A/N: Okay, so normally I like to be a chapter a head of what I post but I loved this chapter too much to keep it all to myself and had to post it the very second I was done :)... yay!
About this Chapter: It's a long one with something like 9,600 words, but a lot of that is dialogue. I don't know, I'm really proud of this chapter because I tried really hard to make sure everything seemed believable. The plot is similar to things that have been done before, but I have yet to read a story that has made me feel it was even in the slightest realistic. So please, as always, let me know your thoughts because if this chapter doesn't feel realistic I don't want it in my story. :)
Okie Dokes Artichokes, let's get this party started ;)
Chapter 9: Saint Amelia
Mac pulls into the shared parking lot of T-M Auto body and the SoA clubhouse a little after eight p.m. in her Accord, which much to the dismay of Happy and Chibs that follow behind her still expels burnt oil every time she presses the gas petal. The twenty minute drive from Chibs' apartment has left both of the pack-a-day smokers behind her with an accelerated case of black lung.
Mac scrambles to get out of the car that is understandably too small for a woman of six feet, slightly falling out as per her normal routine of exiting the tiny cab.
Happy coughs up a lung cookie, a large wad of phlegm, which tastes as bad as the acrid scent of oil smells and spits it out – purposefully aiming for the side of Mac's Honda. The discoloured phlegm lands smack dab in the middle of the rear driver's side window and sticks for a few moments before streaking down – leaving a trail of slick mucus behind it like a snail. Mac looks from the lugee that has been hacked then back to its maker. She's not happy with Happy.
"Don't be a dick." She says dryly. The sarcastic comment earns her a one-figured salute from Happy that he so proudly thrusts forth.
"You need a new car. That thing has been dead for two years." Chibs says, offhand, as he takes off his helmet and hangs it over his handlebars.
"No, what I need is a new bike." Mac scoffs. Even though she has been on a motorcycle since she came to Charming, it was only riding bitch with Chibs. She urns to actually get behind the bars and feel the power of the metal behemouth rumbling beneath her. When she rides it's the epitome of freedom. Speeding down a road, hunching down low to be as aerodynamic as possible with the wind rushing all around her Mac always feels so free that it's comparable to flying. Riding is her release, her escape from everything and so far riding bitch has not fulfilled her need. If anything, riding with Chibs has only served as fuel for craving the open road.
"Well, you can worry about that when you're off of lock-down. You ain't goin' anywhere until then." Chibs says, bringing Mac away from imaginging racing down the road and hugging her bike like a lover while it gracefully eats asphalt.
"Lock-down? I agreed to stay here, not to be held prisoner." She protests. Dramatic as always, she literally lifts her foot up and stomps it down for emphasis.
Chibs directs a hostile finger at her when he speaks, "Don't argue or I will tie you up. It's for your own good."
"Kinky." Tig smirks, suddenly appearing by the trio as if out of thin air – or like that one pesky insect that will just never leave you alone on warm summer days. The bug is gone one second and you think oh, this is nice and then they're right back in your face, buzzing around and irritating the shit out of you. Mac personally likes the latter of the two. It's much more Tig. Mac does a quick scan of the parking lot with green eyes that remain slightly reddened from her afternoon with Happy and finds that all the bikes are still lined up by the low concrete wall outside the clubhouse. It strikes her as curious to see that all the Sons are still here but yet no one else is. It's definitely not a party. It's definitely not Church. So it must be club business.
And Mac knows from personal experience that when club business runs into the night it is never because of a good thing – otherwise it would be a party. MC's are just like that – any excuse to throw a party is a good excuse.
"This club business you guys had earlier…is there something going down?" MacLeod quips.
"Club business is club business, not Mac business." Tig says, a little hurt that she didn't even seem to recognize his abrupt entrance. Mac turns on her heel to face the black-haired man and give him the attention he is craving like an ignored step-child.
"I'm in a club, too, 'ya know? I know club business is club business, not Mac business, but it would be nice to at least know some base-line information. Maybe I can help." She offers - her accent impossibly thicker in her hurry to speak.
"I doubt that." Tig snorts. But then there's a change in his face: his already bug-esque blue eyes get wider.
"Acutally…" He says breathily, as if to himself, before quickly darting back into the clubhouse with a neat little spring in his step.
It's really no wonder why or how Tig got his moniker. He bounces around just like the fictional character Tigger with a spring in his tail. And, he's childish enough to be deserving of a nickname derived from the obsession of many toddlers, Winnie the Pooh. Oh, yeah. Mac can definitely see the resemblance that earned the grown man his cognomen.
"What the hell was that about?" Mac asks to Chibs. Chibs shares a brief, worried look with Happy whose dark brown eyes peer out through eyelids that still droop with sleepiness.
"Let's go talk to Clay." Chibs says.
"Wait there." Chibs hastily instructs Mac, giving a crude motion to the small sofa by Juice's computer. For once, she doesn't have anything to say about the matter and silently goes off and takes her seat.
