Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.


Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – Wednesday, October 21, 2009

There was nothing Happy hated more than doing fuckin' laundry. In all of his 43 years, he was proud to say that with the exception of a six month period of his life, he never had to wash his own clothes.

Like the good Cuban mother she took pride in being, Amelia—as many women had since the dawn of time—catered to her only son's every need. As a result, as far as Happy knew, when his clothes got dirty, he would drop them in the vicinity of the hamper in his bathroom and they would magically reappear clean and neatly folded in the chest of drawers in his bedroom. It was just the way it was in most Hispanic households and, as far as Happy was concerned, it was the right and proper way of the world.

In making the move to Charming to take JT up on his job offer, being expected to do his own laundry had been something akin to culture shock. To this day, Happy still felt a certain amount of embarrassment at how JT's old lady had taken him to task because he couldn't figure out how to use the washing machine located at the far end of the long hall of dorm rooms in the Clubhouse.

"I never would have pegged you as a Mama's boy," the tall platinum-streaked brunette had scolded, shaking her head disdainfully as she helped him properly sort his laundry. "You can't expect to last too long around here as a prospect if you can't handle the mundane shit like washing your funky drawers, so you better watch me close 'cause I'm only showing you once."

Being formally introduced to JT's old lady, Happy had taken Piney's gruff admonition to make sure he showed the woman proper respect. So far, it had been easy enough as he went about his business in the garage during his first week in town. His interactions with Gemma Teller had been limited to handing over completed work orders and such in the T-M office, but he wasn't blind and he was a fuckin' man after all. As JT's wife, Happy showed Gemma the respect she no doubt had earned, but that didn't mean he hadn't had his fill of checking her out. The woman was definitely a looker and carried herself around with more grace and dignity than the scantily-clad women he had seen hanging around the lot.

Happy had frowned as the woman continued to separate his clothing. "A prospect? What's that?" he queried.

Gemma had aimed a pair of dark brown eyes filled with secret knowledge and grinned at him cheekily. "Oh, baby, if I know my husband, you'll find out soon enough," she drawled. "I'm sure John will fill you in on the details once he gets out. What I will tell you is that on this lot, only patched members get privileged services," she pointed a ringed index finger at him. "Remember that."

And so Happy had no choice but to learn how to do his own laundry, and fast. As a result, much like everything else he's ever undertaken the task of learning, Happy became quite proficient at taking care of his own shit. Just like Gemma had said, however, Happy learned soon after patching in and officially moving into a dorm that membership certainly had its privileges. The day he had rode onto the lot with his top rocker proudly on display was the last day Happy had to worry about clean clothes, or just about anything else for that matter, ever again.

A hot piece of brunette ass croweater had approached him with a beer for him in hand and a proposition on her lips. "I am here to take care of you, handsome, in any way you need . . . that is, if you wouldn't mind taking care of my dirty little needs first," she had offered coyly.

Even though today Happy couldn't remember her name to save his life (or maybe he never even knew it to begin with), he knew for a fact that he never had a problem giving the croweater what she wanted. Happy was pretty damn sure that from that day on, he had never again set his eyes on a fuckin' washer and dryer, much less had the need to know how to use them as one croweater always replaced another in taking care of his basic needs. At this point in his life, Happy certainly had no interest or reason to relearn the homemaking skills gleaned off of Gemma Teller so many years ago.

Privileges may come with the patch, but neither the patch nor those privileges followed Happy inside. Instead of having croweaters eager to bend over backwards to do his bidding—and in more ways than just doing his laundry—for the first time in years Happy found himself at the mercy of some dipshit supervisor in the prison's laundry facility. Four days a week, Happy was just one of the beck-and-call bitches working in the laundry, while the other two days a week he worked in the Chow Hall. Seeing what was done to both the laundry and the food, Happy wasn't sure which detail was worse.

The only good that came from hauling around the large heavy carts of rank and dirty sheets and clothes was that it helped to keep his ass in shape. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Happy made his way to the one of the huge industrial-sized washing machines and started dumping the contents of one of the canvas carts into it when he heard someone shout his name over the noise made by the machines and other inmates as they went about their daily duties.

