Kyra

"Here you go miss. A double of Malibu rum with a splash of pineapple juice."

"Thanks," Kyra said with a smile, sliding her debit card to the bartender. "I'd like to start a tab." She took a sip of the drink to test the taste. She swirled the concoction around on her tongue. It was just sweet enough, just strong enough. Just the way she liked it.

After a month and a half in Charming, she'd ventured out of her apartment to have a drink in town. New establishments were popping up in the downtown area and she'd wanted to check out this bar for a few weeks. Though it was new, it wasn't particularly fancy. It seemed that even with the new developments and "progress" that Mayor Hale had promised, the new businesses maintained the small town feel of Charming. It didn't much matter to Kyra. San Francisco was close enough when she was in the mood for fancy. Today she just wanted good drinks to celebrate a good day. Before she left work, she'd found out that Elliot approved her proposal for a company-wide technology upgrade on accounting software. This was huge. She'd made it clear to Elliot that she was interested in accounting and he was pleased with the initiative she'd shown with the proposal.

Kyra felt someone take the seat on her right side. "Well look at this little chocolate Barbie doll," a male voice said.

Kyra took another sip of her drink and looked over her shoulder. He was an older man, she guessed in his 50s. His shirt indicated that he worked in a factory of some kind. She spotted the top of a swastika tattoo at the base of neck. What the fuck? A Neo-Nazi? When she met his gaze, she caught his eyes roaming her body. I should've ordered a triple shot. "Good evening," she said over her shoulder as she turned her back to him.

"You know I usually don't like your kind but you're a pretty lil thing. How about I buy you another drink?"

The prick was trying to get a rise out of her. "That's quite alright. I'm the kind that likes to buy her own drinks," she snapped. As she swirled her straw around in her glass, she contemplated clearing her tab and leaving the bar. She knew it was the safe move, but her pride wouldn't let the asshole get the best of her. Instead, she called for another drink and braced herself for his next remark. She was so deep in thought that she barely heard the Harley pull up outside.

"Well that's mighty rude of ya. Didn't your mama teach you any manners?"

My mama teaching me manners is the only reason I haven't kicked you in the balls yet, asshole. Before she could answer, Kyra caught a glimpse of black leather on her left side. She was overcome with relief when she turned her head and saw Juice standing a few seats away from her at the bar. It had been a couple of weeks since their first encounter and they'd run into each other around town a few times. Their exchanges were short, but friendly.

She turned her attention back to the Neo-Nazi. "My manners are fine, sir. I just prefer my meat a lil darker," Kyra looked down at the man's crotch. "And a lot a bigger," she added before leaving her seat. Please let him play along with this, she thought as she approached Juice. She pressed her cheek against his and whispered in his ear, "Your next three rounds are on me, just please act like I'm with you so I can get this asshole off my back."

Juice responded by putting his hand on the small of her back, reaching down and grazing her ass as he planted a kiss on her cheek. She stepped back and gave him a raised brow.

"What?" he replied with mock innocence, "Just tryin' to be convincing."

"Yeah I'm sure," Kyra said as she sat next to him. She looked back at the seat she'd left and saw her harasser sulking into his glass.

Juice smiled, revealing his dimples. "I thought people from Oakland knew how to handle themselves?" he teased.

"Plan A was to kick him in the balls. Then you came in and I decided to take a more subtle approach," she took another sip of her drink. "And if we were in Oakland, I would have slapped you just now."

He paused, taking in her appearance. She was dressed down in a simple black T-shirt, skinny jeans and heels. Her hair was down, in loose spirals that framed her face. "You look different without the suit."

"Yeah, I tend to ditch the suit after five." It was her turn to size him up. He was in his usual MC uniform; T-shirt, baggy cargo jeans, and black military-style boots. His leather vest laid over his perfect shoulders. She felt the urge to bite her bottom lip; a telltale sign that she was turned on. Be easy, Kyra. "I know you're supposed to scare the shit out of everybody in that vest, but you don't really strike me as the scary type."

Juice turned up his shot of Jack Daniels and chuckled. "This 'vest' is called a 'cut.' And who says I'm supposed to be scary? I'm just a mechanic who loves Harleys and tech shit."

Kyra tilted her head to the side. She suddenly felt lighter. Her facial muscles relaxed a bit. The rum had started its descent upon her senses. She looked at Juice and wondered where he kept his gun. It was definitely a matter of where and not if he carried one. She eyed the waistband of his jeans, but remembered he was a biker, not a banger. She scanned up to his broad shoulders. I bet he's got a holster under there. He jumped a little as her hand moved toward his chest. She patted the outside of his cut, until she felt the handle of a gun under his arm. "And this?"

He smiled again. Damn, those dimples. "I like guns, too."