Chibs, thankful for small miracles, walks next to Happy as they approach the group of patches mulling about the bar that Tig is already addressing with grand animation like he is a world-renowned orator. While Tig talks directly to Clay everyone else situated around them listen intently. Juice sits at the round table closet to the bar with a beer in his hands along with Jax and Opie, both of whom who also hold the hops-containing alcoholic beverage. Opie leans back in his chair with one arm over the back while Jax leans into the table with his shoulders hunched up. Clay, Bobby and Piney all sit around the bar itself. Clay smokes on a cigar, a short glass of whiskey nestled into his left hand; Bobby holds a joint in-between his thumb and index finger; Piney watches the two with understandable longing. But one thing that all seven people have in common is the varying degrees of bemusement in their expressions – from Kozik with wider than wide eyes, who stands between the two groups like an intermediary, to Clay who looks like he's almost ready to shit a brick, it's unanimous. They're all dully surprised by whatever it is Tig is suggesting to fix the most recent problem of the Sons.
In all fairness, to call what is happening right now with the Sons really isn't a problem so much as it is a class 4 shit-storm. With the new Sheriff in town the Sons of Anarchy have not been free to enforce their laws of Charming that kept the streets clear of human trash and the air free of drug vapors. What they're dealing with right now is like the Nords all over again, only this time on steroids. A small break-away group from The Russians who refer to themselves as 'The Russian Kings', even though they're far from kingly, have begun to move China-White heroin not only through Charming but also within its city limits. The frenzy this morning came to rise when the body of Alexandria Monroe was discovered up in the old quarry on the outskirts of town. The twenty-year-old college Freshman was found raped, beaten and dead of an apparent heroin overdose. She was last seen at The Russian Kings' main HQ, a strip-club in Chester, California cleverly called Puss-In-Boots.
The Russian Kings have officially claimed the first fatality in what is sure to be a long and grueling war. This morning was an emergency church on whether or not to dive head-first into retaliation. It had been a completely split decision and left to linger on the table until a more viable option was presented for taking the Russians down.
When Chibs and Happy close the last remaining paces of distance, Clay turns to them and holds up an arthritic hand to silence Tig.
"Tig is suggesting we use your girl to get to the Russians." Clay states.
Chibs directs his narrowed brown eyes at Tig, telepathically promising to rip out the man's throat for offering up Mac like a juicy steak, "No. She's here to be safe – she's supposed to be on lockdown, she's not here to be taking care of our business."
"Hear me out, man." Tig starts, physically waving off Chibs' angry glare, "She's hot. The Russians like hot chicks. If we can turn her into Stripperella, she could find out some real useful shit." He finishes with exuberance, secretly giving himself a small pat on the head for coming up with such a brilliant idea.
"In case you haven't noticed, she's not exactly their type, Tig. They don't like 'em affiliated, they like 'em dumb and full of drugs."
"But that's the thing! They don't know she's with us, if we-" Tig's defense is cut short by the Scotsman.
"Look at her – she's a god damned billboard for The Saints!" Chibs blindly gestures over his shoulder to where Mac is sitting in Juice's office, hidden by the half-wall of the clubhouse entry way. Not only does she have 'The Saints' so proudly tattooed on the side of her neck but with her multitude of tattoos that cover almost every inch of her skin, there's no way she could ever pass for anything less than what she is. One badass chick.
"Lyla's real good with make-up, she's got this butterfly tattoo that she always had to cover up for work. After she does her thing you wouldn't even be able to tell." Opie says. When Chibs directs his fiery gaze at the bearded man, Opie suddenly becomes very enthralled by the label on his beer bottle and doesn't look back up.
Chibs is now beyond peeved and pushing infuriated that Tig took it upon himself to suggest that Mac could be beneficial to the Sons. She's here to be protected and lay low. There is no way Chibs is about to let MacLeod stick her neck out for them and risk everything.
"No." He states firmly, arms crossing over his chest. With his sunglasses pushed up high on his forehead and his shaggy brown hair falling down in his eyes he looks only marginally less than intimidating.
"She offered to help!" Tig exclaims, making an exaggerated point of gesturing in Mac's general direction.
"I think she should do it." Happy says, his sand-paper voice now officially rubbing Chibs the wrong way. He could honestly hit Happy right now because he's so pissed and it shows.
"Will you hold on just one damned minute? We don't even know if we can trust her." Piney pipes up, his voice booming over the bickering. People may say what they will about the old man losing his vigor, but if there's one thing he's always good for it is looking at a situation from all perspectives. And right now he is voicing everyone's secret concern that they don't know her. All the Sons of Anarchy have heard the stories about how tough and battle-ready she is from the recounting of memories by Chibs. But stories are just talk, and when it all boils down to it talk is just coffee house bullshit that means nothing.
Hushed mumbles of agreement with Piney fill the bar like the thick smoke.
"If Chibs trusts her and she's with The Saints, she can be trusted." Happy says without so much as a millimeter of doubt. Everyone, including Chibs, turns to the tanned tattoo artist for further explanation about his unforeseen support. Happy is by far the last person Chibs would expect to say he trusts Mac - no matter how much "bonding" they've done in his apartment.
"I've dealt with The Saints on some jobs out East for SAMBOS. They're a hardcore crew and getting in with them means Mac's as tough as they come." Happy pauses quickly, trying to think of her rank. When he completely comes up blank, meaning it's something he either never noticed or never asked, he asks Chibs what her position is within The Saints.
Chibs considers not answering, but does anyway and as he does his voice is weighed down by hesitation, "Hellhound."