"Lowman? Yo, get your ass downstairs," Dickey Jones, a longtime inmate with ancient skin the color of dry parchment and not nearly as smooth yelled before finally spotting Happy. Dickey—also known as Dickhead, primarily because of his fondness for playing with that particular part of his anatomy—was second-in-command of the morning shift. Regardless, most inmates paid little attention to the annoying and creepy little shit.

"What the fuck for?" Happy replied irritably as he continued to dump the dirty clothes into the washer.

"Cause you got a visitor, asshole," Dickey retorted.

Stopping, Happy turned to face the pipsqueak who had finally made his way over to stand in front of him. "Who?" he asked guardedly.

Dickey threw his hands up in the air. "How the fuck should I know, huh? Do I look like a fuckin' receptionist to you?" Looking at his watch, Dickey squinted. "It's near enough to lunch time. Go see about it and get your ass back here after chow." Turning to another inmate, the supervisor motioned for him to take over Happy's task before looking for someone else to harass.

Side-stepping the cart, Happy slowly made his way to the entrance of the laundry room where one of the bulls was waiting impatiently to escort him to the Visitor's Center. Although his face never betrayed his feelings, inside Happy felt the pit of dread he lived with while in Stockton form into a tight ball in his stomach.

There was only one person who would even think about coming to see him and Marlowe was unlikely to do it of her own free will. That is, unless fate had forced her hand by making a face-to-face visit necessary. Wary that that was the case, Happy steeled himself for news that was unlikely to be good and prepared to hear that his worst nightmare had come true.


With her long legs crossed underneath the scarred metal table, Marlowe impatiently bounced her combat booted foot as she looked at her watch. Again.

Knowing only too well how government run institutions operated did very little to quell her anxiety. So far, she had been kept waiting close to thirty minutes in the dingy and depressing Visitor's Center with no sign of Happy. To keep herself from dwelling on the possibility that something was wrong, Marlowe concentrated on the fact that she should be pissed off at Happy instead.

After all, the 3½-hour drive from Bakersfield in her busted-ass vehicle had been anything but pleasant and easy. Nearly a third of the way, the Ford Escort had started making a clanking noise from deep within the engine block that had her convinced that she had spent hard earned money for the privilege of dying horribly in a death trap on wheels. She cursed herself for not using Tía's foreign-made car for the trip instead.

Me and my damn American pride will probably end up getting me killed one day, Marlowe lamented.

The realization that there would have been no need for her to make the trip at all if Happy would just pick up the phone and call home every once in a while did the trick. No longer nervous or anxious that something had happened to Happy, the righteous anger she had been nurturing for years against the man she loved like a brother returned full throttle. Left with snail mail as the only other vehicle of communication, Marlowe had been left with very little choice but to deliver the news in person. Although she dreaded paying Happy a visit behind bars, what she had to tell him was best said in person anyway.

It had taken her a couple of days to gear up for the stress of having to voluntarily enter a prison once again. It hadn't been an easy decision for Marlowe, but she realized that her feelings had much to do with her own issues than Happy himself.

Having spent the majority of her Naval career in hostile zones around the world, Marlowe decided to suck it up. Ignoring the catcalls and roving eyes of the inmates and bulls alike and with her head held high, she had made her way through the prison's secured entrance designated for all visitors and patiently waited her turn to be called into the room to finally see her big brother.

Unfortunately, it was painfully obvious that it had been quite some time since some of the inmates had laid eyes on a woman, as evidenced by the massive Skinhead sitting at one of the metal tables waiting for his visitor to enter. Walking past him, Marlowe suddenly felt the sting of a heavy hand slapping her on her denim clad ass.

Without a moment's hesitation—and before the C.O. standing guard against the wall near the entrance could intervene—Marlowe's combat training kicked in. Raising her right arm, she used her elbow as a battering ram and slammed it into the inmate's thick neck, striking a sensitive nerve, before she continued on her way to a table at the far end of the room.

A fierce grin spread across her face as she heard the piercing screech of pained surprise emanate from the Skinhead. Marlowe couldn't even be bothered to look back as a scuffle ensued with several guards tackling the suddenly enraged man as he lunged for her. As the large man was dragged out by three equally large guards, the room's other occupants, inmates and visitors alike, laughed uproariously.

