Do No Harm

by OyHumbug

With a past she fears nipping at her heels, Doctor Tara Knowles runs to the small town of Charming, California where she hopes that she'll be able to hide from the things, from the people, who haunt her, not realizing that, though quaint, Charming is home to its own brand of violence and danger.

12. Chapter 12

Hello Everyone,

Sorry this has taken so long to post. This story has been completed now for a couple of months; it's just a busy time of year. Also, I wanted to take a moment to let you know that, following this chapter, there will only be one more. I do, however, have another, new, story already started (and SO/TOO MANY planned), so keep your eye out for that soon as well.

Thanks and enjoy,
~Charlynn~

Chapter Twelve

"Doctor Knowles?" Although Tara heard someone calling for her, she didn't pause in her steps. She wasn't actually working. After her late night and long shift the day before, she was attempting to keep her schedule light. She had no surgeries planned, so, unless an emergency case came up, Tara would just have post-op, rounds, and paperwork to keep her busy, and she was looking forward to the reprieve. Never did she think she'd miss that small couch in Abel's former NICU room as much as she did, but, after a night spent twisting in a rocking chair in a vain attempt to get comfortable and barely sleeping, even a cramped sofa looked like luxury in comparison. "Doctor Knowles!"

With a sigh of exasperation, she came to a sudden stop. Apparently, the nursing staff failed to understand that she wasn't on duty... which was no one's fault but Tara's own. When one practically lived at the hospital – taking cases and caring for patients even when they weren't scheduled to, that was to be expected. Yet, she couldn't help her irritation, and, unfortunately for the unsuspecting co-worker approaching her, they were about to bear the brunt of her bad mood. "What," Tara barked out – the mask of a pleasant expression and brittle grin she wore doing nothing to hide her annoyance. Even after she saw the nurse's expression drop in confusion and regret, she still couldn't push aside her irritation. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's... nothing's wrong," the other woman stammered.

Briefly, Tara looked away, closing her eyes and counting silently to ten as she tried to reign in her temper. She really needed to get control. This wasn't her; this wasn't how a professional acted, and, above all else, Tara prided herself on her professionalism. But ever since she had moved to Charming, that just seemed to go out the window. With a deep breath and subsequent exhalation, Tara centered herself. Facing the nurse once more, she was calm – perhaps not necessarily cordial but at least approachable. "What is it, then," she asked of her co-worker, observing as the other woman visibly relaxed. "Is there an emergency case on the way? Do I need to get ready for..."

"Actually, for once," the other woman interrupted hesitantly. "It's good news."

"Good news," Tara prompted.

"Yeah." And the RN smiled tentatively. "Doctor Namid wanted me to let you know that he reviewed Abel Teller's case this morning, and he feels that the little boy is ready to be released today. He thought you'd like to be the one to tell the family."

What she'd like to do was change her attending's mind, but that would just raise his suspicions and awareness, and they certainly didn't need Doctor Namid poking any deeper into Abel's case, his family, or her involvement in both. As for that family, while Tara would gladly share the news with Jax – even if he couldn't be there when his son was released, he'd still be relieved to know that Abel was healthy and strong enough to finally live outside of the hospital's constant supervision and monitoring, Tara wanted to keep the news from Gemma and Wendy for as long as possible. So, grateful for the chance to control the situation, she finally offered the nurse a genuine smile. "Thank you. I'll do just that." Before her co-worker could walk away, she posed the question, "did Doctor Namid say when he thought he'd have a chance to sign Abel's release papers?"

"Not until this evening," the other woman revealed, glancing down at a sticky note she held in her hand. "He said that he had a full day of surgeries planned, so he'd swing by tonight but wanted you to get everything prepared so that his signature would just be a formality."

With a nod of acceptance, understanding, and gratitude, Tara dismissed the nurse.

As soon as she was alone again, she moved towards a more secluded area. Electing to take a seat in one of the floor's small waiting rooms, Tara immediately sought her phone, retrieving it from the left front pocket of the jeans she wore. Her fingers dialed automatically, the number one she had become all too familiar with during the past few days. As it rang, she glanced around the otherwise empty space, eventually finding a clock on the wall and confirming that the office should be open.

"Good morning, Rosen and Associates. How may I direct your call?" The receptionist's voice was bubbly and perky – in glaring contrast to the reasons why someone would be trying to reach the criminal defense law office.

"This is Doctor Tara Knowles. I need to speak with Mr. Rosen, please."

It wasn't the first time she had made such a request. "Just one moment, please," the receptionist told her before Tara could hear her call being transferred.

After just a few seconds, the attorney himself greeted, "Tara, what can I do for you this morning? Has something happened concerning Jax's case, because, if so, I wasn't informed of anything."

"Actually, this is about Abel. He's..."

"I'm going to stop you right there," Rosen cut her off. "I actually put an associate of mine on the custody issue, wanting to keep the two matters separate. Plus, family law isn't exactly my specialty." She had to smirk at that, because Tara was not at all surprised by the revelation. Rosen was a shark, but he wasn't exactly compassionate or even invested in his clients. To him, they were just another paycheck. He handled everyone with a disinterested and detached manner. "I'll transfer you. Her name's Ally Lowen. I think you'll like her. Just a minute."

And then Rosen, too, was gone, and the line went quiet once again but only for moment. "Doctor Knowles," a crisp yet courteous voice greeted her. "I'm glad you called. You saved me the effort of tracking you down. As I'm sure Rosen told you, I'm handling Abel Teller's guardianship papers."

"Yes, and that's why I'm calling." Out of the corner of her eye, Tara noticed someone lurking just outside of the room. Looking fully in that direction, she realized that it was a member of Samcro – their kutte an introduction onto itself – and that they were watching her, intently. Otherwise, she didn't recognize him – his dark and wild hair, his hard features, his gaze too pale and too cold to not someday reappear in her nightmares. Without breaking eye contact, she continued to talk to the female lawyer. "I've tried to stall Abel's release for as long as possible, but my attending is releasing him today. Tonight."

"That's fine."

Surprised by this, Tara felt her attention once more pulled back to the conversation and away from the man scrutinizing her. "What...? How?"

"Arrangements," Lowen told her, "have already been made." Before Tara could adjust to that piece of information, the attorney was already moving on. "We'll talk more later, Doctor Knowles. I'll see you tonight." And, just like that, Ally Lowen hung up.

While Tara wished that she could share in the other woman's confidence, frankly, it had been too long since something had gone right in her life for faith to come easily. Sliding her cell once more into her left front jeans' pocket, Tara stood, her eyes automatically seeking the window for a glance back out into the hallway. But the SOA member was gone. Moving rapidly towards the closed door, she briskly exited the waiting room, but, other than a few lingering, distracted hospital employees, no one was there. She checked the nearest corridors, even made her way towards the elevator and peeked into the closest stairwells, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He had completely disappeared. That almost unsettled her more than the knowledge that he had been watching her in the first place.

