Hello everyone! The response to my new story was overwhelming! You guys are fantastic! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Again, Season 4 is getting crazier and crazier. Cannot wait for this new episode! I also heard it's going to be a 14 episode season. THAT made my day.

Now, quickly I'd like to address something. Concern has been brought up about the age of the OC. I understand that 19 is young but I made her young for specific purposes. This story, I forgot to mention, is taking place in Season 1, so she'll have some growing up to do, so to speak. I'm not justifying anything, I'm just saying.

Anywho, I'd like to glorify two AMAZING authors before I set you guys off on the story. Torithy and Happys Hitwoman. You guys are fantastic and I wish I could write like you. And everyone else should read their stories. FANTASTIC I tell you.

Okay, enough of that. Here's chapter two.

Chapter Two

The Wings of a Crow

Claire had never thought of herself as much more than a nuisance. Her mother's constant condemnations made sure of that. She also saw herself as less than beautiful, ugly as it were. Monica Hayford had always been quick to point out her flaws. She was too thin, too tall, too pale. Her hair was too thick, always frizzed and was the nastiest color, which she always found to be an odd insult considering her mother's was the same. Even now as Claire stared at the fogged over mirror, her mother's voice at long last put to rest, she could still feel the scorn and all she ever saw were the things that were wrong.

But there was one part of her that Monica never hated.

Her light blue eyes had come from Clay Morrow, her father, whatever that had meant. Sometimes her mother would coo over them, calming the raging monster within while other times they would unleash the creature. Monica would become furious. She would throw things, beat the walls, curse both Clay and Claire. Only once did she lay a hand on her but it never happened again. Claire may have not been physically imposing but she still had four inches on her mother. She learned quickly how to fend for herself and how to avoid a hit. Physicality was never something she feared, just everything else.

Claire took a deep breath and smacked herself in the face. She had to stop thinking about it all. That was the past. As horribly drawn out and vicious it had been, it was over now, despite the various marks on her body that wished to tell her otherwise. She supposed it just seemed so surreal. For years she had hoped for a day like this and now she had no idea what to do, had no knowledge of anything but her past.

Wrapping the towel around herself tighter, Claire attempted not to scream when it came to brushing out the seemingly endless knots in her hair. It cascaded well past her shoulders, making it a good twenty minute job. By the time she finished, her hair was starting to dry. Frowning, she stared at the mirror again until she heard a thump in the other room.

Gemma was not so subtly looking through her suitcase when Claire opened the door.

"What are you doing?" Claire asked quietly, hugging the wall.

"Looking for something that actually fits you," Gemma replied. It did not seem to bother her one bit that she had been caught looking through her personal belongings. While she had no attachment to any of the items, Claire did not appreciate the invasion of what little privacy she had. However, before she could find her voice, Gemma spoke again. "Where did you get all this junk?"

Claire shrugged. "My mom, Good Will…people who didn't need them anymore."

Gemma sat up, staring at her a moment. It made Claire uncomfortable. She wished she was wearing something other than a towel that barely made it past her hips.

"These'll have to do then." Gemma tossed a pair of jeans and an old Pink Floyd shirt at her.

All Gemma got in response was a quiet 'okay' as Claire examined her clothing. She could feel her eyes on her, trying to cut through the layers and figure her out. Truth be told, there was not much to look for. Maybe that was why she had such an issue. She was transparent. Instead of cutting through her, they were clawing at the image on the other side.

Out of the corner of her eye, Claire noticed Gemma shift, giving the woman full view of her exposed back. There was no point in hiding it now so she remained still until Gemma's curiosity was satisfied.

Starting midway at each shoulder blade was a tattooed wing, feathers black and bones appearing to be broken. Instead of branching out like a bird about to take off, they dropped lifelessly until her mid-back. She never regretted getting them; she just hated them being seen.

"How'd you get those?" Gemma asked, crossing her arms.

"Favor from a friend," Claire replied nonchalantly. Friend, of course, was hardly the term she would use for it. She had been sixteen at the time. His name was Rob, a sleazy tattoo artist who had been sleeping with her mom. He said he felt bad for keeping her up at night by making her mom scream as loud as she did, adding his creepy, proud of himself smile at the end. For that, he offered to give her a tattoo to make it up to her. Claire never admitted that he kept her awake, because he didn't. She was just not in the mood to tell him she had grown used to the sounds late at night.

"Must have been a hell of a favor," Gemma said, stepping in front of her.

"You could say that."

The look on Rob's face when she showed him the idea was priceless. She might have laughed but that had been long snubbed out of her nature. He had grumbled about it a while but eventually gave in. At the end, he had considered it one of his best works but that did not stop him from seeking a little revenge by making sure she was woken up that night.

"Are they crow's wings?"

Claire looked up at Gemma, a little surprised she got it. "Yeah, umm…mom mentioned them a lot. I guess the idea just stuck."

Gemma nodded, suddenly looking very distant. Claire watched her a moment before she remembered that she was still half naked in the room. She coughed a moment, hoping to get her attention, but of course that did not work.