"Are you okay, Miss?" Marlowe had looked up as a C.O. approached her table, noting the look of genuine concern on his face, as well as a barely hidden smirk of approval. He had obviously witnessed her "exchange" with the brutish inmate.

"Never better," Marlowe smiled beguilingly. "But if you could help me get my ass out of Dodge by seeing what's keeping my brother, I'd really appreciate it."

"I'll see what I can do about that," the C.O. said with a wry smile.

So Marlowe sat for another ten minutes wondering where the fuck Happy was and felt a sudden rush of relief when he finally walked in.

He looks good. Too bad about his outfit though, she thought amused. Wearing a light blue chambray linen shirt over a white undershirt, a pair of denim pants and slip-on shoes, Happy looked so unlike himself it was actually a little unnerving. Seeing him out of the ensemble she had associated with Happy since she was 10 years old—casually worn jeans, boots and the kutte he loved so much on his back—was strange and somewhat disconcerting, to say the least.

"Oh, I hope you didn't postpone a rousing game of shuffleboard on my account. It's not like I mind being kept waiting on your ass all damn day or anything," Marlowe mocked as Happy pulled a cheap metal chair away from the table and straddled it.

Focusing on the young woman sitting across from him, the grim expression on Happy's face didn't change as his dark eyes skimmed over her body. Ma's right. She is too skinny.

"No, I was actually in the middle of a circle jerk and it was my turn to get my dick sucked," Happy retorted sarcastically. "What the fuck you doing here, Marley?" he asked without missing a beat.

Marlowe rolled her gray eyes flecked with gold. "Well, it's good seeing you too, Hap. I'm well. How are you?" she said with studied sweetness.

"I don't have time for small talk, little girl. Why did you come?" Happy insisted.

"I had no intention of coming, you see, but when I tried leaving a message with the Concierge, I was told to fuck off," Marlowe snarked. "I had no choice but to come see your ass in person since you can't be bothered to pick up a damn phone or write a letter."

Staring into Happy's hardened face, Marlowe sighed and decided that it was time to put an end to the snarkiness. She had come to Stockton with a purpose, but when she opened her mouth to explain the reason for her visit, her overwhelming concern for his well-being just slipped out. "How are you doing, Hap?"

Happy stared into her wide eyes, his heart tightening at the concern he saw on raw display. But as was his style, he quickly put the brakes on any sentimental bullshit. "Fuck how I'm doing, Marlowe. Why are you here instead of in Bakersfield?" he asked brusquely.

"As talkative as ever, I see," Marlowe mumbled under her breath as she turned her head to the side. Sighing with exasperation, Marlowe turned to look Happy again in the eye. "I'm here because I have some news that I thought you deserved to hear face-to-face," she replied soberly as she folded her hands on the table between them.

Bracing for impact, Happy nodded. "Give it to me straight," he said curtly.

Marlowe blinked several times in confusion until it finally dawned on her what "news" Happy was preparing himself to hear. "Oh, shit! No, asshole. Tía's fine," she smiled. "As a matter of fact, what I came to tell you is that she's in complete remission." Now it was Happy's turn to look confused as he narrowed his eyes at her. "That means there's no trace of cancer, Hap. It's gone and she's gonna be just fine."

As Marlowe's words registered as good news, Happy felt the weight of worry finally lift from his heart. Knowing how dangerously close he was to actually showing emotion, Happy simply nodded, not daring to speak. Marlowe, however, could see the emotion and relief making his eyes shine. Reaching out, she placed a gentle hand over his clenched fists lying on the table and smiled when he didn't pull away.

"So, was that worth you missing your turn for a blow job just so you could come down here to see my ugly mug?"

"No," Happy smirked, his eyes hardening again. "You coulda just written a damn letter."

And just that quickly, Marlowe's temper ignited. "You are such a fuckin' asshole!" she snapped angrily. "Not only did I forget what a pain in the ass you can be, but I'm an idiot for thinking that after ten years of not speaking, you might have changed some. You know, become more human."

