another asked, this one sporting a Mohawk with tattoos on either side.
"The Reject's Daughters have a proposition to put forth to Samcro," Mag said. "I was hoping we could hold church, have a nice civil sit down."
"That out there's an MC?" a younger, red-headed man asked, pointing out to the lot, where a couple of the girls were chatting, their cuts draped across their bikes.
"The RDO," Mag said proudly, indicating the 'President' patch on her right breast, another underneath reading 'Tarnished Trio.' The Scotsman who brought her in laughed.
"Shouldn't you leave the MC business to your men?" he asked. Mag raised an eyebrow at him.
"Men aren't allowed in my club," she said. "We're the Reject's Daughters for a reason."
"And why should we take you seriously?" Clay asked. "Not a one of you looks like you'd last ten minutes in a fight."
"You wanna put that to the test?" Mag asked, her electric blue eyes flashing dangerously. Nobody made a sound. "Fine. I'll take on your choice of fighter, one-on-one unarmed combat. Your fighter wins, we roll out of town. But if I win, we hold church then and there, and you hear us out. Deal?" She extended her right hand to Clay.
"Deal," he said, grasping it.
"So, which one of your grease monkeys is it gonna be?" she asked, looking around the shop. Clay did the same, waiting to see who would volunteer. Prospect began to raise his hand, but Clay shook his head; he'd seen the boy fight, and wanted to give her a decent shot.
"I'll do it," said the Scotsman. "I haven't had a decent fight in weeks."
"When and where?" Mag asked.
"How's here and now sound to ya, Lass?" he said.
"Let me grab my girls," she said, turning to head back to the bikes. "They'll be pissed if I let them miss out on this." She added an extra swish in her hips as she walked away, and Chibs whistled softly.
"It'll be a shame to mar such a pretty thing," he said.
"Let's go," Mag said once she reached her club.
"Time to prove we can scrap with them?" asked Layla, a dark-skinned wisp of a girl.
"Time to prove that I can scrap," Mag said, pulling off her cut to reveal the roses tattooed up her right arm and the flames up her left. Bridget, the tiny, blonde Sergeant-at-Arms, worked Mag's hair into a single braid as the club made their way back to where the Sons stood, surrounding a simple boxing ring. A blond Son swore when he noticed the half a foot and (roughly) 80 pound difference between the two, and a few of the Sons began placing bets. Not on who would win, but on how long she would last.
"You sure you wanna go through with this, lass?" Chibs asked, looking her over. "Wouldn't want to hurt that pretty little face of yours."
"We'll see who comes out on top, old man," she said, falling into a simple fighting stance. Chibs sighed, but did the same. Clay shut everyone up, and the fight began.