Happy is visibly impressed by Chibs' response. He blinks slowly at first and then gives the subtlest of nods that serves as the phyiscal representation of his silent approval and respect of that position and, by extension, his silent approval and respect of Mac herself.
"A hellhound? That sounds…" Jax starts with a wry look.
"Ominous? Trust me, it is. Look, if she's hellhound, then I have to say she's actually over qualified for dressing up like a whore and getting information."
"What's a hellhound?" Bobby interjects.
Happy scratches at the slight stubble on his chin as he thinks for a moment, trying to figure out the specific formula that a hellhound is composed of. He looks to Chibs for help in divining an answer, but Chibs shakes his head quite adamantly, indicating he has no interest in contributing any further.
After what feels like forever in which time the anticipation around the bar has fully reached its crux, Happy finally speaks.
"In our terms – she's part me and part Sergeant-at-Arms."
All seven patches, minus Happy and Chibs – who looks like he's about to rip Happy four new ones, lean and cock their heads in order to be able to see around the wall that Mac is hidden behind and get a view. Apparently, the general consensus is they're impressed or shocked. And from that Chibs can deduce that his objections are now futile.
"But that still means nothing for us trusting her." Piney says.
"I trust her. She's saved my life twice and that counts for a whole shit ton in my book." Chibs huffs, downright insulted that his brothers were questioning Mac's character. Granted, they don't know her even a sliver as well as he does but to Chibs that is still no excuse. He trusts Mac completely and even though he does not want her put in harm's way it's more important to him that he defends her honour. However, as soon as he says the words Chibs regrets them because he has inadvertently given the Sons the best reason to trust her. Chibs could slap himself he feels so stupid.
Even Piney says nothing at this point – picking up on the passion behind Chibs' words that even people in China caught on their radars.
Clay takes a puff of his cigar and swirls the smoke around in his mouth while he contemplates putting Mac into play. Chibs knows better than to beg Clay not to used Mac, but right now his sound judgment is altered because his top priority - the same priority for her safety that he assumed Clay shared, has a hold of his reins. He silently pleas with the grey haired President to not put Mac at risk. Clay notices the near despair on Chibs' face but ignores it for the good of the club. They need to put an end to "The Kings" being in Charming and that priority is paramount over all else.
Clay, at first, was completely adverse to Tig's suggestion and took it with a humorous grain of salt. But knowing that Mac is more than equipped to handle herself allowed him to discarded his reluctance over safety. Clay is still not on-board with giving an outsider the important task of SoA business. He does not know Mac, therefore he does not trust her –but with Chibs defending her even though it's vehemently blatant he does not want her to do this, Clay's interest has officially been piqued.
Clay gives Chibs a half apologetic, half 'your culpa' look with his dusty blue eyes accompanied by a small double-shrug, before turning his attention back to his right-hand man.
"So, what's this plan of yours, Tig?" Clay asks the SAMCRO Sargent-At-Arms.
Chibs fights his internal urge to sling Mac, who would without a doubt scream bloody murder, over his shoulder and get as far away from Charming as he can. He was stupid to think that the Sons would want to protect her like Clay had promised they would. Clay promised. He swore to help keep Mac save and now he's advocating putting her in the line of fire? That shit does not settle well with the 44-year-old Scotsman to say the least. He feels like he just got slapped in the face with an iron skillet.
Clay must be able to sense this because he gives Chibs a look, a demeaning wayward look with his head half-cocked that tells him 'easy, boy'.
Chibs pulls in his cheeks and chews on the scar tissue that runs the internal length of his mouth to stop himself from saying anything he will regret later.
"Well, we know the Russians work out of that strip-club, Puss-In-Boots, over in Chester. So, if we can get Mac in there, undercover – of course," He grins like a fool at the idea of seeing Mac in stripper get-up, "we can have her to find out where they're storing the drugs. Then it's burn, baby, burn." Tig orates.
"What about protection, huh? How are we going to protect her without revealing her affiliation with us?" Chibs asks.
"I don't need to be protected. I can do that just fine all on my own!" Mac's voice hollers from the opposing side of the clubhouse.
Apparently, she has heard everything.
Chibs turns around so he can see her. She stands by the pool tables, defiant as ever, with her decorated arms crossed over her chest. Chibs does not miss it, hell he would be willing to bet it could be seen from the space station, the deeply engrained look of pure excitement on her face. At first Chibs is upset but on second thought he knows he shouldn't have expected anything less. That woman is addicted to danger and illicit activities. After being dry for so long she's chomping at the bit to do something. Even though they're separated by a fair distance and the clubhouse is poorly illuminated Chibs can see that her deep green eyes shine bright with the thrilling idea of getting a fix. NoNoNoNo plays like a broken record within Chibs' mind. No. No. No. NO!
Clay motions with two fingers for Mac to come over, much in the way a baskeball coach reluctantly summons a benched player when his star shooter has been injured.
"What'd you got to say about Tig's plan?" Clay asks Mac.
"Other than that it's weak? I look damn good in fuck-me heels." She grins wide, admitting she's all in.
"What do you mean weak?" Tig shouts, offended by how Mac put his plan down like a sick dog.
"Just going in and finding out where they store their drugs and burning the place down doesn't stop their operation. It just puts it under construction. Russians are nothing more than Vodka-loving cockroaches and if you really want them to stop, you need to exterminate the infestation."