Happy waved a hand at her dismissively. "Ditto, little girl. You're still the same cranky and hormonal teenage fuckin' lunatic you were back in the day," he retorted.

Marlowe swatted his hand away from her face. "You know, maybe I had it right all those years ago. Once I left, I should have just stayed gone," she sneered as she eyed him balefully. "I honestly don't know why I'd want to stick around for this shit."

"I don't give a shit why you stick around. All I know is that your ass is staying put in Bakersfield," Happy pointed a finger at her. "Don't think that Ma getting the all clear lets you off the hook. You're staying put until I get out."

"Why do you have to act like a prehistoric ape, asshole? I have no intention of leaving Tía," she said in an angry whisper as she noted several bulls looking in their direction. Last thing she wanted was to get thrown out without getting everything she had to say out.

Happy crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm just telling you how shit is gonna be is all."

Realizing that he was simply trying to goad her, Marlowe decided to switch back into messenger mode. "And I'm just trying to tell you that I'm not going anywhere as long as she needs me, and she needs me, Hap," she hedged, and watched as Happy's shoulders tensed.

"What ain't you telling me?"

"It's her knee," Marlowe started. "She's been regaining the weight she lost, which is a good thing, but it's taking its toll on her knee. She needs a replacement, but she's giving everyone a lot of shit about it because she doesn't want to do it."

"So the fuck what?" Happy said irritably. "If it's what her doctor recommends, she has no fuckin' choice, so don't give her one."

"That's easy for the second most stubborn person I've ever known to say," Marlowe retorted. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Hap and no one's making Amelia do what she doesn't want to do. That's why I'm telling you this shit now, so once you get out, you put your foot down and make her go through with it."

"Yeah, right! Like anyone can make that pig-headed Cuban woman do anything," he growled.

"Not anyone, Hap. You," Marlowe replied. "Otherwise, according to her orthopedic surgeon, she's got another year tops before she ends up in a wheelchair," she said soberly. "Less mobility will impact her quality of life . . . and may even shorten it."

Happy muttered several choice curses under his breath as he fought the urge to slam his fists onto the table. "Fine," Happy replied, his face firmly set. "I'll handle shit when I get out."

I figured you would, Marlowe smiled inwardly. You ain't a kick ass biker for nothing.

"Anything else I should know?" Happy asked brusquely.

Marlowe shook her head. "No, but I would like something to take back to Tía. How's the joint treating you, old man? You safe inside? Doing time's a young man's game, you know," she snarked.

Thinking of his brother Jax who was still moving around on the slow side, Happy brushed off her concerns. "You can tell Ma I'm good, a'ight? So stop nagging," he replied as Marlowe narrowed her eyes at him. He couldn't tell if she was irked or examining him closely. Fuck if he knew how to read bitches. "And you might want to consider dropping a brother a line a little more often." Suddenly reaching over, Happy kissed Marlowe on the forehead before standing up. "I gotta go. Got shit to do."

Marlowe crossed her arms over her chest. "I drive nearly four fuckin' hours to see you and you're just gonna bounce?" Marlowe winced inwardly as she could hear the disappointment in her own voice.

"Time's wasting, little girl. The longer you stay here, the longer Ma is alone."

"Cut me some slack, will ya? Ceci's with her. I'm not a complete moron, you know."

"You joined the Navy didn't you?" came Happy's parting shot.

Marlowe pursed her lips and glared holes into the back of Happy's gleaming head as he cheerfully bopped his way out of the Visitor's Center.

"Good thing he's locked up," she groused under her breath as she stood up. "Otherwise I'd kill him."


Although the layout of the Chow Hall in Stockton Prison resembled a high school cafeteria, it was anything but. Instead of cliques of pimple-faced geeks, pretty boy heartthrobs, jocks and Lolitas, the Chow Hall was dominated by groups of hardened criminals of all shapes, sizes and races.

The smell of bland institutional cuisine mixed with the stench of sweaty men wafted through the cavernous room. The enormous cafeteria was designed to feed the 900-plus inmates that occupied each Cell Block three times a day.