But Tara shook off her anxiety, because, realistically, she didn't have time for it. She needed to see Jax, and she knew that, while Gemma had been shopping for leather jackets and who knows what else for her grandson, there were practical things that needed to be purchased in preparation of the little boy going home for the first time: formula, diapers, wipes, powder, soap, and lotion. She planned on picking up a bathtub, too, just in case, and she'd need to buy some Dreft. Tara highly doubted that Jax realized babies needed special laundry detergent, and she knew Wendy wouldn't, so the house would be without such necessary supplies.

After taking the rest of the morning off, Tara made her way to the on-call room where she picked up her purse. One quick stop by the nursery to check in on Abel later, and she was on her way, her mood lifting noticeably once she stepped outside into the warm and welcoming California sunshine. It was hot enough that she could shed her coat, too, so Tara was perfectly comfortable in just her tank top and jeans. But, as she approached her car – something that had once given her so much cheer, her steps slowed and then paused entirely.

Nobody was around. The back lot was empty, yet Tara couldn't forget the feelings of panic and foreboding that had washed over her the night before when she had seen someone lurking around her car. Although nothing looked disturbed – there were no obvious dents or scratches, no marks indicating that someone had tampered with the vehicle, just seeing it made the previous evening's anxiety return, that same unease trickling down her spine. With one last, regretful glance, she tossed her keys in her purse and pivoted around to walk away. Reaching for her phone, Tara dialed for a cab. If Kohn had taught her anything, she'd rather be safe than sorry... even if, in taking those precautions, she felt ridiculous.

…

"Pleased with yourself?"

She heard him approaching, wasn't surprised when she heard the angry, disgusted words. Since seeing the Samcro member watching her that morning, Tara had been hyperaware; since recalling the incident outside the night before, she had been extra-vigilant. So, she had noticed when the back door squeaked open – someone taking advantage of the broken window that had yet to be fixed, and she had picked up on the cautious steps and creaking leather as someone made their way through the house and down the hall towards the nursery. As she stood there folding Abel's new and just washed clothing – her gun out, loaded, and its safety off beside her on the dressing table, Tara was ready.

She didn't even turn to address her verbal adversary, and she certainly didn't acknowledge his question. "You shouldn't be here."

"Where else should I be, because it's definitely not at the station," Hale responded bitterly. "You made sure of that."

Finishing with the last little onesie, Tara picked up her gun and crossed the nursery, taking a seat in the rocker. As Hale eyed her piece, she offhandedly told him, "I have a permit."

"Then why didn't we find that when we searched your room?"

"Far be it for me, Deputy Chief, to tell you how to do your job." She grinned, but it was a mocking gesture. "I have no idea why you failed to locate my registered, completely legal weapon."

"You pulled a fast one, that's what you did," he accused her, "just like with that dead Irishman."

Unruffled, Tara responded, "I had nothing to do with the murder of Cameron Hayes."

"No, but you made damn sure that Unser found out about him. Your name's all over the case file."

"So, let me get this straight," Tara questioned, crossing her right leg over her left, her bare right foot bouncing in time with the movements of the rocker. "I should have buried the case when I found out about it?"

"Yes... no...," Hale sputtered, too wrapped up in his animosity to think straight. Finally, he settled on a tactic. "Hell, how am I supposed to know that you didn't just kill Cameron Hayes yourself in order to shut down my operation with the ATF?"

"You're stretching now, Deputy Chief. While I'm no expert on ballistics, I did take a look at the bullet wounds, and I think you'll find... if his body is ever found... that my Beretta is not a match." When the cop went to fire back his retort, Tara continued, "but I'm pleased to hear that Cameron Hayes' murder case is taking precedence over your vendetta fueled witch hunt against Jax."

"He killed an ATF agent!"

Narrowing her gaze in doubt, in scornful inquiry, she posed, "but did he? Did he really?"

With hands on his hips, Hale accused, "you and I both know that Jax shot Agent Joshua Kohn in the head, execution style."

Tired of their back and forth, tired of Hale's grandstanding, and too busy to put up with the deputy chief's temper-tantrum, Tara stood, tucking her handgun into the back waistband of her jeans. "The last I heard, Kohn had been suspended, stripped of his badge, and was on his way to a lengthy jail term in Illinois... well, before you and your girlfriend intervened."

"Then your boyfriend blew his brains out in cold blood."

"You have no proof of that," Tara stated unequivocally, unblinkingly. "All you have is the dead body of the man who stalked me, terrorized me, who ignored a restraining order to break into my room; two guns, but the only fingerprints on both of them were Kohn's; and a bullet-proof vest that you and Stahl provided him with. Now, I'm not a lawyer or a cop, for that matter, but, in my book, that means that some of Kohn's blood is on your hands, Deputy Chief."

Hale stared her down. For several moments, he was silent – simply observing her, not reacting. Finally, he said, "for someone who's just a surgeon, you sure as hell know a lot about the law."

Tara shrugged noncommittally. "I like to read."

"You want to talk about someone having blood on their hands," the police officer switched topics, taunted. "Just wait. Because the next time Samcro kills someone, their blood will be on your hands, Doctor Knowles."

Folding her arms over her chest, Tara tilted her chin up proudly and met his accusation head on. "I am not responsible for Samcro."

"No, but you are responsible for Jax getting away with killing Kohn." When she went to defend herself, defend Jax, Hale talked over top of her. "You can deny it all you want, but we both know the truth. So, now, Jax is going to walk. Again. So, now, once more, Samcro is going to get away with murder. And that's not a euphemism; that's what the MC does: they kill people. They lie, and they steal; they kill, and they corrupt. Look at you," he scoffed, sneering in distaste. "You've known Jax for, what?, a few months, and he already has you doing his dirty work for him. He killed a man, he's destroying your life, but it doesn't matter. He still gets everything: the girl, the kid, the life. It makes me sick."

Realization dawning, Tara charged, "you're jealous." Hale glared at her, but she wasn't deterred. "No, really, that's what this is all about. Jax told me about your past – how this goes all the way back to high school, but I thought that he might have been oversimplifying things. And I knew that you resented him. That was obvious practically from the moment we met. But jealousy? That's just pathetic."

All the fight leaving him, Hale's shoulders slumped. "Maybe I am – jealous, pathetic. All of it. But at least I'm alive." Her brow furrowed in confusion, not understanding what point he was trying to make. And then the cop pressed forward. "You, however, won't be if you stay with Jax. Samcro will be the death of you, Tara. You need to get out while you still can. If you still can."

With his threat caged as a warning, Hale used up the last of her patience and goodwill. Walking towards the door of Abel's nursery, she gestured for him to leave. "You need to go. Now."

He obliged, but, as he walked by her, Hale said, "we're pulling your detail."

"You've been following me, spying on me?" She remembered how afraid she had been the night before, and resentment burned in the back of her throat, making her words short and choppy, her tone choked.

