a/n Thanks to everyone who followed/favorited/reviewed ily all so much. Please check the trigger warnings in the first chapter before reading!
Jax strides over to the open passenger door, that damn smirk never leaving his face. Atlas' now wet muzzle pushes past my shoulder, as, in a desperate attempt to smell the intriguing stranger, he clambers over me. Jax takes a nearly automatic half step back. "Is the beast gonna bite me?" He asks, eyes more than a little wary on the dog and tone only somewhat teasing.
"Nah, Atlas doesn't really bite." I assure him, keeping my grin in check. There's something darkly amusing about the big bad-ass biker afraid of an overgrown puppy.
"I asked if he would bite me." Jax clarifies, his thumb brushing over the edge of his jean pocket. I pretend to ponder it for a moment before shaking my head. Jax offers a hand to Atlas, who immediately coats it in a healthy layer of slobber. A pleased and relieved smile tugs at his lips.
"Ah a sheep in wolves' clothing." He muses. I don't like how quickly he's come to that conclusion, even though I'm the one who led him there. I should've let him think Atlas was thoroughly dangerous. So fuckin dumb.
"So," Jax leans his shoulder against the door behind me, close, close, close, and all alone too, so far away from other people, eyes once more assessing. "What are you doing out here?" The question sends a spike of anxiety coursing through me but it's manageable. I've prepared for this, had at least a few minutes to think of something. "I'm moving." Punctuating the words with a matter-of-fact shrug seems to help with believability. Or so I've found.
"Yeah, I got that." Jax jerks his chin towards the suitcases and random shit piled in the backseat. Of course he's figured that out my God you really are dense aren't you. I feel the heat creep up my neck, from my own shitty half truth, from Jax's bemused expression, from that damn voice and its ugly honesty.
"Then why'd you ask?" I retort. Being embarrassed is a sure trigger for my temper and I fucking hate it. Not as much as I hate the automatic guilt that comes after the snap of irritation, but still. Jax just quirks a brow in response.
"Why ya moving?"
"S'complicated." I mutter, cursing myself at the still-there petulance in my tone. Jax's arm rests inside the open car window as he gifts a lazy "Always is, right?"
That's easy to respond to at least, just a nod. He heaves a sigh and resumes his staring. There's something about it that's too heavy, almost searching. I avert my eyes, observing the sparse desert landscape surrounding us, the occasional tree casting a long distorted shadow beneath the blistering sun.
"Wanna tell me who did that to your face? " Jax asks, much quieter, far too tense and serious to mean anything good for me.
Could be worse. My hand twitches with the urge to rub against the offending marks. Offering one of those uncomprehending vapid fake smiles, I explain,"A basketball actually. I was walking to work and a stray ball smacked into the side of my head."
Jax's brows pull together and he gives me a slightly incredulous look. "That basketball happened to have five fingers huh?" Play dumb. Shouldn't be hard for you anyway.
"What do you mean?" I lean back and tug my knees up to my chest. Although it doesn't really obscure his view of my face, it makes me feel a bit more solid. Atlas has claimed the driver's seat and he spares me a moderately concerned glance before settling himself down with a huff of warm breath.
"Is that why you're moving?" Jax presses. Teeth begin gnawing at the inside of my cheek, the motion tracked by Jax. "Because a basketball hit me in the face?" I question innocently. He rolls his eyes and honestly I have to keep from joining him. I'm well aware of my pisspoor lying skills which, if it wasn't so inconvenient, might've been funny considering how much time I've had to perfect them.
"How much longer do you think they'll be?" I ask, before he has time to revamp his curiosity.
"Eh, ten minutes."
He produces another cigarette and as the tip glows a dull red, panic roils in the pit of my stomach. Not a cigar, far too small, wouldn't hurt nearly as much, I remind myself.
"You want one?"
I snap back to attention, suddenly and awfully aware of how long I'd been staring at it, him. "Sorry! What was that?"
Jax gives a cocky grin. Relief floods me as I realize he thought I was staring for a very different reason. "Do you want one?" He offers, this time a bit slower, while gesturing to the cigarette with his free hand.
"No, thank you. I don't smoke." My chin presses into my knees as Jax's gaze sharpens, turns analyzing once more.
"Jesus, are you even old enough to smoke?"
Barely. "Of course," I answer, then immediately and with a touch of amusement, wonder what his reaction would've been if I'd said "no".
"Just making sure you're not a run-away." Jax pushes off the Jeep and walks around to the front, hand drumming lazily on the hood. "Can you pop this for me darlin'?"
I lean over Atlas and pull the lever, within seconds Jax is well-hidden behind the faded red sheet of metal.