Cell Block D's Chow Hall had a reputation to maintain. Housing some of the most violent and dangerous inmates in Stockton, there was always a fight or six for the guards to break up while the rest of the inmates went about their meal time business. After the fight instigated by Clay and which netted the participants two weeks in the hole, the Sons had returned to find that the guards had been newly-equipped with state-issued tasers to deal with unruly inmates. Needless to say, because the guards were sporting new hardware to use against the inmate population, the imprisoned Sons of Anarchy were not a particular favorite among all the crews inhabiting Stockton yard, especially since most guards seemed overly-fond of putting the tasers to use. Luckily, the Double M crew made sure the Sons suffered no reprisals.

Walking through the entrance of the Hall, Happy made his way over to one of the chow lines. There were two of them, one on each side of the large room. Set up cafeteria-style, inmates carried cardboard trays and moved down the line as other inmates wearing rubber gloves and hairnets slapped down large portions of the mediocre and tasteless food passing as the day's mid-day meal.

Trying not to think of his mother's Arroz con Pollo, Happy looked down at his lunch tray with barely contained disgust. As usual, his portion of chicken looked pale, underdone and rubbery with the white rice sitting next to it in a clumpy, sticky ball as a watery scoop of cold canned peas and carrots sloshed around its own sectioned off area of the tray. Grabbing a handful of sliced white bread from a tray at the end of the line, Happy headed over to the far end of the hall to find his brothers sitting at their usual table.

There were approximately 100 long and narrow tables with bench seats big enough to accommodate about 8 inmates uncomfortably in the cafeteria. With the tables practically piled onto one another and nearly sixty armed guards patrolling the aisles as well as the second story walkway, the not-so-inviting ambience did very little to take the inmates' minds off their never ending incarceration.

Shoving Juice over to the side and causing him to choke in mid-chew, Happy inserted his long, sleek frame onto the bench next to Tig.

"Where the fuck you been, bro?" Tig waved a half-eaten drumstick in the air.

"I had some shit that needed seeing to," Happy replied as he picked up his chicken breast and ripped into it.

Not even Ma's adobo seasoning could make this shit palatable.

Happy dropped the chicken onto this tray, slightly disgusted by Bobby's display of half-chewed food as he ate and tried talking at the same time. "I heard you got called out of laundry detail."

Happy nearly rolled his eyes at the comment. The speed at which prison gossip traveled never ceased to amaze him, nor the fact that his brothers could probably give gossipy old biddies a run for their money.

It seemed, however, that Tig and Bobby weren't alone in their keen interest in Happy's affairs.

"I hope your visitor came bearing good news. We could sure use some of that shit around here." Sitting across the table and to Bobby's left, Jax Teller's blue eyes settled on Happy's dark ones.

"Shit," Happy blustered, "do you fuckers know the color of my boxers too?"

"Blue," Juice volunteered and felt his skin heat up with embarrassment as everyone laughed. "What? I am his cell mate and as Intel officer it's my job to notice shit."

"You notice shit, huh? Did you happen to notice what color my skid marks were too?" Happy retorted, slightly annoyed that nothing remained a secret long around the SAMCRO crew. SAMTAC brothers weren't nearly as much into his business as this crew was. "Fuck, I think I need a new cellie."

"Too bad Deon ain't available," Clay said with a smirk as his brothers laughed uproariously. "I'm sure he'd love to get in touch with Juicy Boy's feminine side."

"Okay, just quit it you guys, a'ight?" Juice pleaded, his cheeks blazing crimson.

"Juice can always find somebody to fuck him up the ass. Let's get back to the subject of Hap's visitor," Tig insisted, earning a death glare from the Unholy One himself. "I'm gonna kick your ass if it was one of them fuckin' croweaters and you didn't tell me shit."

"It wasn't, asshole," Happy growled as he wiped his greasy chicken hands on a thin paper napkin. "It was about my Ma."

The table suddenly quieted as all eyes fell on Happy. "Everything a'ight, bro?" Jax asked with concern.

If there was only one thing every brother around the table knew about Happy Lowman it was how much he cared for and worried about his mother. After putting in a significant amount of time with the Tacoma charter, Happy had willingly relinquished the responsibilities and privileges he had earned in order to go Nomad. All so that he could be that much closer to Bakersfield as his mother dealt with a serious illness.

