Jax watched her down a whole liter of bottled water and some vitamin B-12 tablets and then pour the remaining whiskey down the sink. He saw her look at her reflection in the glass patio door and scowl at what she saw. He wondered what made her so sad and disgusted with herself. He knew what evoked those feelings in himself but she looked so innocent and if he had to guess, he would bet she was fairly innocent, not hardened like so many women her age, the ones that wanted to call themselves "old ladies." Jesus, the aspiration to be someone's "old lady" by the time you were twenty-five.
She really was going to have to get some window coverings, he thought, relieved when he saw her shiver and finally go retrieve a pair of pajamas to wear. Much better. Now I don't have to feel like such a fucking peeper, although he had never seen anyone make a pair of pajamas look so appealing. Had she lost someone she loved? Who was the person on the phone? Why had the call made her more sad? Well, most of a bottle of Jameson's would have that effect on that stupid purple dinosaur. Abel would under no circumstances be watching that fucking giggling dinosaur that sounded like its nuts were being squeezed.
Well, at least she knew how to stave off a hangover. She opened up another liter of water and began drinking it. Jax was relieved when she didn't blow any more groceries and finally walked into her bedroom and lay down on the bed and shut off the lights. That meant his job for the night was complete. Yet his mind was still racing. He scrambled down the tree and trotted down the street to the spot where he had parked his motorcycle and on his ride home, thought of nothing else but what could be eating up Hannah Hartley, whom he would attempt not to ogle when they met for the first time officially. Maybe she would wear one of those Park Service jackets like Martin had worn all those years and the sheer creepiness of ogling someone wearing something Martin would wear would prevent him ogling the very ogle-worthy Hannah Hartley. The Park Service jackets were extremely unrevealing at the very least. Well, that is, unless she was wearing it and nothing else. Dammit, Jax, you are a fucking pervert. Oh, the song was "She's so High," that was it. Oh, and how fucking appropriate, he thought as he began to whistle the tune on his way home.
She couldn't believe she had talked to Murph the night before when she woke the next morning, that she had heard Connor's voice in the background, that Murph was willing to pick up and leave for her all these years later. Murph had said something that was wise: it was time for her to move on. She shouldn't have called. The only time she would ever call again would be to tell him to come to her. And that would be too much betrayal and she couldn't abide any more. That part of her life was so tainted, except for the memory of Murph. Good grief, that was tainted too in so many ways, she knew. If only Connor had been able to—just focus on today, Leah—Hannah, you are Hannah. You've been Hannah for years now. And you're getting through today in a new place with new people. Worst case scenario, if it's bad here, you pick up and move. Case settled, helmet on.
The scenery was beautiful on the way to the field station on the National Forest road. She noticed that The Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club spent quite a bit of time adopting sections of the road to keep clean. She wondered if they were Harley people, probably just some old hippie retirees that came up with that silly name. Maybe they had Saturday rides and would let her join them on their rides. She wondered what shop they used for maintenance. Hopefully it was local. Her bike was in good shape and she could do much of the work herself but it was always useful to know a good shop. She preferred to do business with people locally and keep money in the local economy with small businesses. The Sons of Anarchy, now that really was a silly name. They couldn't be outlaw bikers if they cared so much about keeping litter off the roadside. The Sons of Anarchy adopted road stretches were cleaner than those adopted by The Rotary Club and The Boy Scouts. She had heard there were throngs of outlaw bikers in Northern California but she doubted that she would encounter any.
Her bike didn't have those stupid, loud Screaming Eagle pipes on it, just the reasonably quiet exhaust that had come with the bike. The custom paint had been her only real splurge. There had been no real reason to make the bike into something it would never be. It was the smallest Harley Davidson produced but it could at least have a beautiful paint job. She had seen a 1947 Indian Chief in Santa Barbara which inspired her paint job and the custom brown leather insert for the center of the seat. Other than that, it was strictly stock parts and ran very quietly. However, it appeared the entire office was waiting for their new boss. She had been sure to allow herself extra time this morning to get ready, to pay special attention to her hair especially after last night's bender, so she could arrive at least ten minutes early. However, it seemed that the office had arrived even earlier and planned a little party.