"And by exterminate the infestation, you mean –" Clay lets his sentence hang so Mac can quite literally fill in the blanks.
"I mean exterminate the infestation. Take care of the problem. Send a message. Make them see it your way. Eliminate the competition. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Catch my drift?" Mac's cheeky comment hits harsh like the crack of whip. Chibs gnaws harder that the insides of his cheeks, holding back the long list of lewd objections that scream in his head. You're out of-fucking-order!
Clay does not appreciate her smart mouth in comparison to Happy who now has the same glint in his dark eyes that Mac does.
"That will cause a war we don't want to bring to Charming." Clay says. The harshness in his tone coupled with his facial sneer and the way he stares her dead on with his foreboding eyes is a trademark look of Clay's. It's meant to establish dominance and crush any lesser being. Yet, it doesn't seem to affect Mac at all. She brushes it off like a speck of dirt on her shoulder.
"From what it sounds like, they've already brought the war. It's just time for you take arms and defend your home." Mac says coolly. Aside from the slightly more than obvious glee in her eyes she leans against the bar top with a confident air of nonchalance.
This is where Clay's body language drastically changes and everyone gathered around the aging President notices. No longer is Clay put-off by how ballsy and outspoken Mac is. The fact that he gave her the look that has made lesser men piss themselves and she still spoke her mind impresses him in a way that's outside of the realm of comprehension. In that instant Clay sees his wife within Mac. Even how Mac leans against the bar, with one hand on her hip and her face set hard like granite seems to mirror Gemma's demeanor perfectly. Mac even gives off the same exact vibe of 'don't fuck with me, or else' as well as the same underlying scent of confidence as Clay's near-infallible wife. The likeness would be creepy if it wasn't so… scary. There was once upon a time Clay prayed that there was only one Gemma in the world because, to be frank, he doesn't think the whole world can handle two Gemma's.
"What would you do?" He offers, much to the visible surprise of those around him.
"Since when do we let women take care of our business?" Chibs shouts when his gnawing is no longer effective at keeping his protests mute. Mac's beaming confidence falters only slightly, turning a furrowed brow on her friend; hurt by his comment. Mac has worked too god damned hard in her life to be thought of as "just a woman" and it's more than insulting that Chibs of all people would view her as nothing more than a pair of tits.
"Chibs, I think you should go get some air." Clay says without switching his focused attention from MacLeod.
"I'm fine." Chibs snaps.
Clay turns to Chibs, his eyes as scalding hot as fire and brimstone, "Outside. Now!" He orders.
Chibs shoots everyone, including Mac, a glare that gives representation to how betrayed and angered he is before storming out of the clubhouse. The heavy front doors bang shut behind him with such a force that Chibs must've slammed them behind him on his way out.
"That man wears skivvies under his kilt, I swear." Meaning that Chibs is acting less than manly, Mac says this with an irritated roll of her eyes that expertly covers up how sincerely hurt she by his comment. After all these years, after everything they've been through, she really thought that Chibs wouldn't view her as just another woman – some damsel in distress who needs saving and protecting. However, in reality that is far from the truth. Chibs knows fully what Mac is capable of and thinks of her as one of the strongest people he knows but the fact that she's still fighting him every step of the way when he's just trying to protect her is starting to get the better of him. There's only so much resistance someone can take before they break and give in. Well, Chibs refuses to give and in and demeaning her was a hail Mary shot intercepted by Clay. It was Chibs' desperate last effort to get everyone to take Mac's safety back into consideration.
Clay presses MacLeod for an answer with an rolling hand.
Mac takes one of the empty seats at the bar, in between Clay and Bobby and lights up a cigarette as a stall tactic to actually formulate an answer. The cigarette dangles between her naturally peach coloured lips while she absent-mindedly rubs at the back of her neck; deep in thought.
The growling noise of a bike starting up followed by the prompt revving that means the bike sped out of T-M with formidable speed filters in from the outside and into Mac's thoughts.
Chibs has left the building. Not so surprisingly Mac is actually grateful that he did. A ride will clear his head and hopefully make him see the situation with the same pair of emotionally detached eyes the rest of his brothers do: There's no way a Son could get to the Russians, but a certain Saintly daughter sure as hell could.
Mac takes a long drag from the cigarette before taking it out of her mouth so she can voice her plan. With the dangerous twinkle in her vivid eyes and a darkly twisted smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth she speaks lowly, as if giving away a secret, "You say they work out of a pussy club, right?" She asks and Clay gives a nod, prompting her to continue, "Right, well, I would go in and scout the place out in order to actually come up with a real plan of attack, but basic point is I'd find a way to lure the big fish into a trap and take them all out in one clean swoop. All cockroaches eventually die after you chop off the head and that's what I think should be done here." Her metaphor lingers. If you take out the men leading the operation here, they'll die out. Once and for all - they'll be too scared to come back.
The bar is silent save for the murmurs of talk and the faint clinking of pools balls from the prospects that play pool with a few hang-arounds and sweet butts.
"That sounds like it would take a while." Jax says.