"It was good news," Happy nodded at Jax. "Her cancer's in remission," he continued and although it was said noncommittally, it was evident by the light in his brown eyes just how pleased he was.

As his brothers congratulated him and slapped him on the back, Happy realized just how much he loved the brotherhood. Even though he rarely ever shared the burden of the shit he was dealing with, his brothers could sense when something was amiss. Although they never pressured him to talk, they always made it known that he wasn't dealing with shit alone. Through his mother's illness and anything else he had endured in his nearly 20 years as a Son, his brothers always had his back.

"That's cool that she was able to come tell you in person," Juice replied. "I would have liked to have met her."

"She didn't come herself, idiot. My sis—" Happy paused, rethought his answer and played off misspeaking by coughing. "Her caregiver drove up to let me know."

"Really? All the way from Bakersfield?" Clay took another painful stab at his rubber chicken. "You must be paying this broad big bucks for her to make time to come and tell you in person."

"Nah, not really. She and Ma go way back. No big shit," Happy said, the thought that he was over sharing making him feel suddenly uneasy. As much as he loved both the Club and his family, he pretty much did his best to keep them far apart. It was just the way he liked it. No one really knew anything about his mother, not even her name and they certainly didn't know about the crazy little sister he had adopted without quite knowing how so many years ago. "Anyway, shit's all good. Even though Ma did pull my ear by proxy for not calling and shit."

"I feel ya, bro," Jax started as he thought about his mother. "Gemma gave me all kinds of shit for the same reason. I know she worries, but I just wish I had taken your advice and left the outside where it belongs a lot sooner."

"You learned your lesson the hard way, brother. I don't think it's one you'll be needing to learn again," Happy focused his gaze on Jax knowingly. "And we'll be handling that shit soon enough too."

"Damn straight," Clay said as he pointed a fork at Jax. "Now that the deal has passed, we just need to sit tight and work out our strategy. Soon enough we'll be back in Charming and our state-sponsored vacation will be nothing but a bad fuckin' memory."

As Happy continued to half-heartedly eat his food, his mind wandered as he thought about Clay's words. Now that he knew that his mother and Marlowe were doing okay, he could more fully focus on getting out alive.

He was already looking forward to the day when he could go home again.


Charming, CA – Friday, January 8, 2010

Standing in the corridor outside Margaret Murphy's office door, Tara vacillated between paying heed to her head or her heart.

After nearly eleven months of simply living in the moment from day to day, it was the last visit that she had made with Abel to see Jax that was suddenly spurring her to take action. Sitting in the Visitor's Center and watching the two Teller men bond, Tara had felt her heart stir with emotion. It had taken quite some time, but a healthy color had returned to her old man's skin, as had the shape and definition of the muscle tone he had lost while recuperating from the devastating attack that had nearly killed him.

Tara was glad that the SAMCRO VP was regaining his strength and vigor. As a doctor, learning of the extent of his injuries and the several setbacks he had suffered during recovery, Tara had been unsure whether or not he would actually pull through. She was grateful he had and had prayed that he would many nights as she lay all alone in their bed. Now that he had, however, the realization that he would be home in three short months hit her like a blow to the gut.

Jax is coming home!

What should have felt like jubilation coursing through her body, making the butterflies in her belly take flight, felt more like a cold dread seeping in through her skin and turning her blood to ice. The initial fluttering in the pit of her stomach had hardened into a ball of fear and loathing. Tara feared what living an outlaw life with Jax would entail and loathed what doing so could potentially turn her into.

Gemma!

The thought of ending up like Jax's manipulative, control freak of a mother scared the shit out of Tara. She had come close to morphing into a "fierce" old lady once before, racking up one arrest after another for everything from drunk and disorderly conduct to catfighting in the parking lot of Murphy's Supermarket.

At sixteen, Tara had foolishly thought she had all the answers and didn't care where or how she ended up as long as she ended up with Jax. At nineteen, however, after Jax had patched into SAMCRO, Tara got a real taste of what that really meant and she didn't like it at all. She still loved Jax, but knew that she needed more than just the Club to make her happy. It had broken her heart when Jax had refused to leave Charming and the Club when she decided to go to college in San Diego, but in the long run, leaving had been the best decision Tara could have made for herself.