"You know," she started, "something's been bothering me since we met."

"What's that?"

"What the hell is your real name? I don't know how I feel about calling a grown ass man 'Juice.'"

Juice motioned for the bartender to send him another drink. "Look. I'll tell you, but only if you swear to me that you'll never use it."

Kyra shook her head. "I don't do promises."

Now Juice's brows were raised. "A woman who doesn't do promises? What planet are you from?"

"Stop trying to distract me from my question. What's your name?"

He sighed and gave her sheepish grin. "Juancarlos Ortiz."

Juancarlos. Now that was a name suitable for the pretty brown boy with dimples. "That's not that bad."

"Yeah, well, like I said: don't get used to calling me that."

Don't get used to? Kyra's voice dropped half an octave. "And why would I get used to calling you at all?"

She could tell she caught him off guard. He didn't respond, just took another shot of whiskey. She watched his lips frame the rim of the small glass and was reminded of the peck he'd placed on her cheek earlier. His lips had been so soft. She felt heat rise to her cheeks as she imagined his lips on hers. Shit. The rum was in full-effect. Quit while you're ahead. She called for the bartender to cash out her tab and saw a hint of disappointment behind Juice's brown eyes. He rebounded quickly, waving off the bartender. "Don't worry. I got it."

"Well thank you, Mr. Ortiz," Kyra slid off of the barstool. "One last question before I go, though."

He tossed his head back, pretending to be annoyed. "Jesus Christ, what are you? A reporter?"

She cocked her head to the side. "How long had you been thinking about touching my ass before today?"

Juice dropped his head and laughed, taking a second before looking up at her face. "Since I saw you get out of Oswald's car at TM two weeks ago."

Kyra smiled and nodded. "Good night, Juice," she said and walked out of the bar.

Juice

Juice's thoughts roared above the sound of the engine beneath him. He ran down his encounter with Kyra bit by bit. She didn't bristle or turn rigid when he copped a feel. He bet that the look she gave him afterward was about masking her enjoyment rather than reprimanding him. She'd also made a point of letting him know that he didn't scare her. She could have been all talk, but then she'd felt for his gun. He didn't expect her to be that bold, and figured that she had a case of liquid courage, but still. There wasn't any hesitation or worry in her face when she found it, either. It was a totally different side to her. Unwound. At ease. Fiery enough to be intriguing, but not so much that she was intimidating. She was more observant than he'd initially given her credit for and had picked up on his attraction to her from the very beginning. By the time she left, he felt like she'd thrown out a dare: "I know you want it. I just might let you have it. Don't fuck it up."

Things were pretty slow around the SAMCRO clubhouse. Clay was still getting a feel for running their expanded gun business on the outside and the club still had to adjust to the new law in Charming. Juice wasn't surprised when he returned to a quiet clubhouse. Hap, Tig and Chibs were out front talking shit and Fil and Miles were inside at the bar. Their prospect period had been a little longer than usual, but Clay wanted to save the vote on their patches until the guys were out of prison. Juice would be happy for the new editions. One of them was bound to take the title of SAMCRO screw up and he was glad to give it away.

He settled in with his laptop and a bottle of Jack. To run this check or not to run this check? From a logical standpoint, it didn't make sense for him to carry on his curiosity about Kyra. He was, after all, an intelligence officer. Whatever he wanted to know was at the tip of his fingers. Checking into her shit felt like an invasion, but he couldn't have these questions about her occupying so much space in his mind. Before he pursued her, he had to know who she was. Not only was she a stranger to the club, but she was an outsider to all of Charming. Juice wanted to believe that she was just a regular girl from Oakland, but he couldn't afford to risk it. He took a swig of his Jack and poised his fingers on the keyboard.

Kyra Renee James was 26 years old. Born in Oakland and raised in Niner territory by her mother Rhonda James. They lived in the hood until she was 16, when Rhonda moved into a quiet housing development outside of the city and enrolled Kyra in a private high school. She was listed as the bookkeeper and manager of her mother's hair salon, Miss Rhonda's, until 2006 when her mother died from breast cancer. The following year, Kyra sold the shop and the house and enrolled in California State University at Sacramento as an accounting major. She got her degree in May 2011 and moved to Charming, where Neeta, her last living relative, lived. She was a fighter. Prior to transferring high schools, she'd had a couple of suspensions on record for fighting in school. She also had an assault and disorderly conduct arrest at 21, for which charges had been dropped a few weeks later. And she was a registered gun owner.

Juice's brows were knitted over the paperwork scattered across his bed when he heard a knock at the door. "Yeah?" he answered.

The door opened and Jax peeked his head in. "Ay bro, we're at the table."

"Yup." Juice collected the papers into a pile and slammed the top down on his laptop.