EIGHT:

It was the next week and two letters later when Gemma popped her head out of the building. "Letter, baby."

Changing my course from the garage over to the office I smiled at the woman who was still leaning against the doorframe, envelope in hand.

Although I'd been raised that jealousy was a sin, I had to admit that I was jealous of her.

As per usual, Gemma was dressed in her all-black attire with black pumps on her feet, hair fanning around her face. A woman well over twice my age was ten times more beautiful than I, or most girls for that matter, could ever dream of being.

She knew her place in the world, and the confidence that she held herself with no matter what situation or room she walked into gave her that final touch of untouchable.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why most people, grown med included, were terrified of her.

"Change of plans, family dinner has been moved to tonight. You'll be there."

I had to tear my eyes away from the small scribble of my name on the top of the envelope. "That wasn't a question?"

"No," she confirmed with a smirk before she turned her back on me and sat down in her chair. "It wasn't a question. I'll see you at family dinner tonight, eight o'clock."

I didn't argue with her.

Not only did I not have any other plans to begin with, obviously since I could hardly go outside the lot without severe anxiety, but I couldn't avoid dinner.

Even if I'd had a meeting with the Pope himself, it would have been cancelled so I could attend family dinner. They were, in Gemma's opinion, more sacred than any church ever could be, and nobody had the balls to tell her any differently so we all attended a once-a-week family dinner.

The rightfully named 'Queen of Samcro' always got her way.

Letter in hand, I made my way into the garage and gave a silent thanks that the guys were out doing whatever Club business they had on for the day, Juice was on Repo duty with the new Prospect, and I was the only one within the four walls.

T,

How's everything going at home?

Last time I asked you that you said everything was going fine and you lied to me, little girl. Tig dobbed you in, says you've been acting strange for a few days.

What's going on?

Is it one of my brothers making you uncomfortable?

Is it that little fucker Kipp?

Or is one of the Crow Eaters giving you a hard time?

Don't lie to me little girl, you know I hate being lied to as much as you do.

If the problem is one of my brothers, let me know who it was and what they did. Trust me to sort it out, they won't bother you again.

If it was Kipp definitely tell me and I'll make the fucker disappear. Stupid prospect.

If it's one of the Crow Eaters than tell them where they belong and put them in their fucking place.

They know that you're twice the woman any of them could be combined, and they'll be going after you for it. You're competition in their eyes. Idiots aren't even in the same race as you.

Hope that if it is one of them you are giving it back to them.

Whoever it is, if you're not speaking up because you're trying to step on any toes, tell Gemma and she can do some serious damage until I get out and can take care of you myself.

I'll make them wish they were never born and had never fucked with you.

Right now I imagine you're sitting in your room with the TV going. You're not paying attention though, cause you're too busy reading my letter.

One of those shitty renovation shows you're obsessed with is playing in the background just to have some noise, am I right little girl?

You really need to stop watching those fucking shows.

I don't worry, but I'm beginning to worry that I'll come home to the Clubhouse completely torn apart and renovated, new furniture and girly colours on the walls.

Hell, I bet you'd have all of my brothers with paintbrushes and hammers in their hands. They'd probably be happy to do it, as well, cause you asked.

I heard that you've got all of my brothers eating out of the palm of your hand. Especially Juice after that shit he pulled with his leg.

Don't like it.

I don't like that he's eating out of the palm of your hand.

Don't like that he's making a move on you when I'm not there to drag him into the ring and beat the living fuck out of him.

I don't like that he's technically got every right to make that move on you.

Don't want him to be able to make a move on you, little girl.

I got sent to another counselling session today. Idiots are trying to get me rehabilitated so they don't "see my face back here again".

Somehow or another the topic got around to you, and she asked if you knew what I did for a living.

I said no. Cause you don't.

She asked if you knew what I did on a daily basis, would you still send me letters?

Would you be my friend, would you consider being more when I got out since it's not fair to ask you to be my girl after two weeks of letters, one photograph and me being inside?

As much as I hate it, she's put things into perspective for me about how different we are. About how different our lives are.

While you're out there living your life, I'm trapped in a concrete box.

I woke up at 4AM to the sound of my roommate jerking off, rolled over to try and shut him out and realised the photograph of you was gone. (Also, can you stop asking my brothers to get it back?).

Just after 4 I looked down and saw it was gone because he was staring at the photo of you while he had his hand clenched around his tiny dick.

4:10AM he got wheeled out of our cell and down to the infirmary after an unfortunate accident.

Turns out that when you fall from the bottom bunk you've got to be careful. Easy to knock out some teeth and get yourself a broken rib.

Later through the day I was allowed to work out for an hour, so I went down to the weights.

While I was lifting them, I thought about Juice hitting on you and I decided that smashing someone's head in with the weight I was lifting sounded like the best idea I could think of.

Then I realised that I'd get more time inside and I need to get out of here, so I got more frustrated than I was to begin with.

Now I'm sitting in my tiny shitbox of a cell by myself because my roommate is going to be in the hospital bed for a while.

That's the reality of my day, and this shit is an everyday occurrence.

I get it if it's too much for you and you decide you're done.

But if you don't keep sending me letters.

I've got three months left and they keep me sane.

Happy.