The Reaper's Only Daughter

by L. Nevada

In accordance with her father's dying wish, Schuyler (the only female patch) returns to Edward's (original nine member) home chapter in Charming, CA. Follow Schuyler's life-long journey as she tries to honor her father's memory, forge her own path in a male dominated society, and craft extraordinary relationships just as this makeshift family slowly unravels at the seams.

10. El Concierto

Previously On TROD: Schuyler, Chibs, and Tig had an extremely private meeting after the ink burning of an excommunicated member. Tensions ran high as rules were laid out and the three came to a mutual understanding. Will they be able to shape a meaningful relationship and integrate into each other's lives while hiding in plain sight?

Trigger Warnings: Explicit sexual conduct. For as much that takes place in this chapter, know that more smut scenes will continue to crop up from here on out.

Author's Notes: Hello and welcome to an important milestone instalment. Not only is this the 10th chapter (double digits and a nice round number), but it also marks the 100k word mark for this story! Starting off the New Year right with a late Christmas present. School got away from me last semester, so I appreciate those who have stuck with me during this upload drought. I'm glad you've returned to read more. I sincerely appreciate all the lovely comments and important feedback I've received over the last year. It has all been sincerely appreciated.

I hope everyone enjoys this monumental chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feel free to leave comments so we may discuss the story up to this point between updates. And I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy during these uncertain times we live in. I do genuinely hope my story can offer you a reprieve even if only for an hour or two.

Thanks again, and enjoy the next instalment of TROD!

Schuyler chose to do two things differently when she rose this morning. The first was her decision to go without wearing her bike helmet for the entire day. She simply pulled her hair in a low ponytail, put in her earbuds to dampen the road noise, and rode her V-Rod with her sunglasses on to Teller-Morrow. The second became clear when she dismounted her bike and several of the garage employees, whom she has grown to call friends, whistled in her direction in a mocking catcall.

"Goddamn Sky! You've got a licensed to carry that thing?"

"You're breaking dress code!"

From head to toe, Schuyler appears radically different from how she normally dresses. Her combat boots have been replaced with sneakers. More comfortable for road trips and queueing on her feet for hours at a time. The graphics on her t-shirt are bold. A band she has seen perform live including dates in the tour. The shirt fits on her too big: a hand-me-down. Her kutte has been left behind in her bedroom closet as have her weapons which she elected to keep on standby.

Yet, these subtle changes cannot compare. The employees' eyes have been drawn to Schuyler's shapely legs which are visible curtesy of her black, ripped, and frayed shorts. The woven vines and intricately stenciled flower petals of her black and white chrysanthemum tattoo are all that cover her left calf. The ink stands pronounced against her skin.

Schuyler cocks a hand on her hip jutting it towards the overhead doors. "You want my badge; you can't have it!"

A notoriously skittish mechanic crosses the doctor's path. The man rolls Jackson's motorcycle back into the lineup, having taken it for a routine inspection. "You look really nice today, Schuyler."

"I appreciate the compliment, Lowell." The woman waves a greeting. "But let's keep our eyes on the boss' machine, alright?"

"Will do. Have a good one!" The employee carries on with a self-conscious grin.

Several bodies have already taken up residence in the clubhouse. Jackson stayed true to his word. He arrived on time at the location Schuyler had beckoned him nearing two weeks back and has yet to complain once. Using his Teller charm, he convinced Donna that Schuyler's secret gathering had nothing whatsoever to do with club business. The worrisome mother, who is actively trying her best, gave her blessing for Opie to attend as well.
Opie, for his part, began complaining back at his house. Namely because he doesn't like walking into surprises.

The men are situated at a dining table with Gemma who has cashed in on her mid-morning break from her office duties. She's been made curious by Schuyler's recent increase in shifts which resulted in making the female biker's presence at the clubhouse scarce. The three are half-heartedly listening to Juice who holds court, boasting about being the first let in on Schuyler's plans when the woman in question strides inside.

"I'm serious," Juice declares. "She showed them to me on her phone."

"Now what do you think you're doing running your damn mouth off?"

Juice snaps to attention. "I didn't say anything they didn't already know!"

"Did you tell Sack, too?"

"I didn't say shit to nobody. I knew you'd be pissed if I did."

Schuyler goes behind the bar to stand in front of Juice. She peers past him down at the table below. "Good. He's the one I care about having a half-way decent time tonight."

"Thanks a lot." Juice's t-shirt sleeves are rolled up, in anticipation for the hottest day of the year thus far, and the lack of his kutte makes the tattoos on his arms more prominent. Schuyler's order to have everyone in attendance leave their kuttes at home withstanding, there is no concealing this perceptible link to the club.

Schuyler nods her appreciation to Opie. "Thanks for showing up, man."

"Jackson convinced me when he said the cool kids were being invited. That's why you set this up for when the nursing home candidates were off on a picnic, right?"

Opie is referring to Clay, Bobby, and Piney. They are out of town dealing a small portion of hardware to Piney's old friend from his days in the service. The hardware was assembled in Nevada and delivered to the garage during the previous day. The majority of the same iron will be sold to the Niners the following day. Schuyler's hoping to be on the road by the time the elders arrive to see their charter has inexplicably gone missing.

Jackson feigns his feelings being hurt. "You told Juice before you told me?"

"I actually conveyed the message to him in Spanish. Took him a week to figure it out for himself."

"I knew what you were asking!" Juice sounds defensive. "Just took me a minute to answer. ¿Te gustan los conciertos de rock? Sí, te gusta ir –"

"No, you answer the question for yourself. Me gusta. The object pronoun and verb ending have to match."

"You start losing me when you spout off your textbook jargon."

Gemma obstructs their chatter. "Schuyler, what could you possibly be up to that requires you to sneak off during work hours right under Clay's nose?" She isn't used to being left out of the loop.

"We're going to disturb the peace." Schuyler slaps the counter. "I expect we'll return by sunrise, but one can never reliably predict the future."

Jackson humors his sister. "Must be some pretty intense shit for us to have to be decked out in civilian garb."

"Don't get too excited Jax. I had to call ahead on this. We'll be expected."

Opie joins his brother in poking fun at the hostess. "Just tell us what the tickets are for so I know if I should abandon you on the highway."

"Attendance is required," Schuyler quips. Though she's stalling until the remainder of the expected party arrives.

As Schuyler spins her yarn, more bodies enter. Half-Sack bumbles in tiredly. He hadn't planned on waking up before noon the day after the weekly post-church festivities. The lot outside littered in red plastic cups and empty foils is a damning sign he's at his day job too early. He plops down on a stool exaggeratedly. His eyes half close when his chin touches his forearms on the bar. Tig and Chibs arrived at the same time and the older members stop behind the prospect. They, like the rest of the Patches, are used to the ebb and flow of the weekly routine and have arrived ready for whatever challenges Schuyler may throw their way.