"Just watch your back," the deputy chief told her, avoiding her question. "Rumor is you're not too popular with Gemma and the club right now, and Jax isn't out yet."

"And let me guess: you're going to drag your feet on his release papers for as long as possible, aren't you?"

"The longer he's locked up, the longer Charming's safe from at least one criminal," Hale replied smugly.

Instead of replying, Tara just followed him out of the house, slamming shut and locking the door behind him. It as an empty gesture, because the window was broken, but it sent a message nonetheless. Reaching into her left front jeans' pocket, she pulled out her cell phone. If it was the only other thing she did before returning to the hospital that afternoon, Tara was going to make damn sure the door was fixed.

…

Despite everything stacked against them – and Tara was practical; she was a surgeon, a doctor, a scientist, so she lived by facts, not fancy, she couldn't help but hope that Jax would surprise them all – that Rosen would somehow be able to maneuver around Hale and get Jax free before his son was released. Because that's what both Jax and Abel deserved – to leave the hospital together, to go home together. But that wasn't going to happen. While Tara doubted Hale's effectiveness as a cop, she trusted in his vindictiveness. He knew how important it was to Jax that he be there for his son, and, all along, the deputy chief had been using Abel against his father. That night would be no different, unfortunately.

So, instead of looking up at and out through the large window of the nursery and finding Jax approaching her, she spotted Gemma and Clay, Wendy, and practically all of Samcro. They took various positions throughout the maternity wing's lobby – some finding seats, others lounging against the walls. Tara noticed the man from earlier that day watching her yet again, and she rolled her eyes at how closely Gemma was sticking to Wendy. Apparently, Jax's mother trusted her soon-to-be ex-daughter-in-law enough to use her but not enough that she believed in her sobriety. It was sad, frankly.

"Doctor Knowles?"

Eyes leaving the tableau laid out before her and traveling to the woman standing in the open doorway of the nursery, Tara quirked her brow in question. She didn't recognize the well-dressed woman who had approached her.

"I'm Ally Lowen. We spoke on the..."

Tara smiled, moved forward. She was cradling Abel, so she shifted him to free a hand, holding him with just her left arm. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Tara."

"Likewise. And Ally will work just fine." Almost simultaneously, they turned to face the crowd curiously watching them together. As they conversed, they spoke quietly and out of the corner of their mouths so that nobody else would hear them. "Have Abel's release papers been signed?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

The lawyer didn't verbally respond; she just nodded her approval. "I didn't peg you for the audience type."

"Excuse me?"

Lowen shrugged her shoulders. "You just seemed more discreet over the phone."

"I didn't invite all of them," Tara defended, though she didn't feel attacked or accused – just measured, but she also didn't want to appear lacking in the attorney's eyes. They had just met, but Tara sensed the opportunity for a friendship between her and Ally Lowen. The woman was smart, confident, circumspect. She could see all of that in the way that Ally handled herself, in the way she dressed – classy and elegant, traditional yet stylish. But there was a steel there as well – a strength of character and will... almost a rebellious streak. The wicked looking stilettos the lawyer wore gave her away. Even if they were never friends, Alley Lowen could be a powerful ally. "I told Gemma, because she needed to be here, but everyone else? That was her doing."

"A preemptive strike?" Tara could hear the praise in the other woman's voice. "I like it."

Confused, she turned to face the attorney. "What are you talking about?"

Lowen observed her coyly for several moments, a smirk eventually appearing on her otherwise still and unreadable face. "You don't know."

"Know what?"

"Oh, this is almost too fun to charge for." Before Tara could respond, Ally added, "but don't think I'm waiving my fee."

"I don't..."

The lawyer interrupted, her voice rising to the point where everyone gathered could hear her. "Tara, Jax gave you guardianship of Abel."

In her astonishment, she didn't say anything. Distantly, Tara could hear the commotion surrounding her – Gemma's angry words and insults, Wendy's complaints that it wasn't fair and that she was Abel's mother, the club's general discontent and unease, but she didn't address any of it; she didn't even acknowledge it. Instead, she silently ran over the events that had led to that moment. Tara had just assumed that Jax would give guardianship to his mother. Despite the distance and distrust between them, Gemma never failed in taking advantage of every turn, every opportunity, to remind Tara that, no matter what, Jax was Gemma's family, not Tara's – that Tara was an outsider, that, when push came to shove, the club always came first, and that the club meant Gemma. If he didn't ask for his mother to care for Abel, then Tara had considered Opie and his wife. After all, Jax had told her about his time helping his best friend take care of his children, and she assumed that Opie's wife was a strong and resilient mother, for she had managed to raise two children on her own for five years while her husband was in prison. Yes, there was a rift between the friends, between the brothers, but they had known each other their whole lives. She, on the other hand, had only known Jax for a few months – just a tiny blip compared to the years of loyalty and love that existed between Jax and his mother, between Jax and his best friend.

Yet, at the same time, looking down at the little boy in her arms, Tara realized that she shouldn't be surprised. In his own way, Jax had been telling her for weeks that he wanted her to be a part of his son's life beyond her role as his surgeon. She had just been too afraid of getting hurt, of losing that opportunity, of losing Jax to see it until that moment.

"You must be Wendy Case," Lowen said, pulling Tara away from her private thoughts. In fascination, she watched as the lawyer approached Abel's birth mother. "I'm glad you're here. It'll save me the task of having to track you down. Meth labs aren't exactly my scene."

"It's Wendy Teller, and I..."

"Since you mentioned that, actually," Ally segued, a pretty yet predatory smile transforming her features. Pulling open her attache case, she removed a neat stack of papers and a pen, thrusting them in Wendy's direction. "These are your divorce papers, and here's something to sign them with. Jax already has."

Although Wendy took hold of the documents, she looked flabbergasted. "I don't... when... what?"

"This is just a formality, really. In fact, you should have received them weeks ago, but, you know, rehab and all."

"And Abel," Jax's soon-to-be ex-wife asked – looking crushed, looking confused, looking devastated. Perhaps if Tara was a more compassionate woman, she would have felt sympathy for Wendy, but she wasn't, and she didn't. Wendy made her own bed when she used while pregnant, when she overdosed, when she sided with Gemma. "I'm still his mother."

"You're also due to check into a sober living facility in a matter of days. I don't think you're in any position to take care of yourself, let alone an infant. However," the lawyer added, once more reaching into her briefcase. "If you insist upon making arrangements now, I already have a document drawn up for you to sign, relinquishing your rights to the minor, Abel Teller."

Curious as to how Wendy would react to such a suggestion, Tara stepped out of the nursery, crossing to stand beside Ally. With Abel in her arms, she tilted her head to the side and observed the little boy's birth mother. Studied her. Peripherally, she felt the club close in around them – the members and, more importantly, Gemma and Clay, also invested in what would happen next. In all honestly, Tara was surprised by how quiet Gemma was but assumed that the older woman was weighing the situation, trying to figure out her best angle moving forward.

