Breathe, you fuckin' coward. Y'ain't been on a date in years - so fuckin' what? This girl - no, she's a woman, actually wants to go out with ye. Man up and straighten up! It's time.
Your head reels with the short string of one-night stands you've carried out between losing Fiona and gaining an interest in Bea. A few flings have left you empty and the lonely nights have left you dry. This woman - this gorgeous woman, your subconscious adds - is genuinely interested in you, but all your mind can think about is how to not fuck it all up in one night.
She deserves respect - you know that. She's an honorable woman and, according to Piney, she can definitely be trusted around the club. Still, you can't help but panic that a pretty woman wants to be with you for once instead of the other way around and, this time unlike the others, she is actually interested in seeing there this could lead. This makes you happy, but it is also cause for you to panic.
You suddenly feel the urge to cancel, to call her and see about taking a rain check on your date, but something stops you. Your sex drive? Probably not. It's probably more of your need for companionship than anything. Plus, you really want to see her again. Soon, you are on your way to her, and that's enough.
You park your bike at the curb outside of her apartment, which you now realize is a townhouse of sorts. It's quaint, cute, and brick-founded. Perhaps she chose this place because it so effortlessly mirrored herself.
Whatever her reason was for having a place like this, you head up to the front door and rap your knuckles against the wood.
"Coming!" she shouts from within and you smirk, thankful you hadn't canceled.
A few moments later, the door unlatches and opens, revealing Bea in a lovely, sunshine-colored dress with lace embellishments and your stomach leaps into your throat at the sight of her.
"Is this a bit much, do you think?" she inquires of you, and you take a heavy pause to answer her.
"No!" you blurt out, shaking your head. "You look gorgeous."
You can see through the dark that she is blushing at your compliment. "Well, you spruce up nicely yourself," she comments, gesturing to your 'normal' clothing, sans cut. It takes a lot of willpower for you to refrain from blushing. It's been so long since the last time that a beautiful woman has complimented you so earnestly, and you find that you could definitely get used to this.
You gesture to her hair, done in loose waves that gracefully curtain her shoulders. "Yer hair is done...maybe we shouldn't take my bike since a helmet could ruin it. We could take your car, if you want."
Bea gives you a light-hearted chuckle, and you feel your throat close. "I would actually like to take your bike."
"But yer hair is lovely...I don't wanna ruin it."
"It won't - I'd like to do it. I haven't ridden a bike since my father died."
How could you say no to that? Her request was your command and you refuse to start the night with a refusal to adhere to the foundation of chivalry you had always thought yourself privvy to.
::::
She was right. The ride to the restaurant had not ruined her hair in the slightest. As you pour over the menu in front of you, eyes occasionally glancing upward to get a look at her own similar expression, you can still feel the sensation of where her hands had gripped your waist on the ride. She had been nervous, to be sure, and you knew it. Even so, she was fearless in riding your bike behind you with styled hair and a nice dress. You can sense that she's got an inner bad-ass and you want to meet that side.
You order the house lasagna and you smile when she orders the baked ziti. When you ask the waiter about beverage specials on the alcohol side of liquidation, she says that she doesn't drink wine, and that she's more into hard liquor - whiskey being her favorite, particularly Jameson, as well as moonshine and strawberry champagne. For some reason, your brain screams that you love her, but you're glad to keep this to yourself.
Handing the menus off to the waiter, you settle into your seat and catch her gaze. "So, Bea," you say, allowing her name to roll ooff the tip of your tongue slowly, and she chuckles, "yer father was a Son?" She nods, so you can tell that it's safe to continue asking questions. "When did he die?"
Bea takes a deep breath, and you can tell that she's crossing her legs underneath the table. "He was killed on a run. I was five." You begin to say something, but you stop short, the knowledge that no words could convey the sympathy you feel for her loss. "Anyway, my Mum always knew that would happen at some point in time. Every day when my dad drove off for TM, she would look me in the face, shake her head and say, 'It'll happen.'"
"That's fucked up," you comment, taking a large swig of your water.
She nods in agreement. "Yes, it is. My turn." She pauses. You can hear the wheels cycling inside of her mind, the question drumming up rather quickly. "The woman from the hospital - the pretty, dark-skinned one - " You know that she means Fiona, and you're thankful Bea is asking you about her now. " - Tara told me that she's your ex-wife. What happened there?" She shakes her head quickly after finishing her sentence. "You don't have to tell me anything. Forget I asked."