Or so Tig believed. He's left open-mouthed when faced with the striking artwork on Schuyler's leg. Consequentially resulting in his compulsory action to clutch the brown wrist cuff of the opposing wrist in front of himself and try his damnedest to keep from staring at her.

"I've worked too much overtime in preparation for today. This soirée has already burned a sizeable hole through my pocket."

Half-Sack yawns. "Is the debt worth leaving your bed early in the middle of a week day?"

Schuyler rebukes him. "We have miles to go before we sleep. Put that thought clear out of your mind."

"What the hell are you dragging us into?" Tig interjects. "Against our consent, might I add."

Opie piles on. He figures the day will go quicker if he gets into the spirit. "Without so much as a clue as to where we're going. We could be walking into shark invested waters without snorkels for all we know."

"Alright, alright." Schuyler relinquishes the truth. "Truth is, I'm taking you ingrates out of town. Outskirts of the big city north of here. A venue held up around Sacramento. Big summer blow out with six names representing."

"You're taking me to a concert?" Half-Sack perks up exceptionally. "For real?"

"Live music, heat exhaustion, mosh pits if we're real lucky. The whole shebang!" Audible moans of disappointment arise. Namely from the older occupants. "Now you can piss and grumble on your Harleys all the way up there. But when we park, it's over. You'll start enjoying yourselves whether you're cognitively aware of it or not."

Chibs huffs a sigh. "Will there be drink?"

"Enough to drown in. First ones free with our tickets. Tickets I graciously purchased on your behalf, so there's no chance of backing out of this. I'll be happy to buy the second round."

Juice asks hopefully. "What about merch?"

"I thought you wanted to go?" Schuyler squints at him. "I'm not bribing you. As much as I like to think I am, I'm not made of money."

Tig shakes his head. His annoyance outweighs his curiosity over the woman's choice to reveal something so personal (apparently out of nowhere). "You went out and spent money without any of us knowing, just so we'd have to go. Did you come up with that devious plan all on your own?"

Schuyler, more than aware of the reasons she's been bidding her time and no longer having any intention of continuing to, makes a show of force. "See, I knew there had to be a reason I spent two hundred k earning an education. Almost as if there was causation for me being handed a PhD." To the outside world it is as if nothing has changed between the two suspected rivals.

Gemma sets Schuyler with a suspicious gaze. "And my husband doesn't know about this trip?"

"Absolutely not! And he's not allowed to know until we cross out of his jurisdiction."

With her party gathered, Schuyler sets to work on her patent party trick. A tradition she partakes in before every live show. Pregaming. She gathers shot glasses from underneath the bar and picks out a strong bottle of liquor but not one so strong she can't stand it. She wouldn't want to make a fool of herself.

"This day trip has been six weeks in the making. I had it in my head I wanted to go to a concert before I knew Juicy or Sack hadn't been to one. It so happens I bought the tickets for a time and during a time of inconvenience to the club. Not out of maliciousness. Just how things went down."

Schuyler fills seven glasses. "But enough about work. I don't want to hear about the garage, or the Irish, or bills until we wake up with hangovers."

Jackson eyes the shots. "You saying you're not keeping track?"

Schuyler picks up the first glass. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Are you encouraging day drinking and driving while under the influence?" Gemma's amusement is evident. She's never seen Schuyler when she isn't monitoring her language and dedicating herself to the completion of a task within a constricting time window.

No one in Charming has.

Schuyler projects disbelief. "I would never use peer pressure and most certainly would never endanger another person's life on the road." Schuyler rotates the shot in her hand watching the liquid slosh about. "But, if no one else claims these, I'll have to down them myself and then we'll really have a hard time getting out of town."

Juice and Half-Sack pick out their own drinks. They raise them in wait for Schuyler's cue. Opie lumbers up to the bar where he clinks his glass against Schuyler's, and he walks another back to Jackson.
Schuyler propositions the two most resistant members. "Come on. Scared you might enjoy yourselves?"

"Free booze? I'll go if you do." Chibs rocks up to the bar beside Schuyler without waiting for a response from the man beside him. He gathers a shot glass and looks down on the young woman expectantly. He's no longer concerned with his proximity to her.

The glass held aloft makes Schuyler realize how big Chibs' hands are. Hands made for working long, hard days.

Not for the first time, Tig makes the final decision. There are mumbles of encouragement when he approaches the drink.

With a shot in each hand, Schuyler raises hers high overhead. "Sons." The word rings inclusive and carries a great deal of weight under the roof she has gathered them in.

"Sons." The men cheer in unison, amused by her choice in a toast.

"Man, that'll wake you up." Schuyler expels a breath of air.

"Or drop you on your ass." Gemma chides the room at large. "I don't suppose there's any point in me asking you to be reasonably careful?"

"Not a one." Schuyler nods her appreciation to Gemma who has given her permission for the group to play hooky for the day. "I'll accept full responsibility for any blow back that comes our way."

Gemma smiles condescendingly. "I expect you to. You guys get going before the others get back from their drop."

Jackson kisses his mother on the cheek at the same time Opie pats Gemma's hand on the table. "See you tomorrow, mom."

"And wear your helmets!" Gemma calls behind them.

Schuyler walks backwards while exiting. "Sorry, but I'm off the clock. Ain't setting examples for anybody today!"

The club faces down a two-hour commute in overflowing Californian traffic. The longer one rides the more their odds increase of running into people in cages who have no respect for the road or their fellow travelers. On their bikes, Schuyler puts one earbud in while motioning to Juice with the other. "Wanna sync up the playlist I sent you?"

The Puerto-Rican makes a show of reaching for an attachment he mounted onto his bike's tank some time ago. It's connected to speakers on either of the handle bars, which to this day Schuyler has yet to see utilized, and when he presses play everyone in the lineup can hear the music being produced. Juice has rarely used the modified sound system, as they were placed with solo drives in mind, and the speakers operate as if brand new.

"Oh no," Schuyler eggs Juice on. "I'm not slowing down or waiting for your dragging ass to catch up."

"Tell it to my taillights!" Juice raises his voice over the beat as it crescendos. The playlist was designed with the bands who will play the concert lineup in mind. It begins with Juice's favorite band out of those offered. He straps on his helmet and prepares to ride off, fueled by the lyrics, when the Vice President demands to be heard.

"Ain't you guys planning on following me?"

Schuyler rights her bike. "I'm on holiday! Besides, I've got the directions, right up here." She points to her flaxen yellow hair unburdened by a helmet like her siblings. Those who are her junior follow her lead, unwisely taking their protective gear off as well.