"Jax wouldn't allow this," Wendy eventually fought back. "He wouldn't try to take my son away from me."

"Maybe not," Lowen allowed. "He actually doesn't know that I drafted this second set of papers. I like to anticipate my clients' needs, however, and, quite honestly, I thought this would be a good test."

"Of what," Wendy wanted to know. Her arms were folded over her chest, her shoulders hunched forward. The other woman looked like she was trying to make herself as small as possible, shielding herself from the harsh realities of the world she had created through her drug use.

"Of you."

For at least a minute, the attorney and the recovering addict just stared at one another – a battle of wills, though there was no doubt in Tara's mind who would win and who would cave. Eventually, Wendy blinked away her tears – her mouth thinning and shifting as she struggled to contain her emotions, while her right hand clicked on the pen. As she put pen to paper and signed her name on the first indicated line, Gemma finally exploded. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Facing the truth," Wendy answered. "Accepting my reality." She flipped through the document, continuing to scrawl her signature. "It doesn't matter if I never use again; Jax won't take me back."

"So, you're just going to give up," the older woman accused. Gemma got in Wendy's face. "You're going to let this bitch win?"

"I lost Jax a long time ago."

With several flicks of her wrist, Wendy signed the last line, turning to hand Lowen back both her pen and the divorce papers. "And what about your rights to Abel Teller," the attorney wanted to know. "If you refuse to sign, that'll mean court. A custody trial. I don't think you want to put yourself or Abel through that."

"I just... I need some time," Wendy answered. "I need to think."

"You need to grow some god damned balls," Gemma bit out, sneering and walking away to stand beside Clay. Tara then heard the older woman ask her husband, "what now?" Discreetly, she watched the pair together, wanting to know what they were up to, what they had planned, what else besides Jax's decision to name Tara as Abel's guardian had foiled. At the same time, however, she really didn't know what else Gemma and Clay could do. Whether Hale liked it or not, Jax was getting released, and, now, Abel was safe, too. Wendy might be stalling, but Tara didn't doubt that she'd eventually sign away her rights to her son. Without Gemma supporting her and without the idea of Jax taking her back to bolster her, the other woman didn't have the confidence to fight for her child, and Wendy Case was no match for Ally Lowen. Soon, Wendy would be out of their lives. Besides, instead of worrying about Jax's mother and step-father, Tara preferred the idea of savoring her time with his son.

An ironic realization dawning, Tara suddenly laughed. Ally pivoted on the toes of her steep, sharp heels to glance at her, obviously intrigued by the unexpected moment of levity. "I spent the entire morning getting everything ready for Abel to go home – picking things up from the store, washing his clothes, but it never once occurred to me to buy a car seat, the only thing he really needs in order to leave this place."

The lawyer grinned, apparently finding Tara's remarks amusing. "Would you like me to send someone out to get you one – a paralegal, an associate? They live to do my bidding."

Tara genuinely chuckled. "That's alright. Thanks." She recognized the hazing that came with being the lowest on the totem pole from her days as an intern. "I can just borrow one from the hospital."

"Are you sure? It'd be no problem. In fact, I wouldn't even charge Jax extra for the service, because my trip to Charming has proven to be just that – charming... much to my astonishment."

"Positive," Tara responded, though she was grateful and entertained by Lowen's antics. "The sooner I can get this little guy out of here," and she looked down at the content yet awake child in her arms, "the better."

Becoming serious, becoming more real and sincere than she had been all evening, Ally said, "enjoy him, Tara." Then she handed her the guardianship papers that Jax had already signed, that a judge had already approved, and walked away.

Following her example, Tara left – went back into the nursery to gather Abel's things, sign his release papers, and pick up a car seat before making her way towards the elevator – as well, never once stopping to talk to anyone else gathered there, never once even meeting Gemma's burning, hatred fueled glare. It wasn't until she was outside and standing beside her car that a fissure of apprehension danced down Tara's spine. The last time she had thought to drive her car, she found someone lurking by it – watching it, watching her. Looking at the classic mustang – a diaper bag and her purse thrown over her shoulder, a car seat curled into one arm and Abel in the other, for a moment, she debated what she should do. But then Tara remembered her confrontation with Hale from earlier that day – how he had admitted that he and Stahl had assigned agents to spy on her, and her worry disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced.

"It's time to go home, Abel."

And, hopefully, Jax would be joining them soon.

…

When Tara left the hospital with Abel, her only thought had been to get the little boy out of there as quickly as possible. The longer she dawdled, the better the chance that Gemma would think up something to stop them. So, she didn't take the time to make a run for the locker room and the bag of clothes and supplies that she kept there; she failed to think about hunting down her superior or a member of the administration to take the next day off. But those mistakes were easily remedied – Tara would just sleep in one of Jax's t-shirts, washing her own clothes to wear again the next day, and, as soon as she thought about her work schedule, she called in and requested a vacation day. After all, she was too content to get weighed down by the details.

Abel did that for her – the peace and normalcy that taking care of him brought to her did that. On their way to Jax's house, Abel's home, Tara had stopped at the store to pick up some groceries, determined that, while her guardianship lasted... even if it was just for the night, she was going to do it right... and not just for Abel but for herself as well. So, while Tara got Abel settled into his nursery, while she helped him become accustomed to his new surroundings, she made a simple dinner, its aroma filling the small ranch while she gave Abel a bath.

The little boy liked the water... or maybe it was all the playtime and attention. Baths in the hospital were perfunctory, whereas baths at home could be events. While Tara washed and cleaned his little body, making sure to run the cloth over every adorable baby wrinkle and roll, she explained what she was doing, Abel listening to her voice intently, his gaze following her face, and mouth, and eyes the entire time. Then, when he was done, she just let him enjoy the sensations of dripping water onto his little, rounded belly and splashing his feet and hands in the water for him. In response, Abel would kick and move his arms. He smiled. All the while, music played in the background, and her dinner cooked on.

By the time Tara removed Abel from his bath, her hands were wrinkled, and he was beginning to fight sleep. Wrapped in a terry cloth bath towel, she carried him into the nursery – a clean diaper and his pajamas already lined out. Tara had only managed to get his diaper on before there was a knock... which was actually more like a single, demanding punch... upon the front door. Briefly, she considered covering Abel with his towel once more, but it was damp, so, instead, she grabbed a blanket. She swaddled him into the fabric tightly and then folded him into the crook of her right arm before making her way out of the room and towards the front entrance, dismissive words already forming upon her lips.

Before Tara even had the door completely open, she was saying, "I'm sorry, but Jax isn't here right now."

"Don't you think I know that," a gruff, male voice growled back, his brow furrowed with displeasure and annoyance. The man was older, grizzled and rough, and he wore a kutte, though his was made from denim rather than leather. "Here," a bottle of liquor was shoved into her free, left hand before the man shoved himself by her, entering without invitation.