"Puh-lease. These tits," she makes a crude gesture to her voluptuous chest, "are magical," Both Tig and Happy can attest to that, and Tig's cheeks gain the faintest of red hues, "I would have them eating out of my palm in no time." She relaxes her back against the heavily lacquered bar top and watches the faces of the Sons closely. Tig still looks somewhat offended, but more turned on than anything else; Opie scratches at his beard in contemplation; Piney takes a deep huff from his oxygen; Jax looks down at his hands, his visible profile twisted up with some indecipherable thought; Kozik leans back onto one foot with his arms over his chest, agreement creeping up on his face; Bobby takes a toke and mutters something about 'damn good' and Mac doesn't know if he means the weed or her plan; Juice looks excited; Clay pauses for thought, taking a swirling puff from his cigar and a casual sip of his whiskey.
So Mac waits patiently while the patches mull it over...
"My plan was better." Tig mumbles under his breath, only audible to Juice who sits next to him at one of the tables – just within hearing range of the Sargent's comment.
"You wish." Juice snickers to the black-haired man that instigates a slap upside the head that Tig delivers. Juice grimaces, holding onto the back of his head as his sinks down into his chair.
Mac gently rubs her knuckles to soothe the pain that still dully throbs through the whole body numbness she feels, an effect of popping those lovely little Percocet's all day long. Clay notices this out of the corner of his eye.
"Are you even in the condition to be doing this? What about your hand?" He asks, with a nod that gestures to the injury she tenderly rubs. Mac looks down and takes in the appearance of her broken knuckles. The swelling was real bad the past two days but right now it has subsided to the point where she can see the knobs of her knuckles among the blue tint that reminds her somewhat of the colour someone's lips have when they die from suffocation.
An image of Sarah flashes through her head.
Mac slams her hand down on the bar and allows the pain that jolts through her body to remove the memory of Sarah from the front of her mind.
She doesn't even wince as the pain magnifies, rather she seems to revel in the sharp ache that emanates from her knuckles. It is clear as day to the Sons, most notably Juice who winced and looked away when she hit the counter, that her hand is no problem.
"I'm good." She's says. There's a vague feeling of deja-vu lurking in the back of her mind but she physically shakes it away.
Clay takes a puff and exhales with his eyes keen on Mac the entire time. She stares him right back, never once wavering or looking away – not even when two pool balls slam together and the sharp sound cuts through the tensing air. It's a silent test that all animals from dogs to mankind participate in.
The stare down. Mac understands this because if you can't even look someone in the eye for an extended period of time, you are not trustworthy and therefore by no means the dominate one.
The stare down Clay has locked her into is almost funny to Mac because if he knew her at all, he would know this is something she could do all day long.
"Let's make it a vote." Jax says. He has been remarkably quiet the entire time, especially for his position as Vice President. Mac only turns to him now and notices how he is hunched over the table, giving his own version of the stare down to the empty beer bottle he holds with both hands.
Clay smirks, "Alright. Up for vote is sending Mac into Puss-In-Boots. I say 'Yay'-"
"We should wait for Chibs. The whole club votes." Jax snaps at his step-father. He clearly is not on board with this and that makes Mac resent him only slightly.
"I think we all know what Chibs' vote is. We'll count in a nay for the princess." Clay says, mockingly, as he gestures to the door that had been slammed shut only minutes ago by the angered Scotsman.
Unfortunately for Jax, everyone else agrees with Clay. It's clear that Chibs' vote is a firm no and they move on.
"Piney?" Clay starts the vote again.
Piney looks over Clay's shoulder to the blonde and his eyes linger for a moment, "Do you think you can really do this?" He asks her. Mac nods. Without a doubt.
"Aye." Piney says with a heavy sigh.
"I can dig it. Aye!" Bobby says with a wink to Mac that she playfully returns. Bobby is a man Mac has started to become fairly fond of already. Bobby is who Mac would expect Santa Claus to be if he smoked a ton of grass and belonged in a club, and Mac likes that.
"No." Jax says, pounding a fist on the table for emphasis. He doesn't look right at Mac, rather he completely bypasses her and gives Clay a shake of his head that couple with pursed lips tells Mac he holds a lot of resentment towards the President for essentially green-lighting putting Mac in middle of their business.
Opie looks away from Jax and up to Mac, "This is a big deal. Don't fuck it up," He lets his warning settle before voting yes. Jax stands up from the table, his chair falling out from under him as he storms out of the clubhouse much in the same heated fashion that Chibs did earlier. Jax doesn't slam the door though, it just silently swings shut behind him.
Juice clears his throat, "Aye."
"Oh, hell yeah. I can't wait to see you in your uniform." Tig grins at Mac. One of her eyebrows cock and her lips purse in a way that threatens to wipe the grin clean from his face.
Now it's just up to Happy. All eyes are on the stoic man, waiting with baited breath.
He pays no mind to the six sets of eyes pointed at him, but instead looks at Mac for the entirety. He nods a slow, silent 'yes'. She gives him a curt nod of gratitude.
A beaming close-lipped grin pulls back the President's whole face, "Seven-to-Two, that's a majority vote, Mac's turning into Stripperella!" He raises his glass and slams it back down onto the bar as a make-shift gavel.
"Someone should go tell the prince that the vote passed." Tig snickers.
"I ain't touchin' that mess with a ten foot pole." Clay mumbles into his glass as he takes a sip.