Schuyler leads the procession with Juice and Half-Sack hot on her heels. Juice cranks up the volume once they climb onto the highway. The first dozen miles are spent by the youngest members in an attempt to outperform one another on their bikes. Those who remain trail behind them, letting the children have their fun for the day.

Schuyler signals behind her when she turns off the road. She pulls up at a ticket booth where she speaks civilly to an attendee and an arm raises for the bikes to pass.

The group arrives later than Schuyler normally prefers to when attending a live event. The benefits, she figures, outweigh the losses. The initial loss being the bikes have to park near the back in the crowded parking area.
Upon dismount, Schuyler goes before the alter to say her piece; releasing her ponytail and shaking out her hair as she steps. "Look. I appreciate everyone leaving the kuttes at home. It's huge. Like, dressing up in civvies for Halloween. But I've got to ask you to take it a step further. They're not going to let you pass the metal detectors if you are carrying weapons. That includes the chains."

Every man has a chain wallet. Including Opie who, true to his stature, carries the heaviest made with lengths the size of those on a tow chain and Half-Sack, so use to fronting, wearing his double string chain which rattles nosily against his leg.

"Off with them. Empty your pockets too." She observes each man unclip their wallets to leave the chains on the bikes. Some are more creative in their security than others.

"If this turns up missing…". Chibs reaches for his back pocket.

"I owe you." Schuyler tosses him a quick glance. "You look like you carry change. Toss it too. Don't think I'm above issuing a mandated strip-search." Sure enough, there are coins in Chibs black leather riding jacket. The gates opening in advance of the club's arrival marks a pro. The early birds have already stormed the castle. Only stragglers remain outside the gates. Clusters who will throw tailgate parties until bigger names take the stage later in the day.

Schuyler, with tickets for entry stored on her modern cell, leads the way while humming a song. The last song she heard on her personally curated playlist.

Juice recognizes it. "That's my least favorite song by my least favorite artist going on tonight."

Schuyler swivels her head. Her hair shifting on her shoulders. The fact a woman performs the song doesn't elude her. "You're being ridiculous. You know nothing about the artist and you're going to be eating those words in about four hours when you see her take the stage."

Half-Sack follows a half-step behind them. "How come? She hot or something?"

Schuyler smirks wickedly. "You can't imagine. Picture someone who looks like me but has three feet of hair and looks less sisterly."

A curious expression leads Half-Sack to maneuver his eyes over Schuyler's back. Juice uses the opportunity to box Half-Sack's ear. This encourages others rag on the kid as they walk.

Schuyler, preoccupied by the commotion behind her, instinctually recoils when a stranger appears, staggering drunkenly towards her. Recovering, she trips the man in his delirium and rolls him head first into a patch of grass at the end of a row of parking spaces.

"Little premature, don't you think?" The man is wasted at one in the afternoon. He blindly reaches towards her voice. A couple of his buddies run up to claim him. "Save some room for the venue, sweetheart." Schuyler steels herself, determined not to let anything ruin her mood.

The entrance has four lines roped off to funnel customers through metal detectors. Prior to them stand gig workers waiting to approve tickets. The setup isn't what one would call high-dollar security, yet it has served this industry well since its fabrication. Speakers litter every corner of the property. They are tuned into a local radio station busy promoting the event. Generic rock music plays between these sponsorships meant to complement the spirit of the landscape. Come as You Are, by Nirvana circulates while the club queues.

Schuyler's phone is scanned, and the group ushered onward. Fellow patrons are stopped to have their bags or coolers examined but, thanks to Schuyler's careful planning, the bikers pass seamlessly. Here they receive far fewer dubious glances than they would if they were in the surrounding county of Charming. Anonymity has never been easier to achieve.

That is until Juice sets off a detector. The last man under the machine gets carted off to the side for a closer inspection. A volunteer wearing an orange safety vest waves a wand over Juice's body and pauses at a front pocket.

Juice retrieves a small pocket knife from the worn jeans. Before he can open his mouth, the security guard starts a safety spiel and tries to impound the tool.

Schuyler springs into action, leaving the group to observe within the safe parameters of the already admitted, and goes to Juice's aide. She smiles cheerfully and takes Juice's hand in her own. Leaning heavily into her sibling's side she pulls on his arm playfully trying to drag him inside with her. "Vamos papá. ¡Prisa!"

Juice looks at Schuyler beyond confusedly and nods in the direction of his property. Subconsciously, he squeezes her hand back.

Schuyler looks to the knife in the guards' hand. She makes her appearance apologetic and rolls her eyes to simulate bringing the man in on a private joke.

The volunteer eyes Schuyler skeptically and scoffs. "If I give this to him, are you going to keep your boyfriend from causing trouble?"

Schuyler nods energetically and the security guard returns the knife to Juice. "Don't give me a reason to come find the two of you."

Schuyler drags Juice away before the kind volunteer can change his mind.

"What did I tell you about emptying your pockets?"

Juice stuffs the tool in his pocket where he leaves his hand. "It's not even sharp enough to remove splinters. 'S the reason I carry it around."

"I can't trust you to do anything. You're lucky he didn't make you throw it out." When the pair rejoin their group, Schuyler drops Juice's hand. "I'm getting too old to play the clueless girlfriend."

Tig sneers. "Juice can take over. He's halfway there."

"My prospect's got the post covered," Chibs counters. "Role coordinates well with his pansy-assed kiddy bike. Can't bear to part with the damned thing. Surprised he didn't drive it up here."

Opie adds. "'Needs a tea set to match. Maybe a maid's getup. Start working the bar how he's supposed to, learn to serve the adult's table."

Half-Sack accepts the verbal beating. He has come to view the insults as a cue he is one step closer to earning his top rocker. "That little honey grows on you. She's a trick bike, plain and simple. I'd like to see any one of you try to do a rolling endo on one of your rat bikes."

"Wo-ah!" – "Now he's getting it!"

Through the mockery, a new voice penetrates the close-knit circle. "Schuyler!"

Schuyler theatrically freezes. From a distance, a middle-aged Mexican man in a t-shirt labeled 'crew' and jeans meanders in her general direction. She recognizes him, having scarcely seen the man outside of a live music hall setting, and her smile doubles in size. "There's no way in hell. Y'all've got to give me a second." The tomfoolery continues uninhibited by her departure.

Within handshaking distance, the two long-time friends square their shoulders and clasp hands, ramming their frames together in a friendly greeting. The woman doesn't shy away from the physical demonstration of intimacy. Rather she leans into it with equal intensity.

"I never thought I'd see the day. How the hell did you get them to let you out of Texas?"

Schuyler's posture relaxes in the presence of a familiar face. "I crossed the border after nightfall. They're bound to have put an APB out on my ass."