Tara bumped the door closed with her hips, angling the bottle to see what she was holding. "Tequila?"

"It's a welcome home present... for the kid." At her pointedly suspicious glance, Piney – because there was nobody else this man standing before her could be – said, "don't look at me like that. I raised a kid, too, you know, and he didn't turn out to be a complete failure." When she remained silent, he continued with his explanation, "when the kid's fussy – teething, or sick, or just being a pain in the ass – pour a little of that tequila in with his milk, and he'll go right to sleep."

"So... slip him a mickey," Tara asked part in amazement, part in amusement. "I thought people used brandy for that."

"Brandy's for pussies."

Doing her best not to laugh, she just nodded her head once in recognition. "I'll let Jax know you stopped by... and about the gift." They were still standing awkwardly by the front door – Piney further into the house than she was. Now that they had gotten past the formalities of the older man's visit, Tara assumed that he would leave. But he didn't, and she didn't know what else to say, what else to do. Frankly, what she wanted was to be alone with Abel, but it looked like Piney Winston had something completely different in mind. Finally, she settled for just escaping for a few minutes in the hopes that, while she was gone, Piney would give up on whatever it was he hoped to accomplish that evening and escape as well. "If you'll excuse me, I just gave Abel a bath, and I need to put him in his pajamas."

With wide, innocent eyes, Piney replied, "go. No one's stopping you."

"Right...?" With one last puzzled glance in the older man's direction, Tara shook her head in confusion but did as she said, did as she was told, and took Abel back to his nursery.

Five minutes later – with lotion rubbed on and footie pajamas zipped up and in place, Tara carried Abel out of his bedroom and down the hall, only to find that Piney was no longer standing there. Having left his tequila behind in the bedroom – she'd deal with that later, she made her way towards the kitchen, set upon making a bottle for Abel, when she heard noises – very distinct noises – coming from that room. Rounding the corner, she paused in the doorway to watch as Piney, with only a dishtowel, helped himself to her dinner – taking it out of the oven and swearing the entire time because the casserole dish was too hot, filling a plate, and then swearing some more when he took his first bite and the steaming food burned his mouth.

Like a fish out of water, Tara approached, but she didn't join the original club member at the table and, instead, kept her back towards him as she, with one hand, made Abel a bottle. As she worked, Piney ate, and, besides the sounds of his fork scraping against his plate or Tara shaking the bottle, warming it up, and easing the air out of the bag and nipple, the kitchen was silent. When there was nothing left for her to do, no more stalling, Tara took the seat across the table from the older man but immediately latched her attention onto Abel, feeding him with the intensity of a woman who had never done such a thing before.

But Piney, apparently, wasn't satisfied with the quiet. Between mouthfuls of food, he posed, "so, you cook."

"I can, but I'm not a cook."

"What's that supposed to mean," Piney demanded.

Tara shrugged, continued to watch Abel intently. "I can follow directions, follow a recipe, but I can't create dishes or improvise. I'm a scientist. I deal in fact, not creativity."

"The food's good. That's all I give a shit about."

Deciding to take a chance, Tara looked up at the man across from her. "I'm surprised you could even taste it at the rate you were shoveling it into your mouth," she teased.

Although Piney caught her gaze and wouldn't let go of it – he seemed to be examining her, in fact – weighing her worth, judging her, he didn't rise to the bait. For several moments, he just studied her until, eventually, he settled on what he wanted to say. "Did Jax tell you that JT, his old man..."

"I know who John Teller is," Tara interrupted. The mood between them had shifted. Suddenly, any traces of humor were gone, and she just knew that what she was about to say to the older man would determine his opinion of her. With this in mind, she didn't want to come across as weak or naïve.

"He was my best friend," Piney finished.

Returning his searching observation, Tara waited a beat before challenging, "then why the hell didn't you do something before now?" She didn't need to elaborate; they both knew exactly what she was referring to.

In response, Piney snorted – whether in agreement or frustration, Tara wasn't sure – and went back to his food. Though he didn't say anything else, she somehow knew that she had just passed a test. Before anything more could happen between them, though, the front door opened, and Gemma appeared, reeking of righteous indignation. Hands immediately fisting upon her hips, the older woman scornfully glanced around the neat and tidy house, her eyes eventually landing upon Tara in dismissal.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Popping the bottle from Abel's pursed lips, Tara lifted the little boy so that he was resting against her shoulder, a rag placed underneath him. Softly, she began to alternately tap and rub his back. "I'm taking care of Jax's son... like he asked me to." Standing, she advanced towards the other woman, a sinking feeling making her stomach bottom out. "Why, Gemma? Why are you here? How did I wrong you this time?"

Gemma gestured around the small house. "There are no decorations, no food, no booze. People are going to be arriving at any minute, Doc."

"Arriving for what," she asked, perplexed.

But Gemma had already moved further into the house, marching for and then slapping Piney up alongside the back of his head. "And you," she chastised the original club member. "Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

"I'm not your god damned secretary," Piney growled, not bothering to even glance at Gemma and, instead, adding more food to his plate. "You want to give the Doc a message, do it yourself."

"A message about what," Tara demanded, following after Jax's mother. Then, Abel burped, so she changed her route and went back to her side of the table, reclaiming her seat and feeding Abel his bottle once more. "You make it sound like I'm hosting a party tonight, Gemma."

"You are – Abel's welcome home party."

"Abel's what," she parroted in disbelief. "Gemma, he just spent three months in the NICU, and you want to expose him to a bunch of strangers on his first night home?"

"They're not strangers," the older woman argued. "They're his family. They have a right to see him – Jax's son, the next generation."

"Do you have any idea how many germs you're going to expose him to if you insist upon this? In case you've forgotten, Abel has a heart condition. The last thing he needs the first week he's out of the hospital is to get a cold."

"Don't you dare tell me what my grandson needs and doesn't need, bitch," Gemma volleyed back. Leaning over the table, she got in Tara's face. "You wanted to be a part of my son's life, a part of Abel's life? Well, this is how it works. Samcro is a family, and, when good things happen – like the VP's son coming home from the hospital, we celebrate that shit together. If you have a problem with that, then you know where the door is."

"One hour," Tara bargained. The club and their friends were already on their way, and she had a feeling it would be easier on Abel if she were to compromise than it would be if she continued to fight Gemma. "No booze, no drugs, no cigarettes, no sex. This is a party for a child. Let's keep that in mind."

"Then it's not a party at all, Doc."

To that, she didn't react. "And he doesn't get passed around – from one person to another." Before Gemma could protest, Tara warned, "if you can't agree to my terms, I'll use that door, Gemma, and I'll just take Abel with me."

"What, back to your little room at the bed and breakfast?"

Narrowing her gaze in suspicion, she asked, "how do you know where I'm staying?"