"I think I know why he's upset... Can I get a bottle of whiskey, please?" Mac asks Clay. He nods and reaches around the bar to grab a bottle of Jack Daniels.
"He just gets pissy sometimes. Going out there could be a bad idea." Clay warns, full disclosure and all, as he hands off the bottle.
"I've dealt with worse." Mac mumbles. She carefully tucks the bottle under her left arm and sets out to find Jax.
She finds Jax outside, sitting on the same bench that just a couple of nights ago Mac sat at when she made the phone call that set into motion a rather unfortunate series of events that left her with two broken knuckles. He sits much in the same posture she did, his rear on the top of the table with his feet on the bench, his legs bent out and his elbows resting on his knees. His head, however, is not bowed but rather he stares ahead while he takes deep, hurried drags off of a cigarette.
"Mind if I join you?" Mac asks, holding out the bottle of Jack's as a peace offering.
For all the hard feelings Jax has about tonight, none of them are focused directly on Mac but rather on the situation as a whole, so he gives a half-hearted shrug for a response. It's not that he doesn't trust her, he just doesn't trust anyone.
Great. Their VP is a piss prince. Awesome club you've got yourself, Chibs. Mac thinks to herself as she takes a seat beside him and mimics his comfortable posture. It is proven that when people are friends they will subconsciously mimic each other's posture and if you make a conscious effort to mirror someone you can forge such a kinship. So, Mac has found herself in a rather lucky spot. Not only does she gets to sit in the very un-ladylike way she normally does, but now it will also serve a purpose.
She holds the whiskey bottle between her knees and opens the cap with her good hand – offering it first to Jax who turns it down. She gives an apathetic shrug, more for me, then, and takes a good pull that satisfyingly burns her throat. No pain, no gain does apply to more than just working out, after all.
"So, you pissed because I'm a chick or because I'm an outsider?" She asks with her accent thick and heavy to the point where Jax doesn't understand her. Being around Chibs constantly has somewhat equipped Jax with the ability to figure out what English words are hidden under brogues but hers is thicker than his and requires more conscious thought. In Scotland, Mac lived in the small fishing town of Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis which is situated just off of Scotland's Northwestern Shore. The Isle of Lewis is home to the highest population of full Scots-Gaelic speakers but nearly everyone in Stornoway is bi-lingual. Mac grew up only speaking Scots-Gaelic because her father refused to speak English (even though he knew it perfectly since grade school, much in the same case of Mac). But why she differs from Chibs is also that she lived in Scotland for the first nineteen years of her life and by that time the intricate annunciations and pronunciations had already settled deep into her tongue. The situation with Chibs is different, and that's why his accent is so much easier. When he moved from Glasgow to Belfast, somewhere around his early teens, his Scottish and Irish accent melded together and made him fairly easy to understand state side.
So, the confused look Jax gives MacLeod is not one that's new to her. Not even by a long shot.
"Why are you pissed?" She asks, this time slower and Jax understands perfectly fine this time – or must've because he turns away from her with a scowl unfairly directed at the long line of bikes up against the short concrete wall with the blue railing.
Mac rolls her eyes, doing a sour imitation of pout from safely outside of his peripheral vision. She takes another long swig and then thrusts it into Jax's arms – clearly indicating that she is not taking no for an answer this time.
"Why are you really here? All Chibs told us is that you're in some real bad trouble – why aren't The Saints helping you?" Jax asks bluntly, but without hostility. He takes a quick drink from the bottle and hands it back to her.
Mac swiftly takes another drink, hiccupping slightly afterwards while she speaks, "Well, what did the crabbit bastard tell you exactly?" Crabbit comes from 'crabby' and generally means someone who is less than even-tempered.
She hands the bottle back.
"He said you pissed off the wrong Leprechaun back in Boston and that you needed to stay off the radar for a while."
Mac snorts a chuckle when she hears Jax use the word 'Leprechaun', because she could think of no better way to describe a pissed off Irishman. Jax takes a swig and doesn't hand the bottle back, letting it rest in his hands. Whether he keeps ownership to hold out on her until she talks or because he forgot, Mac doesn't really care. All that matters is objective one has been met: Get Jax to drink.
"Aye, that's the pure basics of it. I'll tell you the rest, as a gesture of trust, Jax. I don't want any animosity while I'm here. But please know this, even if you hate me at the end of this, I told you with trust." There's a heavy sincerity to her words that seems to ease the stiff tension on Jax's face.
Mac takes in a deep breath before she begins to tell her tale, "Our President was this man named Ace. Now, Ace is- was related to some very bad people – namely The Flanagan Family-" Jax's eyes widen slightly in recognition of the name tainted by blood, "I see you know them, lovely bunch huh? Anyway, I was next in line to be Vice President… Can I get that fucking bottle?" She stops, rather crudely demanding the liquor. Jax hands it over to her and she takes a guzzle before speaking again when the burning in her throat dies down, "So, right, I was next in line to be Vice President. Ace apparently didn't like that, not one wee bit. So he set me up. He had me go out and take care of some club business on my own and then he basically ambushed me and uhh…" She pauses because there's an awful taste in the back of her throat that needs to be drowned with whiskey, "Ace ambushed me and tried to shoot me, right between the eyes-" She taps the spot on her forehead for effect, "We fought and he was the one who wound up dead."