You're quick to put a hand up to stop her thought train from derailing. "Hey, no. Y'asked, and it's fine. I'll answer." You clear your throat, the timing of the waiter bringing you a beer happening now, at the best moment possible. "She and my daugh'er were taken from me. A man in the IRA named Jimmy O'Phelan took her and ousted me from Ireland."
"Jesus..."
"It's alright. I've had years to get through it."
She shakes her head and you don't regret telling her, though a part of the truth has been omitted for now. "I'm so sorry about all of that." She takes a hefty pause before continuing. "Your turn."
"Yer dad was killed - what happened to yer Mum?"
"She and my brother moved back to Hampshire with my Grandmum, and I didn't want to go back. My Mum sent me to a boarding school where I stayed until college."
"Sounds like the life."
Bea grins. "Oh, you know it. My only problem? The dorms weren't co-ed." You laugh aloud, her joke having caught you by surprise. "What about you? College?"
You shake your head. "Technical school for mechanics' work and then a couple of classes on body detail."
She shifts, uncrossing her legs and sitting up straighter than she had been sitting before. "Your bike - is that all inclusive?"
"It's all my handiwork, yes."
"So you're good with a wrench. I'll keep that in mind." She tips her chin up at you, a gesture that the turn has now passed to you.
"If ya could travel anywhere in the world, where would it be?"
The questions between you continue for a while before the food arrives, and you make certain to cover all of the basics. Through this time, you learn that her favorite color is yellow, her favorite flowers are daisies and sunflowers, her favorite food is chicken teryaki, her favorite cuisine is Italian, and that her favorite season is winter. She likes the cold climate, and you like her.
The food is delicious, you decide part-way through your meal, and that's when you notice that Bea has grown silent all of a sudden. She has a straight kind of expression on her face, a look that worries you because you can only think of one thing whenever you see an expression like that: failure. This is one time where you kick yourself in the proverbial teeth and not allow yourself to fail. Not here. Not with Bea.
"What's on yer mind, pretty girl?" you croon, reminding yourself to chew with your mouth closed.
Bea puts down her utensils and wipes her mouth with the cloth napkin that had been precariously perched across her lap. "Why are you not asking me more about my father? You must want to know."
You shrug your shoulders, knowing the exact reason why. "I didn't want to be disrespectful." She is all ears, and the look on her face has shifted - it now bears shock. Clearly she hadn't expected for you to say that. "I never met your father. I just knew that he was in good with John Teller, so I wanted to know how he passed."
She appears to accept this answer and you're relieved. "I will answer whatever questions you ask me."
Hearing her British accent spill coolly into the words loosening her tongue was enough to make you shiver, and you do, quickly clearing your throat as you dissolve the sensation into the consumption of another bite of noodles and ricotta cheese. "Bea, I respect you, too. I won't pressure you into anythin' and...you should know that there isn't an end-game here. I wanna get to know you, not your father. If you don't want to answer me whenever I question ya, don't feel like ya have to."
Bea gives you a look, another one for the shivers, but this time, it's different. This look has the appeal you want from her, the approval of your presence and your words. You smile at her and when she returns the expression, you just know that this is going better than you'd planned. Hell, an hour ago, you'd considered bailing. Shit, I'm glad I didn't.
::::
The ride to the clubhouse from the restaurant is different than the one before. This time, she has her arms circled all the way around your torso, and you can feel her squeezing you through your clothes. This grip is almost possessive, very similar to the one you have the handlebars in at-present. You like that she has this side to her, the one that is becoming more open, more willing to let go, and a loosening of her muscles. She trusts you.
Once again, her hair makes it out of the helmet unscathed, and you're impressed. You joke to yourself that perhaps she could teach a thing or two to Bobby about her secrets. You open the door for her and follow her into the clubhouse, your respectful move going over well with her.
Only a few people are in the main area of the bar and couches, and you're suddenly made of nerves. What if they all hate her? What if they disapprove of her or if she disapproves of them? What then?
You bite the inside of your lip a little too hard, tasting copper as you lessen the grip just a bit.