It was just a moment, but Tara saw it: Gemma froze. She quickly recovered, though, her bravado upstaging her tell of being caught off guard. "It's a crime scene, isn't it? I read about it in the paper."

Tara stood, Abel asleep in her arms, nipple simply hanging from his lax lips. Placing the empty bottle on the table, she shifted the baby she held so that he was once more resting upon her shoulder and she could burp him. "The ATF kept the case from the press. Nothing about Kohn's death was ever printed, and they certainly didn't release any of my personal information." Memories of someone lurking around her car, of the club member watching her in the hospital, of that feeling of being followed haunting her even after Kohn was dead assaulted Tara. She noticed that Piney was listening to their conversation closely, his gaze fixated upon the older woman. "What did you do, Gemma?"

Before an explanation could even be formed, let alone offered, the front door opened, and a wave of people – Samcro members, bikers from other charters, friends of the club, and cro-eaters – washed into the small ranch, almost immediately filling it to capacity. In her distracted realization, Tara had been so focused upon Gemma's slip-up that she had failed to hear the avalanche of sound that was the MC rolling down Jax's otherwise quiet street. Soon, the din of a dozen conversations replaced the soft music playing throughout the house, and the place became stuffy and hot with too many bodies, too much lingering contact smoke, and too much tension. Gemma had claimed the get-together was a celebration, but that's not how it felt for Tara.

Sure, everybody brought gifts – Piney's bottle of tequila proving to be the standard and not the outlier. Tara wasn't sure if it was a Samcro tradition – to welcome a new child into the world by providing their parents with the means to get shitfaced drunk several times over – or if, in Gemma's last minute plan to prove some point, liquor had been their only readily available offering. Whatever the reason, oddly enough, the presents weren't the strangest thing about the party. Rather, she was completely caught off guard by the topics of conversation.

Nobody actually talked directly to her. Instead, they talked about her, around her, behind her back. Yet, Jax's brothers and friends weren't subtle about their behavior, so Tara knew that she was meant to hear all of their suspicions and doubts. Every person – down to the last child – was cold towards her. While not outright rude, it was obvious that no one was there because they wanted to be. If there was one word to describe the evening, it was obligation. And then there were the cryptic remarks, too.

Piney wasn't the only one to talk about John Teller. In every direction Tara turned, there were whispers about the Sons' founding member – murmurs about John's son, John's grandson, and how he would be disappointed in Jax. While nobody mentioned JT's connection with Piney, everybody seemed intent upon praising Clay, admiring how good of a friend he was to John in life and in death, how John's vision had always been and continued to be in good hands with Clay at the helm of the club. Loyalty seemed to be on everyone's minds... and mouths. But the absolutely strangest part of the night was the fascination about bugs.

At first, Tara started to worry that, with Jax's house being shut up and not lived in for so long, that she needed to call an exterminator, but it quickly became apparent that the club members were talking about an entirely different kind of headache, a more destructive kind of problem: listening devices. Tara's only question: did Samcro plant them, or were they looking for them, believing the ATF had used them and that she was a rat? Once more, she was reminded of the night she saw someone poking around her car, and she recalled her conversation with Hale from earlier that very same day. It was hard to believe that she had learned of her Federal tail just hours before.

No matter the answer, Tara had to convince herself that it didn't matter anymore, so that's exactly what she did. If it was Samcro who was trying to find dirt on her, there wasn't anything to find, and, if they suspected that she had turned on the club in order to protect Jax and Abel, then she had no idea what she could do to prove to them otherwise. Like Stahl had pointed out, Gemma and the club didn't trust her. Any reassurances she had to offer would just be met with deaf ears, and, in fact, the more she protested, the more likely it was that they wouldn't believe her. She just needed to wait them out. Jax would be released soon, and, when that happened and nobody else from Samcro was arrested, then his friends and family would realize that she wasn't the threat Gemma painted her as.

In the meantime, she'd continue to be cautious. She'd lock the doors, and she'd make sure that all the windows were shut tight and locked as well. Tara would sleep with Abel's baby monitor on and to one side of her and her loaded gun to the other. She'd keep her cell phone close at all times, and, if Jax wasn't released by the next morning, she'd stay in his house, not leaving until their current mess was behind them once and for all. She wasn't helpless.

After an hour had passed, Tara was astonished when she didn't have to force the issue of Samcro and their friends leaving. As quickly as the mob of people had arrived, they slipped out of the house once again, taking their silent accusations and their distrusting glares with them. Piney was one of the last people to leave, his features even darker and more dangerous than when he had first pounded for admittance. "Maybe I should stay," he offered, though they both knew the idea didn't really appeal to him.

"Thanks," Tara replied. She appreciated the gesture but, at the same time, couldn't accept it. Piney meant it to reassure her, but his presence would have just set her even more on edge. During the past hour, Abel had sensed her discomfort and, accordingly, been fussy. The last thing the little boy needed was an uneasy night his first day home from the hospital. "But I can take care of myself and Abel."

"Well, I guess we're about to find out now, aren't we?"

With that cryptic remark, the older man left.

After the last few stragglers followed suit – the man from the hospital, the man Tara had learned that evening was named Tig, being the last one, she shut and locked the door behind Samcro. Leaning against the wooden barrier, Tara allowed her head to fall back and a sigh to escape her lips. As if sensing her relief, for the first time in an hour, Abel relaxed in her arms.

Shuffling into the kitchen, she prepared a plate of food – what was left after Piney decimated the casserole – and warmed it up in the oven. Though interrupted, her plans for the evening still stood, only modified slightly. With Abel in one arm and her dinner in the other, Tara made her way back to Jax's bedroom. Settling into the bed, she picked up the book she was currently reading, the one that had been stashed in her purse: Rebecca. It seemed fitting. With a smirk, she got comfortable – Abel resting against her bent legs, a blanket tucked in loosely around him. The only thing missing was Jax.

…

Cold steel, cold eyes – her body froze with realization and an overwhelming sense of deja vu.

Tara gasped, her eyes snapping open only to be confronted by darkness. But she didn't need to see to know that she was in danger, to know that it was happening again. For a second, she was confused. Kohn was gone. Dead. He couldn't hurt her anymore. But then, piece by piece, the details of her surroundings started to come together, and, although she recognized the danger, Tara also knew that it was different – familiar yet, at the same time, foreign as well.

The metal against her skin wasn't a gun; it was a knife. Hot breath fanned against her neck, a nose nudged her jawline, hair tickled her ear. "Yes, that's it. Your body is starting to panic. Your breathing is too fast, and your brain can't catch up. You don't know what's happening, and you hate not being in control. Embrace your fear, Tara. It's beautiful." A deep inhale and then a sigh of satisfaction. "It smells so good." She tried to scramble away from the man next to her, from his touch, from his words, but he reminded her of the blade against her throat, digging it ever so slightly into her flesh – not deep enough to draw blood but deep enough that she knew, if she fought him, he wouldn't hesitate to kill her. So, she froze. "What, you're not going to scream, beg? I'll be disappointed if you don't." His voice became softer, more intimate... as if he was confessing his inner-most desires. "It's my favorite part."