The bad taste is back so she takes another guzzle and doesn't stop until Jax takes the bottle out of her hands, wipes off the rim and takes his own sip. Objective two has been met: Get Jax to get drunk.
"That's some fucked up shit, your own President?" He breathes through the burn with his blond brows furrowed all the way up.
"Aye, tell me about it." Mac sighs. She opens and closes her left fist, motioning for Jax to give her back the bottle. He is happy to oblige.
She takes only a short sip, cautious of the flush that is already creeping onto her alabaster cheeks. She didn't want to get blootered, she just wanted to drink enough to loosen the man up and get him to vent what he so desperately needed to, because Mac knows how to ready body language well and she knows that's all the SAMCRO VP needed.
"So, tit-for-tat, I told you about me, now it's your turn to tell me why you're all in a tizzy." She edges. The way his shoulders are slumped low suggests that he can sympathize with Atlas' struggle – Jax, too, feels the weight of the world.
And that's a feeling Mac knows. More importantly, it's a feeling that Mac absolutely loathes beyond words.
"I don't feel comfortable with you doing this." He says. Ding. Ding. Ding. Final objective met: Get Jax to confess.
"Why? Because I'm a woman or because I'm an outsider?" She asks, reusing her question from earlier that Jax did not understand.
Jax shrugs, "A little bit of both." He says honestly. His complete truthfulness is something Mac rightfully respects with all her being.
"Well, what would I have to do to show you that you're completely wrong – that not only am I one tough bitch but that I can be trusted?" She asks, and it's a complete honesty that Jax rightfully respects.
He relaxes his posture slightly while he absent-mindedly scratches away at his scruffy goatee. Mac relaxes her posture to, but only conscious realizes she did so after the fact. Go figure.
It's palpable that Jax is scheming, so Mac waits and then waits some more all the while watching Jax patiently out of the corner of her eye. She takes a slow drink from the whiskey bottle and lights up a cigarette. She loosens up the laces on her boots. She does all of this while Jax's light eyes stare out into the darkness that has taken Charming hostage for the night. It prompts Mac too look out at the horizon, as well. The haze is still off in the far distance but the stars seem a little brighter tonight. She can actually see part of the big dipper.
"Punch Tig so hard you knock out a tooth." He says so suddenly that Mac's heart thumps against her ribcage briefly.
"Seriously?" She asks dryly, somewhat in disbelief that he would chose something that she really wouldn't mind doing anyway.
"Hell yeah, seriously." Jax nods, a small smile easing up his rounded face.
"Pssh, I thought you said that shit doesn't fly here?" Mac quips, a coy smile on her own face. There's no hiding the fact that she really likes his idea.
"It does if I endorse it." He says.
Mac shrugs, "The prince may have his way."
Jax' face falls a little because he is not fond of being called 'the prince', especially after finding out everything his father said was a lie.
"The prince thing, who'd you hear that from?" He asks.
"Tig, why?" She responds, not understanding where this line of question is leading.
"Knock out two teeth." He holds up two fingers to visualize his emphatic point.
Mac's smile stretches wide, "You have yourself a deal." She reaches out her hand to shake on it, which Jax does, and then the two rise from the picnic bench and go inside the clubhouse.
When they enter through the front door side-by-side they might have well as been fucking as they walked, because that's how Clay and Tig looked at the blonde duo from the pool tables as Mac and Jax came stumbling in. Jax holds a now only half-full bottle of whiskey in his hand, and the amber liquid sloshes around with every step he takes.
Mac and Jax walk over to where Clay and Tig play pool together.
"I'm going to do this, but in proving myself to you I don't want to make them distrust me." Mac whispers to Jax.
"Don't worry about it. Everyone in here knows Tig deserves what's coming to him." Jax smirks, hinting that Mac's hunch was right. Tig and Jax do not get along, and its apparently over something that all the Sons are aware of, and whatever that may be it's fine with Mac. She gets a free pass to hit Tig as hard as she can and that's all she cares about.
Besides, it serves Tig right. Mac told him to nut up or shut up, or more specifically "strap on a set or stop staring at my tits", and quite a few times after that threat she has caught the SAMCRO Sgt.-At-Arms with his baby blues aimed directly at her chest.
In other words, she's damned excited to be doing this.
"Aww, is the wittle pwince feewing bettah?" Tig mockingly pouts as they approach.
Grinning like a fool Jax replies, "Definitely. Hey, Clay, can I talk to you for a moment?" Jax says. Clay nods and goes off with his step-son who wraps an arm around the older gentlemen's shoulders and pulls him away, while Mac walks around the pool table so she's face-to-face with the man named Tig that's only slightly taller than she.
"I'm not sorry about this." She says and there's a quick flash of confusion across Tig's face that crinkles up his nose that has obviously been broken one too many times to be straight.
Mac's left arm recoils back, her scarred hand forming a tight fist. She's not as strong with her left but hopefully she's still strong enough to meet her ultimatum.
Tig sees what's coming just a little too late to duck.
Her left fist connects against the right side of his face with such force and initiative that he falls right down as if he were a sack of bricks.
Punch. Down.
It happens so fast that a lot of people must've missed it, because there's none of the sudden silence that followed after she decked Happy.