She refused to let her eyes well up in relief. She scarfed down some kind of fantastic muffin Linda one of the secretaries had brought in from some bakery in town, which Linda told her used all organic ingredients. Linda insisted that she eat another one. She liked Linda's gravelly voice but especially Linda's old Shovelhead Superglide which was parked outside. Linda said they would soon hear the roar of Maggie's iron Sporty coming up the hill, if the thing would start this morning. Maggie was the APHIS inspector for the area and was going out to a farm that morning before heading in for the party. Lyle, the USGS rep for the area, who officed in the building said they better save Maggie a couple muffins because she was likely to be in a foul mood, which made Sam the regional herpetologist, chuckle. She's going to check on some chickens, Dr. Hartley. Oh, please call me Hannah, she said and blew a few crumbs into her napkins, giggling at the pun. And then she thought about it a little more, relaxed and started sincerely laughing at the pun.
Jax instantly liked the sound of her voice, as she talked to Gemma, whom Linda had called to meet them for lunch at a little café in Charming. Hannah Hartley had been given the thumbs up by Linda. Apparently, she had even commented on how well "some motorcycle club called The Sons of Anarchy" were taking care of the adopted roadside areas and had asked Linda if she knew any of these people and were they a bunch of retirees from the Bay Area. Jax had been ordered to clean up and take Half Sack and Juice with him to the café. No jackets. Plain shirts, covering the tattoos and for christ's sake, find a cap for Juice's head. Jax had also been told to really wash his hair and put on clean socks. Revenge would be his for that comment, maybe some Nair in her conditioner bottle for that. He did not have oily hair, he thought wishing he could grumble out loud but he knew better.
"It was terrible really. Lyle and Sam started making me laugh with puns and my coffee went up my nose and shot out into the muffin box. I'm surprised Linda invited me to lunch." From a nearby table, Jax watched as well as he could over his shoulder, as she cringed at Linda and Gemma. He wanted to laugh.
"I'm going to set up a fortress around my food when I'm around you, sweetie." Linda said, moving the napkin box and a few menus in front of her plate with a grin.
"I'll just try not to make you laugh." Gemma said pleasantly. "Now, I can't say anything for those jokers sitting at that table there. Jackson Teller, would you and your friends be so generous as to speak to your mother. I know you know I am here with your Aunt Linda."
Shit, Mom, a little warning would be nice. And great, make me look like an ass. But, yes, I know it's what you do best.
He stood up and turned around and the first thing that happened was he met Hannah Hartley's bright green eyes. Before he could process the idea that she was not wearing a jacket like the one Martin always wore but rather a slim-fitting oxford style shirt which hugged the area he wanted to ogle, he had reason to curse the lack of tread on his beloved vintage Stan Smith Adidas that all the guys always ridiculed when he slipped in what must have been spilled soup and landed on his now very wet ass staring up into Hannah Hartley's rather pretty face. Okay, so it was very pretty. And he was sitting in soup.
What was worse was she had just taken a big drink of her tea and from the look in her eye, he knew what he had just done was getting ready to cause a repeat of her coffee that morning. He couldn't help but grin as she began to turn red and quiver, reaching for her napkin.
"Go on, just blow it out your nose on me. I couldn't get much wetter." He laughed, then winked at her. "You know, I'm always delighted to be the butt of someone's joke."
Her eyes widened and he roared with laughter as he watched her fight to swallow the tea, which she finally did. His mother raised a brow at him. Oh, Mom, what the hell would you know about being uninhibited and really laughing and not trying to control the whole world and anticipate everything? Then he saw something he was not really sure he liked in his mother's eye, the hatching of a plan. Now, that took the fun right out of it.
"Are you okay?" Hannah Hartley asked immediately, once she was able to speak.
Before he could answer, his mother answered, "Jackson is usually much more coordinated. And it takes a lot more than falling on his backside to decommission him, isn't that right, son?"
"Well, I'm not as young as I used to be, Mom, but I think I'll live. Thanks for your concern even though I know you were trying not to laugh. I'm Jackson Teller and you're--?" he said, knowing damn well what her name was but thinking the-naked-drunk-vomiting-sobbing-beautiful-woman-that-cleans-up-perfectly.