She was going to die. Tara had no doubt about who her attacker was. She knew that particular scent of leather, smoke, and grease; she knew that voice. But she wasn't going down without a fight, but first... "Where's Abel?"

"Don't worry about the kid. He's already been taken care of."

Suddenly galvanized into action, Tara didn't care if, in her haste to get away, she actually caused herself to get cut. Scrambling away from the psychopath next to her, she scooted towards the other side of the bed, sitting up in the process. As she tried to get away, he lunged after her, so she stood and ran. She wasn't trying to escape, however; she was trying to get to Abel's nursery. Just as her hand touched the doorknob, a fist clenched in her hair and pulled her backwards... only enough, though, so that her attacker could use the momentum to slam her face forward into the hard, unforgiving wood. It felt like her nose exploded, pain radiating outwards. Spun around, Tara's back collided with the wall, the impact jarring her neck and shoulders. Blood of pain and tears of grief ran down her face.

"I said you could scream; I never said you could fight back," Tig hissed. He stood close to her – too close, his body pressing into hers and pinning Tara to the wall. He was aroused, his pupils dilated. "This is supposed to look like an accident. The last thing the club needs is another investigation."

"What," she fired back, challenged. Despite the situation, Tara refused to make it easy for anyone, especially Clay's lackey, to kill her. "Do you expect me to just roll over and play dead?"

Tig's right hand came up to frame her jaw, squeezing to the point where it felt like he was trying to crush the bone. He rubbed himself against her, and then he smiled. "That's one of my favorite games."

"And killing innocents, children? Where does that fall on your scale of depravity?" Convinced he was thoroughly distracted, Tara lifted her right leg and kneed him in the groin. In wounded reaction, Tig backed up, folded in upon himself, and Tara took the opportunity to run. This time, she managed to get the door open. Just as she was about to cross into Abel's room, a crushing weight landed on top of her back, dropping her to the floor. Her right forearm connected with the the nursery's doorjamb, making her cry out in agony. If it wasn't broken, it was severely compromised. Being right handed, what little hope she had of surviving became just that much less.

Remaining on top of her, Tig nuzzled the left side of her neck. "The kid's not dead." Four little words, but they were perhaps the most important ones Tara had ever heard in her entire life. "He's where he belongs; he's with his family... his real family."

So, Gemma had Abel... which meant that Gemma was aware of what was happening to Tara in that moment. Laughing bitterly, she accused, "she sent you, didn't she?" Gemma didn't just know that Tig was trying to kill her; she had set the whole thing up. "This is her; this is all her."

"Nuh uh," Tig argued, sitting up. Tara could feel his weight lift off her back only to focus upon her thighs. Then, her arms were viciously pulled down and around so that they were awkwardly held behind her. "No, you don't get to blame this on Gemma. You did this. You ratted."

As she was drug up onto her knees and then pulled onto her feet, Tara railed, "well, aren't you just the loyal fool." Two heavy hands came down upon her shoulder blades, making her stumble and trip forward. Tara's forehead connected with the wall, stunning her momentarily. But she quickly shook the confusion and blackness that came with unconsciousness away, needing to focus, needing to fight, needing to speak her peace... even if it was the last thing she did. "I didn't rat, Tig."

With a shove to the small of her back, with a kick to her knees, he kept propelling her into the bathroom. And for what – because it would be easier to clean up her murder in there? Because, despite Tig's claims of wanting it to look like an accident, she was already bruised, bloody, and battered, and Tara had no doubt that he enjoyed torture far too much to make the rest of her death painless and quick. "That's what all the little rats say."

Stumbling forward until her palms connected with the vanity, Tara leaned against the countertop, trying to catch her breath, failing not to taste the copper of her blood and the salt of her tears upon her lips, coating her tongue, sliding down the back of her otherwise dry throat. Desperate to get her attacker to understand, she confided, "I was terrorized by that ATF agent. Stalked. Beaten. Nearly raped. And nobody believed me." Using her arms to urge the rest of her tired and sore body into motion, Tara slowly turned around. "The last place I'd ever turn for help..." She was going to try and reassure him that she didn't trust the cops, that, after what had been done to her and ignored by law enforcement, she'd rather deal with her problems on her own, but, before all of the words could leave Tara's mouth, her gaze landed upon the bathtub... the very full bathtub, surrounded by lit candles and Piney's bottle of tequila. Eyes ricocheting to her attacker, for the first time, Tara noticed that he wasn't wearing his boots... the better to not track evidence throughout the house. Collapsing back upon the sink top, her body protesting the movements and causing Tara to wince, she sobbed, "oh god."

"Do you think I'm an idiot," Tig asked, advancing towards her. Scrambling for something – anything – to keep him at bay, Tara blindly reached behind her, searching for weapons, but all she encountered were toiletries and the typical bathroom accoutrements. Despite the fact that she knew they wouldn't be able to stop him, she picked them up and lobbed them anyway. Some met their mark, bouncing off his chest to land ineffectually on the tile floor; some missed entirely. "We saw you," Tig yelled, his face darkening with rage. "Always meeting with that ATF bitch, reporting the Irishman's dead body to Unser. Hell, you even allowed Hale to come into Jax's house. Just what exactly were the two of you doing in here, Tara?"

"Nothing," she defended. "Fighting," she told the truth. "You're paranoid!"

"And the Feds who were following you around, the bugs?"

"If Stahl would set Jax up... and she did, what's to stop her from setting me up, too?"

"Because you've been trying to pull Jax away from the club since the moment you met him!"

"And now we come full circle," Tara exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief. Of all the danger that came with loving Jax Teller – the violence, the guns, the illegal business practices, it was his mother that was going to be the death of her. "This isn't about the club, and it isn't even about me. This is about Gemma," she charged. "This is about her jealousy, her need to control Jax, and your inability to see that she is manipulating..."

"Enough," Tig screamed. And, to accompany his outburst, he picked up one of the items – a hairbrush – that she had thrown off the floor and sent it careening in Tara's direction. It missed her. However, the mirror behind her wasn't so lucky, and the glass shattered, sending shards shooting out in all directions. Several nicked her skin – tiny cuts and bright scarlet lines appearing on the back of her neck, her shoulders, and the skin left exposed beneath the sleeves of Jax's t-shirt that she wore. And that was just what could be seen. Tara had no doubt the slivers had sliced through the cotton as well, and she wouldn't be surprised if there were pieces imbedded in her skin.