"No kidding!" The man wears a lantern around his neck which grants him access to the stage and the lot at the back of the building where the bands' congregate. A name is printed underneath the photo ID: Tomas Sanchez. "It's so good to see you. It's been since Eddie's wake, hasn't it? Hey, how's Sammy been holding up?"

"Good man. Real good. Keeping those lowlifes back home on the straight and narrow."

"The only woman I know who can. Is that your way of letting me down gentle? Telling me she isn't with you. What about the chicos you pal around with?"

Schuyler waves to the men behind her. "Just me. Yeah, I moved out here a few weeks back. Rolling with a new crew. Bunch of good ol' boys, but I'm making it work with them. How long will you be in town for?"

"We ran a show last night. This is our last one before we head down to Arizona. Later on, I'll get off the tour bus when we hit Dallas. Gotta check in with the ball and chain. Hand over my paycheck. I won't pick up another gig until the New Year."

"You won't be working Halloween in Texas? That's a shame. It's going to be the first year in a long time I miss both BFD and Freaker's Ball."

"Oh yeah. That's coming up. You'll have to substitute with this shindig, but let me tell you, it's a solid show. Say, you bring any first-timers with you?" Tomas rubs his hands together in a way meant to be conniving.

"Couple of punks who are gonna pop their cherries tonight."

"You know, I owe your dad for getting me out of a scrap with my boss. I wouldn't have this job I love today if it weren't for him. How about you call them over and I get you into the pit for a couple of songs?"

Schuyler knew to expect the offer. It wouldn't be the first time one of her father's contacts had extended their gratitude for Edward to her. "They'd really enjoy seeing the stage up close. You'll be able to swing it?"

"It'd be my pleasure, Sky."

Schuyler whistles to gain attention. She motions for the youngsters to join her.

As they approach, Juice takes a defensive stance. "This guy bothering you?"

"Nope," Schuyler shakes her head. "He just needs to see your faces to be able to identify you."

Half-Sack jumps back, and both men square their feet. "Is he a fucking cop?!"

"Todo son buenos hermanos. Soy un amigo de la familia. Mi nombre es Tomas. ¿Cómo se siente salir a su primer show?"

Juice defers to Schuyler having understood roughly half of what the man said. "We're working up to it, Tomas. He'll catch up eventually."

"Really? You couldn't ask for a better maestra. Schuyler can talk circles around most second-hand translators I've met. She knows her stuff."

"I get by." Schuyler reflexively waves off the compliment. "No, for real though. Tomas can hook us up with some premium passes. Let us step up to the stage for part of the show. Since it's your guys' first time, I thought I'd let you pick. Tell him which band you want to see. We can get away with a few songs."

"For you Schuyler, I'll let you stick around for the set. My seniority will let me get away with it."

Half-Sack has his pick in mind. "It's gotta be The Glorious Sons. I can't get their music out of my head. No thanks to the two of you."

Juice is more considerate. "What about you Sky? Don't you wanna see —?"

"I've seen her live before. No, if you guys want to see TGS, that's cool with me."

The track playing over the speakers penetrates Schuyler's senses and she starts nodding her head to the melody without her conscious knowledge. She catches Tomas' eye next to her. He's doing the same, listening to Word Up!, By Korn, and humming the lyrics alongside following the conversation. As their eyes meet, Tomas lets his body go lax showing how accurately he feels the rhythm.

Schuyler finishes her thought through stifled laughter. She resists the urge to dance along. "They'll play our favorite song. Wouldn't want to miss that."

"A singer and a dancer?" Juice recognizes Schuyler's enthusiasm, however tampered.

Half-Sack refutes, "I've yet to see her do one of 'em."

Tomas bumps Schuyler's shoulder how an older, cooler cousin would. "She puts me to shame."

Schuyler explains, "Man, I've got to get some drinks in me. Plural. I've been working a J-O-B job since I landed in this state and the hours are killing me. I need to loosen up."

This impresses Tomas. "Holding down a 9-5? Just like Eddie always wanted for you."

"Yeah, my old man always was a hardass." Schuyler glances sideways at her newest companions. "Truth of it is, this will be the first show I've been to since he died. It better be a great one for all the trouble it's given me to get here."

"Shit Sky. You didn't tell me that." Juice has an urge to comfort with no way of knowing how.

"All the more reason for me to give you those pit passes. I'll have them at my station, so make sure you see me before you waltz in."

"I really appreciate this Tomas."

He accepts the woman's hand in kind. "Be sure to save me a dance. I'll call it square."

"See you in a bit." Schuyler leads her friends away.

Half-Sack inquires, "How'd you know the guy with the connection?"

"My parents know every roadie and temp security guard who passed through El Paso since the '80s. It pays to network. You'd do well to keep that in mind. Never know when a person you met once in passing could come in handy."

"Took you long enough." Jackson teases. "Thought this was your big day."

Schuyler pushes back. "Catching up with an old contact. What do you eager beavers feel like getting yourselves into?"

Opie asks, "You saying we get a choice in the itinerary?"

"If you quit being an ass about it, I might let you. We can find our seats, grab some food. That stand with the line longer than our track record has got some food I'm dying to try."

Designed with an open-air layout, the venue consists of a stadium surrounded on the outside by a horseshoe of stands contained within the outer most perimeter wall. The stage sits inside the stadium which holds approximately fifteen thousand people. Many of whom are wandering about the horseshoe gathering food and merchandise until the show begins. The most popular food stand has a zigzagging line of customers contained by a path of retractable-belt barrier.

Schuyler engages with Half-Sack. "Vegetarian burgers and chili dogs."

"How the hell do you make chili vegetarian," Opie inquires.

"Hollywood magic?"

"We could hit up a merch vendor?" Juice asks hopefully.

"I don't leave without a new T," Schuyler assures. "We'll grab some."

Tig conjures a lighter. "Smoke break? Do we need to take it outside? And do you have to escort us? Another reason not to own that damn government tracking device."

"We can do it as long as we're discreet. There won't be a roped-off section, but that doesn't mean the crowd hasn't created one on its own."

Sure enough, in a wedge gap between the stadium and the first stand in the horseshoe, a nook naturally crafts a safe haven. Below the umbrellaing limbs of a tree an unmarked trash bin has been retconned and stowed inside for safe keeping. A man and woman in janitor uniforms step out of the hid-die hole making room for the larger group to fill up the tight space.

Gathering around the bin, everyone lights up their cancer stick of choice. Each understands they will periodically revisit the canopy throughout the evening. Conversations divide along generational lines. Those who begrudgingly tagged along do their best to turn their backs and talk shop amongst themselves. The junior members take little notice. They chat energetically about what they expect from the remainder of the day.

"You've seen Shinedown, too?" Half-Sack asks of Schuyler.