"I'm not. A runaway, that is." I clarify.
"Yeah? Well that's good. I'm not really into the whole jailbait thing." I nearly choke on a laugh.
"You called it. Just overheated. It should be good in an hour or so. You do have a cracked radiator, though." Jax informs me, slamming the hood back into place. I flinch at the heavy metallic smash. A memory flickers through my mind at the sound. Nope, nope. Not here. He's not here. But he will be soon, God you're so damn stupid, you think it's going to be this easy? I suck in a breath, fingertips pinching the soft flesh of my thigh. The pain, sharp and grounding, clears my head instantly. Jax returns to his place beside the door.
"You alright?" He questions, softly so damn softly I want to rip my fucking hair out.
"Yep! All good."
In an effort to avoid his stare I notice the white tag on his chest. "What's that mean? That patch."
Jax's fingertips brush the object in question, tracing over the bolded black letters. "It means I'm the president." He chuckles slightly at that, as if he knows how arrogant it sounds.
"President of what?"
"The Sons of Anarchy." He turns and gestures to the decal on the back of his vest, "We're a motorcycle club."
Club not gang. I turn the word over in my head, but gang fits better no matter how I look at it.
"Oh. That sounds fun."
Jax nods as his tongue flicks over his bottom lip. "So, about the radiator."
"Do I need to get that fixed right away or can I keep going like this for a bit?" My knowledge of cars isn't comparable to that of a mechanics but it is decent and I'm pretty sure that a cracked radiator is that big of a deal.
"You'll have to get it fixed eventually. It'll be fine for now, but it will keep overheating. Especially if you're planning on sticking around."
His statement prods me towards something I'd read before and I'm pleasantly surprised to realize I understand what he's talking about. "Because it's so hot here, right? It puts extra strain on the already busted radiator."
"Yeah exactly!" Jax exclaims with a broad, contagious smile.
"Ah, then it is a good thing I'm not sticking around." I murmur.
"Where are you headed then?" He asks, point blank.
"I'm not sure," At least this is the truth in its rawest form, "I guess wherever I can find a place and a job." I admit, not liking how desperate and needy it makes me sound.
Jax hums happily,"Well just so happens I know of a job opening over in Charming." His casual tone is at odds with the devilishly pleased gleam in his eyes.
"Yeah? What kind of job?" I'm not sure what kind of jobs "clubs" know of but I don't think they're the ones I'd be well suited to. Jax pushes a stray piece of hair behind his ear before replying.
"Bookkeeping."
He's smiling softly now.
"Is that code for something or?..." I trail off awkwardly, stupid so fucking stupid.
"Nope. Bookkeeping. Like for my shop. Keeping track of which cars belong to which customers, payments, costs, ordering parts. Ya know that kinda shit."
At his shop. I try to imagine functioning like a normal person around Jax, not to mention the rest of them, and it is not a pretty picture. "Sorry, but uh I mean- thank you- but I'm- you know- I'm not qualified." I cringe internally at the rambling, stunted words. Jax doesn't mind them, or at the very least doesn't show it if he does, "You're definitely qualified. Hell, over-qualified, all you really need is a pulse."
When he talks like that, all lazy accent and familiarity, it's almost easy to grin back, "So I take it the job's pretty simple?"
"Very."
"I mean I-I really was- wasn't planning on staying." Fuck this isn't good. I can't just tell him no, not after all he's done, wouldn't be fair, fuckin' A you sound like an ungrateful bitch.
He pauses, watching me speculatively. Or is it critically? Of course it's critically, you look like a nervous fucking wreck. Next you'll start crying and he can get a real good look at how batshit you are.
"Listen," Jax offers, raising a hand to silence the protests he must see forming in my head, "The radiator is gonna take us a day or two to fix. There's a motel in town, you could stay there and think about my offer? That way I can talk it over with guys too. I'm sure they won't have problem with it though." Jax says.
"I guess I could, y-yeah." I mutter, truly needing to find some sense of self preservation. A part of me is overjoyed at the thought of having a minute to actually breathe and think. The bigger part is disgusted and terrified that I'm even considering working for men I just met. Men that, by all means, could be an even worse sort then I've dealt with. Wouldn't that be what you deserved, whore? It's your own damn fault. Fuckin' danger magnet.
Fortunately I'm saved from having to further consider my newfound predicament. A steady growl reverberates through the gravel turnout as the tow truck pulls up besides us. It's a white Ford pickup with a sand colored stripe down the side, red and white lettering clearly states "TM Auto Service".
It seems Half-Sack has arrived.