Coming back, not leaving, was the greatest mistake of my life, Tara thought bitterly.

If Jax could not bring himself to leave the Club he had only just patched into when they were nineteen, what chance did he have of doing just that after twelve years of living the Life while separated from Tara? He swore that he loved her. That he loved her since they were sixteen and had never stopped loving her. But just because two people loved each other passionately didn't mean that they were meant to be together, especially not when it caused detriment to one or both.

Moonlighting as the Club's doctor had nearly caused her to lose her job in St. Thomas more than once. As much as Tara loved Jax, she loved being a surgeon as well. It gave her life meaning to be capable of saving a baby's life with her hands and her mind working together. It certainly gave her greater satisfaction than having to stitch up dog bites and bullet wounds on ass cheeks!

Maybe it was already too late for Tara to come to this realization. Maybe I should just let it all be, but on a darker, deeper level, Tara knew that she wouldn't be able to.

If reading the letters John Teller had written to Maureen Ashby nearly 16 years ago had been a mistake, then looking into the circumstances surrounding his death had been an abomination, a curse she was now burdened with. Knowing what she knew now—about Gemma, Clay, JT and Unser—made staying with Jax in Charming a tragedy just waiting to happen. There was no telling what Gemma and Clay were capable of doing to keep their dirty little secret from Jax. And any hope Tara might harbor of getting Jax to leave if she gave him the letters was foolish at best because if the truth concerning JT's death was anything as she suspected, having Jax read those letters would doom them both to a very unhappy future.

It's time for me to take control of my own destiny, and this is the only way I can see it happening.

And with that thought at the forefront of her mind, Tara knocked on the door.

"Come in," Margaret called out as she flipped through several reports on her desk. With her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she looked up to see Tara standing in her doorway, and smiled. "Tara, what can I do for you?"

Margaret's eyes widened in surprise as without a word, Tara walked into her office and closed the door silently behind her before marching across the room to sit in the chair in front of her desk. It took Tara a moment to gather her thoughts as she moistened her lips and prepared to speak. But before she could open her mouth, Tara's shoulders started shaking violently in distress and to her own complete and utter shock, she burst into tears.

Quickly rising from her desk, Margaret walked around it to sit in the chair opposite Tara and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Tara, what in the world is the matter?" she asked urgently.

"I—I'm sorry," Tara blubbered as she grasped the wad of tissues that Margaret thrust into her hands. "It's just that I think I made a really big mistake," she sniffled and lifted her red-rimmed eyes to her co-worker's face.

Sighing, Margaret ran a hand through her short dark red hair and struggled to find some words of comfort. "Tara, I know that there are times when we do things that we may later regret," she started quietly. "But if regret is what you're feeling, you shouldn't. In light of everything that has happened—Abel's kidnapping, our kidnapping, Jax's incarceration—and everything that will most likely happen, deciding not to bring another child into this life was the best you could have done, for yourself and that child. If you ever decide to get away, having a child with Jax would have made that impossible. He would always be a part of your life as the father of that child. Instead, you have put a stop to the damaging cycle of violence you have fallen into," Margaret explained vehemently, only to watch Tara shake her head adamantly.

"You don't understand," Tara cried as she mopped away her tears. "I don't regret having the abortion. I regret staying in this fuckin' town after Jax went inside!"

As Margaret heaved a sigh of relief, Tara got up from her chair and grabbed a fresh wad of Kleenex, blowing her nose furiously before dumping the used tissues into the wastebasket by the desk.

Leaning against the desk with her arms crossed over her chest, Tara shook her head. "I should have just left. The moment Jax got hauled away to Stockton, I should have returned to Chicago. After fourteen months, Jax would not have come after me and I could have put this whole nightmare life I've created for myself behind me."

"Why didn't you?" Margaret asked earnestly.