"Can I…change now?"

The woman seemed to snap back to reality. "Sure. And when you're finished, go to the office in the garage. You're helping me today." Gemma did not wait for a response. The door was shut before Claire could open her mouth.

"I don't envy you, brother," Bobby stated, staring out over the lot. He and Clay were sitting at the picnic table, each having a smoke while they discussed yesterday's events. Clay, despite never actually drinking that night, had a horrible migraine and kept rubbing his temples. "You sure she's yours?"

Clay sighed. "Positive, unfortunately."

Bobby nodded, thinking it over. "Claire…Clarence. That's pretty messed up."

"You don't know the half of it," Clay replied, tossing the rest of his cigar. He ran his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath; he had no idea what to do with this girl. From what he could tell, she had nowhere else to go and normally that would not have bothered him when he kicked her out the door but she was his flesh and blood. Some part of him did not want to do the deed. He hated it.

"What are you going to do with her?" Bobby asked as though he had read his mind.

"I have no clue. I got too much other shit to deal with."

Just as he finished it, the door to the clubhouse opened and Claire stepped out. Her clothes fit a little better today but it was still obvious they were big on her, making her look impossibly thinner. She gave a polite nod to Bobby, who returned it, and continued on to the office. The two watched her every step of the way.

"You talk to her yet?"

"Last night," Clay replied, standing up. "Told her I was Tig but she saw right through it."

"The girl's smart."

"That's what worries me."

Bobby was silent a moment as he considered Clay's concerns. "You think she's playing us?"

"Maybe. I can't tell yet."

Now it was Gemma's turn to walk outside. She stopped in front of the men, shooting a look in the office's direction before she spoke. "What's the verdict?"

"Afraid the jury's still out," Clay said, staring at the ground.

"So what do you want me to do with her?"

Clay paused. "Get to know her better. Figure out what the hell she wants."

Claire looked around the office with controlled curiosity. It did not seem to be any different than any other garage she had been to, though the pin ups were new. She was hoping for something, anything that could give her a hint as to who these people were but she supposed that leaving it out in the open for customers to see was not exactly an intelligent thing to do.

She was in the middle of looking at some order that made less sense than Latin when the door to the garage opened. Claire jumped and looked over. It was the man who had spoken to her yesterday. There was no mistaking that haircut or the tattoos that ran on either side of his head. So far he had been the nicest person she had met. He smiled when he walked in, a big, goofy grin that put her at ease. There was so much about him that made it look like he did not belong with these people.

"You're still here," he stated casually, but in a cheerful way. He leaned against the wall, rubbing the grease off his hands with a rag.

"I am," Claire replied, staying right where she was. She watched him clean himself up, noting the other tattoos on his arms. This was some kind of gang she bet. The kind she had seen on the television all the time shooting people and terrorizing places. Though she never thought of them being mechanics in their off time.

"So…" he started, clearly at a loss for words. "You like Pink Floyd?"

Claire looked at him funny until she remembered the shirt she was wearing. "Oh," she looked down at it. "I don't…even know what that is."

"You…you don't?" he asked, his smile slowly fading.

She shrugged. "I couldn't exactly be picky when it came to clothes."

He opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for about a minute or so until someone called from the garage.

"Juice, how long does it take ya to get a set of keys?"

Through the door stepped a man with graying hair, the scars on either side of his face as distinguishable as his accent, which she guessed was Scottish. Claire tried not to make it obvious that she was staring at them, seeing as how his gaze had now landed on her, but her curiosity was a very difficult thing to fight.

"Hello," he said, sounding genial enough but it was clear he knew what she was looking at. There was no doubt in her mind that it was something he did not like.

"Hi." Claire responded quietly, giving a small wave of her hand. She then shifted her gaze to the floor, hoping to find something more interesting to preoccupy it.

"Would ya grab the keys already, Juice? The car ain't goin' ta move itself." She heard a mumbled apology and watched as he shuffled over to the key rack, grabbed a set and went back out to the garage, but not before giving her one last grin. Claire returned the gesture and watched the door a moment after he departed.

"Anythin' I can help ya with?"

Claire looked to him, managing to meet his eyes this time. "Gemma told me to come here, said I'd be helping her."

"That's good," he replied, accent making the word sound funny to her ears. "She could use it." She watched him eye the various stacks of paper that littered the desk, allowing her one more brief look at his scars. For a moment she wondered who could be callous enough to inflict him with something so permanent. Then she remembered the people she was dealing with, the mug shots on the wall. Things such as his scars might be an everyday occurrence. She tried her best to not show that there was a chill creeping up her spine.

"I guess," Claire said, slight frustration evident in her voice, enough to tip him off as to how she felt about the situation.

The Scotsman titled his head to one side, considering her response. "Piece of advice for ya, Claire," he stated. She did not question how he knew her name; she had the feeling gangs gossiped about as much as high school cheerleaders. "Don't cross Gemma. It won't be pretty." Claire decided that was to be taken as literally as possible and that she ought to assume the worst outcome.