Bobby is at the bar talking with Tig, Piney is behind the counter with Half-Sack, and Opie is perched at a table nearby, enjoying deep drags from a cigarette that is shortening all too quickly.
All testosterone-fueled eyes in the building fall on her and Half-Sack nearly drops his jaw to the counter before Piney slaps him on the back to bring him to life again.
"Brothers," you greet them, not parting from your date's side as you show off your sunshine-colored arm candy, "this is Bea Tomlinson."
"Hello, Bea," Bobby says with a grin, drawing out his greeting in an almost suggestive manner. You want to punch him for that move, but when Bea laughs it off, you're at ease once more.
"Enchantee, madamoiselle," Tig greets, taking her hand and bowing at the waist.
"Moi aussi, monsieur," she retorts back to him in solid French. "Oui?"
"Don't mind if I do," Tig says, quickly departing from the area.
You roll your eyes, figuring that Tig would be...well, himself. You just hoped that the Winston men would be normal and that Half-Sack wasn't sporting a woody from behind the counter. To be honest though, it seemed like all male genitalia in the room stood at-attention when Bea entered. Whose wouldn't?
"You don't remember me, do you?" Piney asks gruffly, outstretching his hand to shake hers.
You watch Bea's eyes narrow in sight of the old man for a moment before a look of realization crosses her face. "You're Piney, aren't you?" she returns with a smile, and the old man is content.
"Glad to see your memory holds out. This is Half-Sack, and once he picks his jaw up off the goddamn floor, maybe he'll greet you properly." Half-Sack smiles weakly, turning away from Bea's ever-grinning eyes.
"BB-gun," Opie says, rising from his seat. "It's been too damn long."
"Opie," Bea says, a fondness washing over her persona. "How could I forget a baby-face like yours?" She stretches up to give him a proper hug when he approaches her, and you're shocked - she remembered Piney, but she knows Opie, too?
"You two know each other?" you ask her, and she releases the much taller man, nodding in your direction.
"Yes. Opie and I used to play together all the time as kids, but we were really small back then." She turns back to Opie. "Is Jax in the club, too?"
Opie nods. "VP."
"No shit."
"Drinks, anyone?" Half-Sack offers, and Bea turns to you, a geniune look on her face as she takes your arm and pulls you to the bar, perching herself onto a stool. "What for you, m-m-ma'am?"
"Whiskey neat, please," she requests, and you feel the third round of shivers nearly overcome you.
"Ya really weren't jokin' abou' yer drink choice," you comment, leaning your elbows onto the countertop and glancing over at her in all of her canary glow.
"I don't joke about alcohol, Filip," she responds, nudging into your arm with her own and giving you a smirk that could've made Fiona run for cover.
"I'll keep tha' in mind," you say, tossing her own phrase from earlier back to her.
::::
The agonizing reappearance of her front entryway is almost enough to make you literally heave. You don't want this night to end, and you definitely don't want to leave her, but she's a professional woman and you're tied to the club. Day-time is going to approach whether you want it to or not.
You walk her to her door and there's a silence between you. Neither of you knows what to say to give this long-awaited date a proper send-off.
When you both reach the door, you stop, and she turns around to face you, her bottom lip sunken under her top one, and suddenly you're urging to lean in and loosen that lip-nip with your own mouth. But you don't. You stay your hand, constantly repeating all in good time, all in good time.
"Are you going to ask me to come in?" she asks, her tone slow and knowing. It's as if she wants you to come in, and goddamn it, you do. But you shake your head.
"Not tonight. Don't wanna ruin how good this was, y'know?" She nods in response before making her move, shifting forward a bit. You want to kiss her so badly, her perfectly plump lips having been calling out for you all night, but you grip her hand tightly and raise it between you as a barrier of respect. She appears shocked, but you know that, in the long-run, she will appreciate this.
You run your thumb across her knuckles, bent over your calloused fingers and pressing into your sensitive palm. Your eyes meet hers and lock onto the sight, raising her hand ever so much more to bring her knuckles completely, softly, to your lips.
You relax the muscles in your mouth, allowing your lips to properly contour over her fleshy joints before you give her a wink and a smile. Backing away, you don't release her hand until just before your arms are both stretched to capacity.
You long to run back to her, to finish what was begun, but not now. Not like this.
You've got plenty of time for that.