She had no time to access or even to adjust to the latest pain when Tig was upon her, tearing off her shirt and bending forward so that his shoulders were braced against her now bare stomach so he could lift her over his shoulder. Tara kicked out, she flailed her arms. She threw her elbows in every which direction, and she used her feet, trying to find purchase, trying to wrap them around something in order to pull away. She thrashed, and she twisted, and she threw her head back – anything and everything to get free, to get away, to continue fighting. Everything besides her need to survive – her discomfort, her fear, her nakedness – had to be pushed aside.

Eventually, something must have connected, because Tig swore, and then he dropped her onto the ground. She landed solidly, the impact quickly reminding Tara of all the abuse she had already sustained. She nearly went under from the sheer amount of pain that surged through her body. "You stupid bitch," he complained, a hand lifting to test his face, his fingers coming away bloody. Tara looked and found that she had managed to break the skin of his cheek with her nails – one of the cuts falling down the side of his jaw and under his earlobe. A tiny fissure of satisfaction bubbled up inside of her chest... only for it to almost immediately get smacked down – literally – when Tig's right hand slammed down upon her already bruised cheek. From open palm, he progressed to closed fist, and, as he continued to rain down punishment upon her bruised flesh, he berated her. "God damned whore! You want it rough?" Over and over, she felt the heat of his skin and the cold metal of his rings as they made contact with her face. "I thought you'd never ask."

By the time he stopped hitting her, Tara knew that her bottom lip was split open, she had cuts and contusions along the left side of her face, and she was questioning if her cheekbone was fractured. It hurt to talk, and she struggled to form the thoughts, her speech pattern slowing and becoming more broken with short, little pauses between nearly every word. It would have hurt more not to say anything, though – to give up. "How are you going to make this look like an accident now?"

"Once you're dead," Tig taunted, "I'm going to pour that entire bottle of tequila down your throat. The police will think, in your drunken stupor, you did this to yourself."

"That's not how it works. They'll be able to tell that I wasn't really..."

He cut her off. "Do you really think that anyone is going to care enough about a piece of dead pussy to ask questions?"

Before she could react, before she could even defend herself and say that, yes, Jax would care, Tig was lifting her by tangling a fist in her hair and pulling upwards. He held her so tightly and at such a harsh angle that her feet barely touched the floor as he dragged her the frightening few steps it took to reach the side of the tub. Her shins made contact with the front tile of the edge, and then she was being pushed forward, the only thing breaking her face first fall into the water was reflex. Tara brought her hands up and out, and she used her grip to twist over... just in time to see Tig climb into the tub, his socked feet coming to brace on either sides of her legs.

Immediately, she tried to scramble away. She braced her feet and pushed her legs upwards, scooting so that she was sitting in the water instead of reclining. Her arms came up at an angle, and her fingers found the edges of the tub as Tara tried to propel herself out of the water. She was weak, though – physically drained from exertion and fatigue, from trauma, so her actions were uncoordinated and shaky. As Tig bent over to hold her under, Tara wrapped both arms around the outside ledge of the bathtub, and then she held on for dear life. If she let go, she died.

Once more, Tig's hands found her hair, and he tried to pull her completely back in the water. When that didn't work, he started to strategically hit her, pounding his fists into the most sensitive places along her back – finding her kidneys repeatedly – and then pressing into her from behind so that her body was forced up against the hard, unforgiving tile edge and the biting metal of the sliding shower door track. It dug into her midsection, bruising her flesh and making it even more difficult to breathe. At that point, Tara didn't care what Tig thought of her, what her actions said. She was sobbing in agony, crying out for mercy, for a miracle, and maybe just for it all to end.

"Tara?"

She knew that voice. In the haze of her suffering, she had missed the door opening... or the window breaking, because, since she had Jax's keys, she wasn't quite sure how he had gotten inside. All that mattered was that he was there. His presence gave her hope, and it also gave her a second of opportunity as well. Taking advantage of Tig's momentary distraction, Tara threw herself out of the tub. Wet and slippery, her limbs practically past the point where she could still control them, she crawled across the floor, blindly searching for not only a means to live but also a means to kill her attacker. Because she had no doubt that, in order to kill her, Tig would kill Jax as well if need be – he was so far gone in his drugged haze of rage, and she couldn't let that happen. She also couldn't live for the rest of her life, looking over her shoulder – always wondering when he, on the club's behalf, would strike again.

And then she saw it.

Stretching her left and less injured arm out, Tara wrapped her fingers around the cool plastic. Distantly, she could hear Jax making his way through the house, calling now frantically for her. It was small, but time had slowed down – that old cliché proving true. Quickly her mind ran through the pertinent information... just like she was in the operating room, and her surgical plan had broken down, so she needed to come with an alternative on the spot. Tara weighed her options, she considered all of the factors, and then she made her decision. Jax's house wasn't new – probably dated from the sixties or seventies. The chances were good that his plumbing was still metal, that his electrical outlets had not been updated with gfci's, and, though hair dryers themselves now came with them built into the cords, the one she held in her hand was old, something Jax had dug out of the cupboard for her after they spent the night together in his house for the first time.

Hastily running her hand along the towel that hung beside the shower, Tara grabbed the end of the dryer's cord and plugged it into the electrical outlet. Spinning around on her knees, she came face to face with a nearly maniacal Tig. He was soaking wet and leaning with one arm against the tiled wall of the tub – the water dripping from his form extinguishing the few candles still upright and lit, the other arm once more reaching for her as he struggled to catch his breath. Locking her gaze onto his right hand, Tara found the rings that had sliced into her face repeatedly, and then she launched the hair dryer into the water just as Jax came barreling across the bathroom's threshold and into the room.

Falling back against the wall in relief, in exhaustion, in shock, the first thing Tara became aware of was the smell of burnt flesh and hair. Slowly blinking, she moved her gaze away from Tig's pale and lifeless eyes – now staring blindly upwards from where he was slumped in the tub – to Jax's worried and terror stricken face. She watched as he knelt down before her, paying no heed to the thin layer of water soaking the entire floor. His hands reached out to touch her... as if to reassure himself that she was in fact alive, but, at the last moment, he pulled them back. Distantly, Tara hoped that his reaction was one of fear – that he didn't want to hurt her further – and not one of disgust.

Flatly, she confessed, "he's dead. I killed him."

"Oh, god, Tara, I'm so sorry." And then, as if he couldn't help himself, Jax oh so gently reached out to cup her battered face, his hands inevitably finding her hair as he tried to smooth it back, to sooth them both. Being careful not to cause her further pain, he brought his forehead down to rest upon her own, his eyes slipping shut. "I'm so sorry, babe."

For a second, Tara melted into him, but then the events of that night started to stab through her brain, reminding her that she wasn't done fighting yet. "Abel," she cried out, hands lifting to fist in Jax's now wet, white t-shirt. He pulled away from her, worry and fear for his son sparking to life in his watery, blue eyes. "They have Abel."

Cold, detached determination flooded his features, and, for the first time since Tara woke to find a knife to her throat, she felt safe, because she believed, no matter what, she'd get Jax's – her, their – little boy back.