"I have. A few times. They're very loud." She relays information through puffs of smoke. Without bothering to remove the nicotine, she inhales a constant stream thus burning the cigarette down to nothing. "I mean, canon fire loud. They like their pyro and make for a great closer."

Over the loudspeakers the mics connected to the stage screech to life disrupting the radio broadcast. A clear indicator the opening band will ensue equipment checks.

Half-Sack stamps his cigarette into the earth. "Shit, come on!" He vacates the enclosure with a push against Juice's shoulder that forces the Patch to comply. The two run inside the stadium with blind eagerness for the show to kick off.

Schuyler doesn't bother to inform them they have ample time to finish their smokes. She would rather they saw the setup and understand what it takes to make the shows possible. She hangs back replenishing the smoke in her lungs and accounts for everyone who exits the refuge.

Jackson and Opie are short to follow, thoughtful in discarding of their waste. Tig tries to leave, not ready to confront the memory of that night with those who linger, but an unexpected force gives him a reason to linger inside the canopy.

Schuyler grabs Tig's upper arm when he crosses her path. In the same movement, she raises her free hand to clamp it over Tig's mouth. Her cigarette has mysteriously vanished, it's purpose served. He's vexed at being stopped before her intentions are revealed. Schuyler guides Tig closer until they are nose to nose. Her eyes are open when slowly parting her lips and a thin gray wisp escapes to brush against the back of her hand. An offering.

Tig's eyes widen. His lips exclusively separate a mere fraction in recognition behind her hand.

Schuyler removes her hand, so Tig can inhale the smoke from her lungs in an intimate dragon's kiss. Her hand comes to rest on Tig's chest careful to preserve space between them. Even as she runs out of smoke to give she feels Tig pressing against her hand seeking more.

Schuyler edges away. Unaware, Tig follows her lips with closed eyes.

Her action may have been rash, but she has an impulse to search for Chibs' eyes, unsure of what she hopes to find there.

Chibs remained in the enclosure and looked on with bated breath. Expecting Tig's overt willingness would have been foolish considering the uncertainty that governed the three's last encounter. Chibs breathes easier when neither abruptly jerks away. Even so, his pulse skyrockets when Schuyler's eyes latch onto his. Images of being an adolescent chasing pretty girls in the backcountry flood his memory. He tries to indicate his assent but worries he only accomplishes channeling a predator, standing motionless in the tall grass.

Schuyler's grip on Tig's bicep morphs into a caress. Tig opens his eyes and gazes at the hand in fascination. Chibs' eyes, too, flit to the woman's hand. A slight-of-hand distraction. She makes a break for the exit, throwing a flirtatious glance behind her. An acknowledgement, and anticipation, of their pursuit.

Through Tig's Egyptian blue button up, he feels as if Schuyler's palms left fiery imprints in their wake. "That woman is going to be the death of me!"

"I'm starting to suspect I'm too old for this shite." Chibs wags an eyebrow and parts from the canopy with Tig, in an attempt to shake his daze, following at a casual distance.

The stadium divides into three sections: the first fifty rows of seats are those approaching the stage, gradual in their descent in elevation, covered by an awning. Fans with twenty-five-foot wingspans revolve lazily overhead offering no relief from the incessant heat. The back half of the arena has been blanketed in turf. A free roaming section where partygoers lay out blankets and sit with ice chests. The final section consists of an additional fifty rows of seats used as a buffer zone between the two starkly different districts. Exits extend outward from this zone and are routinely patrolled by stage managers wearing security badges.

Juice and Half-Sack occupy no man's land on a stairwell. They are staring downward where the ground levels off at the lowest point of the stadium. Beyond the chairs lays a patch of concrete sectioned off from the rest of the public by a metal corral. One entrance monitored by particularly robust security guards funnels into the pit. A standing section closest to the stage. So close, in fact, anyone lucky enough to be standing next to the metal bar can touch the platform and possibly those performing.

The pit is empty at this point in the day. As are two-thirds of the stadium. People are more interested in exploring the horseshoe than they are in hearing the opening band perform. Anyone in assigned chairs are firmly seated, unwilling to waste energy on dancing to songs by bands they do not know.

The opener, a total of three band members in casual dress who sound no more present than if their music was spewing from the radio, has taken center stage. They sport simplistic gear and play for themselves as much as for the crowd.

SAMCRO's seats are centered with the stage on the last row underneath the awning. The altitude will allow them to see over the heads that will be in front of them by the time the closer takes to the raised platform. Sunlight beats down over head and will continue on their necks until the sun disappears behind the rim of the stadium around the half way point of the show.

The director of the party lowers herself into a given seat and kicks her feet onto the vacant chair in front of her. The seasoned members take her lead, having no interest in observing the environment encircling them. Schuyler waits for a song to come and go. "Alright guys, take a seat."

Half-Sack is far less familiar with the music scene than his enthused companions. The closest he's gotten to appreciating any form of artistry is the period he practiced macramé during his limited down time on his tour in Iraq. His best attempt to busy his hands in a way different from how the rest of the soldiers on base were occupying their free time. Beside him, and to Schuyler's right, Juice has chosen to stand and observe the performance as well. "Thought this is why we were here."

"You've got six more hours of this," Schuyler reminds him. "Pace yourself."

At the end of the set, the band stands from their stools and thanks the crowd for the opportunity to be heard. The musicians receive a small, almost polite applause from the few patrons who had been half listening. Being beginners, they cannot afford a pit crew. Schuyler sees an arena volunteer step up to assist the musicians who gather their own equipment when exiting stage left.

Schuyler doesn't remember the name of the newcomers and knows it isn't the best way to treat a new name. On the contrary, she figures, if they're cut out for the business, she'll learn about them eventually. Through the grapevine, the way all good music should be consumed. At which point she'll be able to proclaim she saw the upstarts live when they were starting out.

The Reaper Crew becomes self-sufficient for entertainment. In between sets, they wander in and out of the stadium for booze and smokes and overpriced commodities. Half-Sack and Schuyler split vegetarian meals for variety and meet up with Opie and Jackson who have a pair of double cheese burgers with bacon between them. Schuyler sees Juice winds up with merchandise while picking up an eye-catching shirt for herself. The souvenirs will stay in their belt loops for the rest of the day. At least once Chibs and Tig duck into the nook alone and when they emerge Chibs joins Juice and Jackson for a drink. They gather at a round bar table where they compare their latest projects bookmarked at the garage only to be sidetracked by a rowdy bachelorette party seated close at hand.

All the while, bands filter across the arena floor. It's during an intermission, when Half-Sack and Juice are engrossed in a discussion of the latest video game expected to hit the market, much to Schuyler's utter delight, when The Glorious Sons charge the stage.