"Because I loved him," Tara replied sadly. Pausing, she tucked several loose strands of hair behind her ear. "My greatest fault has always been loving Jax more than I loved myself and I HATE myself in Charming!" Taking a deep breath to keep the tears from flowing again, Tara let it out as a shudder. "I wanted so badly to believe him every time he said that things were going to change for the better, but it finally started to dawn on me that the past eleven months have been the most peaceful I've enjoyed since returning to Charming. I may have to accept that we're not meant to be happy together and that if I try to stick it out, Jax and the MC will only bring me down to the point where I won't be able to recover from it."

As Margaret nodded her head sympathetically, Tara thought about Gemma. As a teenager, Tara had hated Gemma and she knew all too well that the feeling had been mutual. This time around, however, after a bumpy start and after Gemma's brutal rape, they had managed to find common ground and had grown closer. As a result, Gemma had taken her under her wing, so to speak, in order to groom her into the perfect old lady for her son. They had grown so close that Gemma was able to detect that something had been off with Tara and had guessed that the young woman had been pregnant. She had foolishly trusted that the SAMCRO matriarch would keep her secret and it was Tara's fault for not realizing sooner that Gemma was loyal to only one person: her son Jax.

After Abel's kidnapping, Tara's relationship with Jax had taken a turn for the worse. She knew deep down that Jax blamed her for the fact that Cameron Hayes had taken off to Ireland with his son, but not before killing the Prospect Half Sack. He had gone out of his way to treat her badly and Tara knew she should have seen Jax fucking Ima as the final nail in their coffin. After Jax had left for Belfast, Tara had made the decision to go through with the abortion before heading back to Chicago.

Hector Salazar had thwarted her getaway plan by kidnapping her and Margaret. And with Jax risking his life to save her, Tara had postponed her exit strategy until Jax was in Stockton. Learning that he knew about the pregnancy had thrown her and after all Jax had been through with Abel, Tara didn't have the heart to tell him she had aborted their baby. She also had no idea that concealing that loss as a miscarriage would have the same devastating effect on him.

Now with the Club inside, Tara had been slowly pulling herself away from Gemma and as a result was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid Gemma's pressing questions about her future with Jax and Abel. As Gemma tried to comfort her about her "losing" the baby, all Tara could think about was how right Jax had been. She should have returned to Chicago after Kohn had been dealt with.

Now, there were only three months left before Jax came home and the urge to run had finally kicked in again.

Focusing her gaze on Margaret, Tara found the confidence she needed to finally give voice to what she wanted. "I need a favor," Tara began without hesitation. "I need you to get me some information on a couple of out-of-state hospitals." Pulling a folded piece of paper out of her lab coat, Tara handed it to the astonished woman. "I've been doing some research. There are two hospitals, one in Oregon and the other in Seattle with openings in the neo-natal department."

"You're thinking of leaving Charming?" Margaret said quietly, the hopeful relief clearly evident in her voice.

Finally! Margaret rejoiced inwardly. I was about to give up hope.

In so many ways, Margaret had seen herself in Tara as she had been so many years ago, living a destructive life with a destructive and selfish man hell bent on destroying them both. She had also believed that this man was the love of her life. It had finally taken her almost dying to realize that there was more to life than what she had been living. For a long while now, Margaret believed that Tara would never get that message, choosing to stay in Charming after they had both suffered horribly at the hands of one of the MC's enemies. Staying while her old man did time and raising his child by another woman—a drug addict—Margaret knew that Tara was losing a bit of herself with every day that passed.

Now it seemed as if the young surgeon was finally waking up to the realities of her life. Now more than ever she knew that Tara needed her help in order to make the final break that would free her from a life she wasn't meant to live. Dr. Tara Knowles—a smart, bright and capable young woman—was destined for greater things and Margaret Murphy was determined to get her there.

Tara shook her head slightly. "I'm not 100% there yet, but I'm working on it," she admitted morosely.

Getting up from her seat, Margaret reassuringly squeezed Tara's shoulder and smiled as their eyes met. "Everything will be just fine, Tara. I'm going to help you."


A/N: Many thanks to those that are faithfully reading and reviewing. I wouldn't mind getting a little more love, so please take a moment to share your thoughts in the box below and brighten my day. Hugs, Harlee. :)