She blushed and conceded his point about trying not to laugh at his misfortune, then extended her hand to him, pulling him with a surprisingly strong tug for such a small female to his feet, "I'm Hannah Hartley. I work with Linda at the field station."
"Martin's job, Jackson." Linda said. How well we all play dumb, he thought.
"Wow. You must be really smart. Martin was my Boy Scout leader and he knew everything about—well, everything." Jax said, finding himself a little mesmerized by her eyes and feeling a little stupid. "Thanks for pulling me up off the floor, by the way."
"You're welcome. Will you sit with us? And no, I don't know everything about anything. Not nearly and I think I have huge shoes to fill in Martin's place." She said, gesturing to the chair next to her. "I met him once at a meeting last year and liked him very much. I am so sorry for your loss."
"Oh, Hannah, don't let him sit in that chair. His backside is filthy now. Jackson, you go home and change your pants." His mother snarked. Thanks, Mom.
"Look, Mrs. Morrow—Gemma, let's just put some napkins down. It'll be fine. Unless you're cold?" Hannah said, giving him what Jax thought was a soul-piercing look. He would have said he was fine even if he was hypothermic. He also took the opportunity to flare his nostrils at his mother just to irritate her.
"I'm okay, but Mom's probably right." He answered, hoping she would do exactly what she did: toss her own napkin across the chair. "Or I guess I could sit."
"Yes." She smiled brightly. And it was good to see the face he had seen so desperate the previous evening look so cheerful. "Who are your friends?"
"Hannah," said Gemma, pointing to Half-Sack and Juice, before Jax could speak. "this is Kip and Carlos."
So that was what their real names were. He would give that one to his mother. Seriously, how do you introduce someone as Half Sack to a total stranger? They really did live in a bubble, didn't they?
"So Hannah was asking if we do work on Harleys at the shop." His mother said. "The boys all work at Teller Morrow."
"Oh, wonderful." Hannah said, and Jax noticed her beam accordingly at all of them.
"I told her that we would be happy to do any maintenance on her bike that she needed." Gemma continued, giving them a stern look.
"You ride? You're shitting me? Is that your little 883 outside?" Half-Sack asked in amazement.
Oh, this was going smoothly, Jax thought, as the soup continued to seep into his trousers and boxers and his ass was growing cold, as Hannah had easily predicted.
"The cream and brown one? Yes, that's mine." She answered with an adorable kind of pride that Jax thought seemed almost like she was telling a secret. Then something occurred to him. Her parents would probably shit a brick if they knew she was riding a motorcycle. He guessed they must be dead or something or that she hadn't told them.
"Sweet ride." Half-Sack continued excitedly. Gemma raised her brow at Jax. "Nice paint. Nice insert on the seat."
"Nice drool." Juice grimaced, elbowing Half-Sack.
"I'm saving up to get a bike." Half-Sack explained eagerly, not easily daunted as usual.
"What kind do you want?" she asked politely.
At that, there was much coughing and Jax picked up her full face helmet. "Is this your helmet?"
She nodded.
"It looks very—um, protective."
"Oh, well, yes. I used to have a cool-looking beanie. But that all changed when I had a little bit of nasal congestion last summer and was being a bit of a mouth breather. A dragonfly should never be ingested by mouth at forty miles per hour." She sighed, shaking her head with the charming smile.
He grimaced shaking his head.
"It was definitely a pull over and retch moment. I felt so sorry for it too. And dragonflies are my favorite insect."
"Ever sneeze in that full face?" Jax couldn't help but ask.
"Jackson Teller!" He felt the heat of his mother's full wrath upon him, but Hannah leaned over and tapped him on the shoulder and urged him to lean toward her—oh, god, they were perfect lips. No collagen, no scary shade of lipstick.
"That's what the squeegee in my saddlebags is for." She whispered in his ear, starting to giggle.
Jax began to laugh loudly, his eyes never leaving hers, as he shook his head and later refused to share that little nugget of perfect that she had given to him, no matter how the others bugged him on the way back to the shop.