~Take a walk down Main Street…~

Having been anticipating the first mainstream players of the night the accumulating crowd gathers to its collective feet. Schuyler had kept her eye out for Tomas to arrive at the mouth of the pit. Spotting him, she herds her disciples down the stairwell where they are gifted with lanyards. The secondary guard pays them no mind.

Juice and Half-Sack enter. They are tentative to join the mob packed tightly against the stage. The patrons, mostly college aged diehards and groupies, are already bopping or trying to grab a handful celebrity. Schuyler, more composed, pulls Tomas to the side and waits in the isle for the hook of the song to drop. The lyric sends the first real shockwave through the crowd. Her voice syncs with the band and matches tune with the lead singer.

~It feels so damn good to be Godless, graceless, and young…~

Schuyler and Tomas bob their heads, sway their hips, and gleefully cheer through the starting track. Half-Sack senses their elation through osmosis and matches their intensity. Juice energetically joins. With the metal fence dividing them in sets of two the group forms a sentient diamond. They hop, clap, and holler while absorbing the sound waves projected by speakers that corral them ever closer to the lively stage.

A new song bleeds over into the first. Schuyler slaps Tomas on the back on her way to join her friends inside the pit. Egged on by the man with the microphone the fans' dancing evolves from head banging into moshing. Half-Sack builds up his nerve and he dive-bombs the crowd. He gets lost in the wave of bodies for the length of a song. Juice wants to follow, but a Smartphone thrust in his face makes him reconsider.

*He's alright. If YOU go in there someone's bound to end up hurt.*

Juice considers her words a challenge. He throws a shadowbox punch Schuyler's way which she expertly dodges. The two carry on, their fists pumping to the beat, until Half-Sack capers up to them with his arms thrown dramatically out to either side. His entrance is accompanied by their favorite song.

~Mother I don't wanna take my medicine, Twenty-four years in the gutter again…~

Knowing the lyrics by heart, they take turns popcorning their favorite lines in time with a band that forged their shared love of music.

~Ain't a thing in this world that I'm gonna miss, It's all fake smiles and leather jackets…~

Their movements are practiced without need to rehearse. Their vocal cords tighten with the need to sing every word of the repetitious chorus, but it's Schuyler who steals the show. Her voice rings pure and true over the flat ruckus of the uproarious crowd. Passion sweeps through her every note. Her brothers are captivated as they bolster her on with shoves to the shoulder or fists thrown into the air, cutting through the thick, full melody.

Chibs steps away from the alcohol bender nursing his nth beer. Tig matches pace with him close to his left elbow having already downed his refill in one go. They progress leisurely through patrons in no rush to return to the stadium seats packed as tightly together as sardines in a can. Rather they've spent the last half hour hashing out hypothetical scenarios of the UFC lineup they are undoubtedly missing on a cable network in order to attend this humdrum event.

"You owe me a fiver for the fight you called last week."

"Shit, you're really gonna hold me to that?" Tig pats his pockets in demonstration.

"Someday you will learn not to bet against me."

Tig doesn't mind missing the televised event. He may have next to no interest in music and care less for the fanfare accompanying it. But any excuse to associate with his club outside of normal routine is welcomed – though any member would be hard-pressed to admit it. Even more appreciated are the chances for Tig to be at Chibs' side while in public regardless of the necessary precautions they take to exude lax demeanors. Chibs lives a poised existence. It is second nature for him to be nonchalant. Tig on the other hand has been the one to struggle with keeping their affair under wraps. Though to be fair he has mellowed with age.

Although Schuyler's come-on has been at the forefront of their minds they haven't been alone together long enough to verbally process it out in the open. There's no real point in them trying to considering their environment. Their club as well as the countless concertgoers keep them on high alert. Over the years they've spent together the pair have learned to roll with the punches and accept the time they are given. Knowing in the back of their minds one slip up (I.e., one of their siblings searching for their whereabouts beneath the canopy at an inopportune time) could mark the beginning of their end.

Tig catalogs the area out of necessity. He registers flippantly the current players onstage are adorned with The Glorious Sons logo. By the look of their satisfied audience the band appears to be nearing their conclusion.

And try as he might, Tig can no longer go on pretending the near kiss didn't take place when his eyes fall on Schuyler. From the entrance, Tig pinpoints Schuyler who stands out from the crowd like a bright, shining needle in a run-of-the-mill pile of hay. Tig's legs stop dead and his hand reaches for Chibs to get his attention. They watch Schuyler who absolutely thrives her element.

Powers of persuasion helped her rouse Jackson and Opie to join in on the fun the club's newest additions were having. The men meekly sway from side to side in an effort to accommodate her, but they're aware they are outmatched. Dancing is but another language for Schuyler. She keeps her arms loose, only bringing them up to sweep the hair from her eyes. The curves of her body twist, rounding out the punctuated notes. Her body is her instrument, becoming one with the song.

Tig is mesmerized as she lifts her tattooed leg in the air and spins gracefully on one foot. "Hey man, you feel like doing me a favor here?" Tig is under no obligation to ask Chibs' permission for anything. He simply does so out of habit and respect. It pains him to tear his eyes away from Schuyler long enough to make eye contact with his partner, but seeing the look on Chibs' face, he figures doing so was the right call.

Chibs feigns a disappointed expression. "Is that your plan? You're going to bury yourself in a pile of debit." Chibs reveals he is teasing. "You got it. It'll have to be fast though. The look on your face is more plain than any I've been shooting at her."

Just because Tig has mellowed out doesn't mean he has become a monk.

The mosh pit had been exhilarating, and Schuyler knows it's an experience her cohorts will not soon forget. She also suspects her older siblings had fun despite their protests. Chest to chest the five carried on until their breath ran out.

Schuyler takes advantage of the intermission to reclaim her chair. Her friends are short to follow. Juice and Half-Sack fall to her right, sweat stains outlining their shirts. Jackson and Opie collapse to her left with seats open between them. Chibs and Tig fill in the spaces on their way back from their side quest to the horseshoe.

The silence in the absence of a band is deafening. The soothing resonance of the radio kicks on overhead. The controlled tune feels therapeutic to ears strained by the live performances. Music has grown louder with each name who takes the stage. As if it's a competition or some unspoken house rule. Each performance must utilize more speakers, larger speakers, and be played louder, with more intense passion than the last.

In This Moment is no exception. They happen to be the sole band with a female lead singer and Schuyler's favorite of the night. Off stage a guitar strikes a chord. An auditory cue the show is primed to begin. Their volume ramps upwards from there. The vocalist hits her first mark dressed in a white leotard tight against every curve of her body and white bellowing sleeves which would be far better fitted to an expensive ball gown.

The rejuvenated crowd cheers its hearty welcome. Somewhere to Schuyler's left she catches talk about someone leaving the stadium. She figures it will be their loss. She occupies herself with her youngest siblings' reactions to the newest players. The boys are fast on their feet and point their noses towards the woman at center stage like bloodhounds picking up a scent. Schuyler pulls herself into a standing position and smiles triumphantly at the multitalented singer's performance.