Giving a small nod, Claire waited for him to go back to the garage before she sank down in a chair against the wall. She closed her eyes with a sigh and listened to her surroundings for a moment. The steady drone of the air conditioning was occasionally interrupted by the sounds in the garage, mostly a dropping tool or a drill. Sometimes there would be a voice, usually the Scot's. It carried well over a distance.

When the door opened, Claire tried not to jump but her body seemed to have other plans. Upon opening her eyes, she saw Gemma staring down at her, looking like she was trying to figure out what to do. Seems no one had the answer to that question.

"You good with numbers?" Gemma asked, taking a seat behind the desk. She whipped out a pair of reading glasses and began flipping through the papers.

Claire blinked. "Math was my best subject."

"Good to know."

The conversation halted. There was no mention of the other day, Clay or the fact that she was his illegitimate child. In fact, Gemma was now regarding her as nothing more than another piece of furniture. For a few minutes, Claire was fine with waiting. She took it as part of the 'butting into their business' treatment. After all, they really did not have to do anything with her. She was an adult now and Clay had no responsibility. Kicking her out instead of stringing her along would have been better and she thought to voice that opinion until those words of advice drifted through her ears again. Apparently she had not seen Gemma remotely angry. That was how she'd like to keep it.

"Can I ask you something?" Claire blurted out after a while.

Gemma never looked from the computer. "Depends."

When she did not continue, Claire did. "Who are these guys?" She figured it was not too much to assume Gemma knew what she was talking about. The suspicious look she received confirmed it but the answer was certainly not what she was expecting.

"They're mechanics." A straightforward answer from these people was clearly out of the question.

"What else do they do?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

Claire was silent a moment, thinking of a new way to approach the subject, get the answers her curiosity so desperately needed without getting her head taken off. She looked to the window, the blinds open, allowing her to see the lot outside. The row of parked motorcycles caught her attention where they previously had not. She squinted at them as all the little pieces began to fall into place.

The click of the light bulb in her head was so loud, Gemma might have heard it. "They're a motorcycle club."

"So you finally put two and two together, math really is your strong suit." Claire shot Gemma a quick look but the woman was still not paying attention. She wondered what her angle was. That conclusion probably could have been drawn earlier but maybe she had not wanted to come to it. After all, the only motorcycle club she had ever really heard of was the Hell's Angels and their past was colorful to say the least.

She stood then, moving to the doorway to lean against it. The whole area seemed to take on a new look, a new feel, as though she stood at the edge of something, a decision whose weight was far greater now. Whatever she had found herself in was certainly not the world her mother had described to her all those times as a child.

"Care to explain why you slept on the floor last night?" Gemma asked suddenly, breaking Claire from her thoughts. She turned around, her look slightly surprised. "You really think I wouldn't see the pile of sheets on the other side of the bed?" Claire shrugged. Gemma waited a moment. "So?"

What was she supposed to tell her? That she used to have a bed until she came home from school one day to find it mysteriously broken, for reasons never explained or inquired about? That her mattress, probably older than her mother, finally gave out and she tossed it out rather than deal with it? That she had grown so used to sleeping on the hard floor that in the comfort of a bed she would toss and turn, unable to find sleep? There were things people did not need to know about her. One look and it was obvious she had a sob story, elaboration was not necessary. She felt like dirt enough as it was.

"No," she spoke quietly before finding her voice again. "No, I'm not going to tell you."

Claire was not exactly certain how Gemma would react. If history meant anything, it would be with angered words and an air of authority she could choke on. She felt ready if this was the case. After all, if you could survive the drunken rage of Monica Hayford, you could survive anything.

"Then let me take a stab at something," Gemma said, taking off her glasses. "You don't come from money…obviously." The pause was no doubt supposed to hurt. Her hide was thicker than that. "And you've got no one else to turn to, which is why you sought out Daddy dearest."

Claire opened her mouth to counter but was cut off. "Let me finish, princess. You hoped he would feel pity, take you in, give you a home, act like you were the daughter he always had, taking care of you along the way."

She had always been a calm person but after twenty four hours with these people, she had been angry and tempted to lash out twice. Once she had gone through with it, but not here; she knew better than that. It did not make much sense to her though. All her life she had been treated this way. Why should it make a difference now?

"I don't…want to be a burden. I just wanted to know him."

Gemma was not buying it. "You want to tell me that not a single bone in your body was hoping, hell praying to be taken under the wing of your old man?"

Claire opened her mouth again but shut it soon after. She repeated this several more times. There was nothing she could say. Gemma had a point, as unfortunate as it was. All she could do was shake her head. "You are a burden, Claire."

How she hated those words.

With what little pride she had left, Claire stood up. Damn what advice she was given. "If you wanted me gone, you could have just said so. No need to beat me over the head with words I've heard my entire life." Now it was her turn to leave before she could receive a response. And she did just that.

Gemma watched her for a few moments. The tart had nerve and as much as she hated to admit it, she liked that.

Thanks for reading! Enjoy the rest of your day!