Tig isn't moving.
Mac prods him lightly in the chest with the toe of her boot. He doesn't move. He doesn't even grunt. He just lays there, his arms sprawled out around him and his legs entertwined with themselves. She didn't mean to knock him out, but that doesn't necessarily mean she's upset that she did.
"I think I knocked him out. Is that good enough?" She calls, craning her neck over her shoulder to look at Jax – who bears a striking resemblance to a small child on Christmas morning who woke up to find the mountain bike he's been drooling over for six months waiting for him under the tree.
He grin widens more, if that's even possible at this point because the blond man is already smiling from ear-to-ear, and he flashes Mac a thumbs up sign.
"That is definitely good enough." He hoots.
Now that Mac has called out her triumph the bar noise halts as people gather looks of their Sargeant-At-Arms, now reduced to a puddle of a man wearing a cut. There are no faint calls of 'ooh' or 'aww' for the fallen Son. There is no one upset that Mac just knocked him out. No, the only noise that graces Mac's ears is the shared laughter of just about everyone in the bar. Apparently, a lot of people thought he deserved a good punch. Tig likes to think himself as being up on a high, untouchable pedestal and Mac has just completely yanked him back down to ground level. Perhaps she even brought him down to subterranean level because no matter how bruised his cheek is going to be in the morning, his ego is going to be a million times more bruised. And that is a very, very good thing, especially in the eyes of his fellow Sons. Don't get the Sons wrong, they care about Tig and everything, but the sick bastard got what he deserved and there's no argueing that.
Mac shakes her fist out. Even her hand hurts after delivering that TKO. There's no doubt in Mac's mind that Tig's cheek is going to be downright blurple in the morning. His ego? Mac's suspecting it will be bruised a slightly darker shade of black than she knows the name for.
"Shit, now I'm gonna have to strip his patch after being knocked out by a chick!" Even Clay laughs as he shouts across the distance to Mac.
Mac feels very proud of herself as well as overly satisfied to the point where she craves a cigarette – much like she does after the calming release of sex. She lights up a Camel unfiltered as she steps over Tig's limp body, not really caring that her boot clad foot "accidentally" connects with his stomach as she does so, and then retakes her position by Jax.
"Dude, that was fuckin' sweet." Jax smiles. He hands her the whiskey bottle he has been holding onto and she takes a well-deserved drink.
"Thank you, thank you very much." Mac says with a small, but dramatic bow before the clubhouse occupants.
Bobby, who stands just slightly off to the side with Kozik and Happy as they smoke a joint, turns to Mac, "That's my line!" He calls. The laughter booms again. Mac's cheeks are starting to burn from smiling and laughing too much, and that is something that she rarely experiences.
Mac physically feels it right then, almost as if someone had literally come up and patted her on the back – wait…
Jax reaches out and gives the blonde woman a light pat on the back for a job well done. It's a simple gesture but it means the world to the Hellhound who is on the run from hellhounds.
She just got in. Not the type of 'in' that's literally tied to the definition but the type of in that is earned among rowdy crowds such as this solely through respect.
There's no high in the world that could even scratch at the surface of how truly happy Mac is in this moment.
There's a loud commotion by the pool tables as Tig starts to wake up. His arms fly up and grip tight onto the lip of the pool table as he hoists himself up. He looks discombobulated as he gingerly holds onto his face and shakily stands.
He blinks his blues rapidly, now looking more than confused and askew that he ever has before as he takes stock of his surroundings. He moves his jaw around in an attempt to clear away some of the stiffness in his face but he only winds up hurting himself more.
"Did I fucking get hit by a Mac Truck or something and you stupid fuckers just dragged me back here? It feels like I got hit by a fucking truck!" Tig exclaims with disbelief. He has no recollection of Mac and Jax even walking through the door. The last thing he remembers is calling 'three in the corner pocket', and then he was waking up on the ground with a horrible, throbbing pain enveloping the entire right side of his face.
"Or something." Jax and Mac say in stereo.
Saint Amelia: The Patron Saint of Bruises (I know they're starting to get cheesy and lame, but there's only so many things someone can be a patron saint of! lol)
Epitath (Final Words): For those of you who may not know, a Mac Truck is a brand of truck that attaches to a shipping container to make it an "eighteen-wheeler". Basically a Mac is a cargo truck cab that is a beast. And no, I did not do that on purpose when I started writing this story, lol but I'm glad I did! :) Oh, also, SAMBOS is what I'm assuming the acronym is for the chapter of SoA out in Massachusettes - the one that they've only ever dropped the faintest of hints at. I'm assuming the chapter is in Boston, because there's nothing else in Mass, so if this turns out wrong, just let me know.
Please review. It always means a lot to me when you guys do, because it lets me know that this story is still worth posting. As always, every review is welcomed no matter how breif or how constructively critical.
Also, now this is something that I truly want your opinion for because I'm not going to write it if no one wants it – I have soooo many "origin" moments between Chibs and Mac floating around in my head that when this is completed I wanted to do something of a prequel that chronicles how Chibs and Mac got to the point they are in Hellhound on my Trail. So please, please, please, let me know what you guys think – about everything: The story (IE; Did you buy it?) and whether or not you would read a prequel.
Good night and Good luck ;)