Chibs maneuvers his way out of the row most likely in need of a smoke and another beer. With him, he ushers Jackson and Opie towards the nearest alcohol dispenser with a mission to refill their glasses.

A deep, black void is all that's left standing between Schuyler and Tig. The woman has purposefully been avoiding him since their near exchange under the canopy as she had been doing for several days. All the same it was only a matter of time before, after their separation, and the alcohol, and the music, and enough energy generated by hundreds of pulsating bodies to power the city of LA, the two would be forced together again. An atomic bomb waiting to detonate.

~I can be your whore…~

Tig manages to wait till the end of the first song to close the canyon like crevice (in truth the width of a single seat) and toe his way into Schuyler's personal space. He appears calm in his stance, but his internal temperature starts climbing out of his control. He motions towards Juice over Schuyler's head in a manner to appear casual. The Puerto Rican's eyes are glued to the scantily dressed woman on stage and totally blind to the other man's attempt at conversation.

Schuyler elbows her younger brother in an 'I told you so' manner. Her toe keeps tempo in her sneaker. The lyrics The lyrics she hears are equal parts suggestive and formidable to match the performer's ensemble. The chorus she belts out describes a female black widow spider eating her mate after the expiration of his use.

Keenly aware of Tig's increase in proximity, Schuyler does not shy away from him. Rather she plants her feet. Ready to let him find every excuse possible to rub himself against her as much as he needs. She knows he's ultimately gathering the courage to ask her to go somewhere more private with him.

Songs are cut short and abruptly interrupted by a new one in the setlist. Half-Sack bounces energetically while knocking into Juice. The Patch blatantly refuses to dance along in fear of missing a single movement from the stage. So, the prospect pushes Juice and Schuyler forward in favor of engaging with Tig by yelling, "nice rack," certain the older man will agree.

"Good legs too," Schuyler shouts in response. She knows her voice will be gone tomorrow. "Wouldn't complain if they were wrapped around your head." Though she humors Half-Sack, Schuyler has seen this performance. She's much more interested in Tig who, while replying, mentally undresses Schuyler as opposed to viewing the woman on stage.

"A body to kill for."

~I can't deny, I'd die without this/make me feel like a God…~

Half-Sack is none too discreet in adjusting the front of his jeans while returning his attention to the stage.

Tig pivots towards Schuyler. He uses his body to shield her own in case their party returns. Schuyler remains in place, confident the seats to her right are far too busy enjoying the show to notice anything Tig may do. She takes pity by offering Tig her ear in acknowledgement.

Without touching her, Tig leans in close to Schuyler's ear as if to whisper. He instead gingerly takes the side of her ear between his teeth and bites down.

Schuyler doesn't flinch. Her breathing doesn't falter. The one outward reaction given is the widening of her eyes in surprise to his directness.

After holding his teeth in place for a few seconds to fully sell his act he turns round to face the stage again. His hands cross on their own accord. One clutching the leather bracelet on the opposing wrist. Normally this is how he stands when relaxed, but his grip is tighter than usual as he finds himself unable to trust his own appendages.

Schuyler knows the band's set. She knows they will play three more songs, at best, which means there will be nine minutes left, at best, until the next intermission when every bathroom will be packed to capacity. While it would be the smart choice to wait for the main event to take the stage (the most likely period when the bathrooms will be empty), she actually wants to see the performance. And the darkness gathering in Tig's eyes warns he isn't going to wait much longer.

Schuyler decides nine minutes is all she needs.

She rises on her toes and vocalizes over the music, "bathroom." She nods towards the exit she wants him to take and watches him push past the rest of their party with a pace suggesting he's seeking more than booze. Schuyler waits for him to exit the area before following at a much calmer pace. She leaves the stadium, careful to maneuver in a manner as not to give herself away.

She finds Tig leaning on the wall of the arena. He stands behind a line of shrubs outside a three-stall bathroom – the closest this establishment gets to a family or disabled friendly facility, and individuals have to share, nonetheless. When she's within earshot, Tig engages her. "It's empty."

"Did you scare them off?" She waves him inside. "Is that how you say, 'please'?"

"That's how I say, 'I want you'."

Because the building connects to the shell of the arena the music can be felt through vibrations as easily as it can be heard. Schuyler appreciates that the nature of the songs becomes more blasphemous with each one played.

~S, I, N-N, E, R…~

It's a time of day when the floor is covered in beer and urine, but not yet covered in blood and vomit and it doesn't appear as though any pipes have burst – though it remains a real possibility that they will.

~S, I, N-N, E, R…~

It's exactly how Schuyler imagined it would be, as any other live show toilets should be, and it's ideal for what she has in mind. When Schuyler crosses the threshold, she slams the door shut and rounds on the biker.

As soon as Tig steps inside, Schuyler shoves him against the bathroom door. Bolting the lock beside his head Schuyler brings him into a kiss. A real one, with open mouths and wrestling tongues as her hand ghosts over his recently trimmed facial hair.

~I don't need you to understand/that I'm already saved…~

Tig grabs her hips, leading them towards the row of sinks on the adjacent wall. He rips down her shorts until they catch around her ankles. "You're not wearing any sexy lace panties for me?"

"Why are you?" She aggressively unbuckles his belt and pops open the button on his jeans to reveal his swollen erection covered in cheap boxers. She pushes the obstructing garment away. What he lacks in length, Tig makes up for in an impressive girth.

Tig leans in for another kiss only to be prevented by Schuyler's hands unbuttoning his shirt.

"How badly do you want me?"

Tig lifts Schuyler onto the sink and steps between her legs. He leans into her, searching for as much contact through their clothes as possible, and growls against her neck. "I want you - bad."

Schuyler smiles sharply against the cracked mirror she uses for support. Mustering her strength, she shoves Tig across the small room into the nearest stall door. It swings open on impact and his shoulders center around a support beam. "Show me how much you want me."

The smile fades from her lips. Her eyes become dark; their blue swallowed by her expanding pupils. Schuyler frees an ankle from its constraint, so she can leverage herself on the sink's lip. The position isn't the most comfortable against the cold porcelain, but Tig's eyes falling between her spread legs makes the strain tolerable. "You're running out of time Tigger." She recognizes the final song, her favorite, as it plays through the falling-down plaster. "Maybe three minutes."

Without breaking eye contact, Schuyler swallows her middle and index fingers on a hand she brings up to her face. Never past the second knuckle. Only enough to wet the pads.

Tig swallows hard. His breath quickens, his chest heaving. The Sergeant slouches against the upright fixture with his jeans and pants resting low on his thighs. He raises a hand to lick a stripe across his palm. More than willing to play the woman's game.

~(Strike back)/A little harder/(I scream)/A little louder…~

Schuyler smiles around her fingers, biting the nail of one to show her white teeth. Removing her digits shows a string of saliva links them to her bottom lip. She breaks the connection with her tongue.

Their hands move down their bodies effectively mirroring one another. Tig sets a pace to pump his cock, pre-cum beading off the head, while watching Schuyler's hand. Initially pawing over her smooth-shaven mound of flesh. Then switching to swirl in generous circles over her pink clit glistening from her spit in the florescent lighting. Occasionally her back arches towards him and Tig ceases his ministrations. Schuyler knows this is his way of telling her to slow down.

~I thank you for being so obscene…~

While Schuyler remains quiet, Tig whines in the back of his throat. Five feet of flooring lay between them in the closet sized room and he wants nothing more than to reach out for Schuyler. To bring her in close, to feel her arms wrapped around him. His body radiates heat, and he wants to be consumed by her warmth.

~(Hit back)/A little harder/(Fuck you)/A little louder…~

"Please." Tig's eyes rove from Schuyler's furiously moving hand to her face, "please…".

"Ask me." Schuyler parts her lips with two fingers inviting Tig to look at her unabashedly.

Tig's eyes dart rapidly between his place of want and his place of need. His mouth is dry when he answers, "Let me see you stretch yourself open."

"Good boy." A finger slips inside the woman easily. She sighs pleasantly. Licking her lips, she spreads her legs further with her elbow against her knee and she loosens her wrist. Schuyler succumbs to her body's desires as seamlessly as she obeys the commanding flow of a melody.

Tig's attention shifts to mimic the woman's speed over his stiff member. A second finger slips inside of her and Tig's eyes glaze over watching her scissor them. His hand pumping steadily sends him over the edge and his head slams back against the grim covered surface. He bites his tongue to repress a moan; his knees buckle when he cums across the tiling.

She waits for his eyes to focus back on her before Schuyler swallows her fingers and leaps off the sink. She pulls her shorts back up her legs with a bit of shimmying and realizes the set has ended. The radio has been switched on in place of the band. She bends at the waist again to simulate lacing her shoes and peers up slyly at Tig. Schuyler motions for him to join her. Stepping into her space, Schuyler grabs Tig by the hips to keep his cock, growing flaccid, at a distance, and straightens to her fullest height to pull his jeans up his hard body.

"I thought you were…"

"I know what you thought I was going to do, and you haven't earned that yet."

Tig shivers involuntarily at the promise of future opportunities. "When do I get to taste you?"

"Right now." She forfeits any attempt to button his jeans. Leading with her tongue, she explores his mouth possessively. He moans as soon as he tastes her wetness on her tongue. He covers the hand she tightly holds to his chest and enjoys the control she takes in guiding the kiss.

A knock on the door separates them. Schuyler makes a half-hearted attempt to wash her hands in a sink with the cheapest soap the venue could stock. Tig leans over her shoulder, making his presence known with his weight, to stare her down through the spiderweb in the glass. Next to her ear, he whispers, "Did you cum?"

"No, but you'll make it up to me."

"You taste good."

Schuyler grabs his hand to clean it for him as another knock, a little more forceful, comes outside the door. "Don't they know they have another ten minutes?" Schuyler shuts off the faucet and kisses Tig's jaw over her shoulder. She abruptly shifts his form from her back and dashes towards the door.

When Schuyler opens it, she's greeted by an elder gentleman well past his prime. Though he walks without the assistance of a cane he looks as though he should be in a rocking chair rather than at a rock concert. "Sorry old timer. Old habits die hard."

The man lets her pass, not understanding her meaning. Tig passes him afterwards while buttoning his shirt making the gentleman wise to their shenanigans. He snorts, dragging his glasses down the bridge of his nose to better see the two degenerates. "They sure do. You kids get after it while you can."

Chibs is sat quietly in the chair he has claimed for the better portion of the day. His eyes absentmindedly track roadies who tear down and rebuild the stage in preparation for the closing act. The air has finally cooled off from the hot summer day. The sun setting behind his back means his leather riding jacket is no longer baking and wind wipes over the seated crowd.

His thoughts have been stirring since he came back from his imposed task as distractor long enough for Tig to sneak away unscathed. Chibs can't help but notice the manic man convinced the bright doctor to part with him and neither has returned.

He imagines they made off somewhere secluded. Likely they settled on the opposite end of the venue from where he lured their friends considering the groups never crossed paths. He actively tries to avoid picturing the details. He needs to give them space. For his own peace of mind. To let them test the waters in the hopes the pond will become less murky for all of them. If the pair were to come back at odds it would be a sign this entire endeavor is doomed to fail. The result may be any number of casualties in the aftermath. Chibs can't afford to will his own pessimistic mindset into reality.

Because regardless of any misgivings if he thinks too hard about the details he's likely to leap to his feet and join them. Sensibility be damned. His focus needs to be on willing them to work things out. Selfishly he longs to throw his hat into the ring.

Just when Chibs' paranoia tells him his unobservant companions will begin to take a head count is when the MIA members appear. They push their way into the aisle, laughing and cantering about, and stop in front of a seated Jackson and Opie.

"Where the hell have you guys been," Opie complains. "Thought this was your idea?"

"Piss break," Tig replies too smoothly.

"I," Schuyler bleeds excitement, "ate a vegetarian pulled pork sandwich. It was dope."

Tig snickers. "It smelled like Alpo dog food."

Schuyler repeats herself, "It was dope!" Her fists buries between his ribs. "Just because you were too chicken-shit to try it."

Without a band playing, the group doesn't have to strain to speak and Half-Sack hears her declaration. "Better than the chili dog?!"

"Dude, we've got to get you one before we head out!"

The pair separate, taking seats on either side of the Scotsman. They enter conversations easily as if they hadn't left. Not a person suspects disorderly conduct from the duo's disappearance.

Not a soul, apart from Chibs.

The group reunites in time for the house lights to dim. A cue for the anticipatory audience to push out of their seats. Schuyler has been lenient, has brushed off the witty remarks, but she's sure each man stands for the closing act along with the rest of the crammed arena. Those on the lawn rise from their blankets and stand in harmony, preparing for the show they paid top dollar to see.

During intermission, a miniature stage was superimposed on top of the permanent one and constructed a piece at a time. A five-piece drum set, and pyrotechnical canisters complete the artificial scenery. The band's drummer appears from backstage and poses in the heart of the elevated platform. Deeming himself ready, the show kicks off. The musician doesn't flinch as the multifaceted prop comes to life with a fiery explosion. Shinedown makes a lasting impression frightening most in attendance with their entry. The canon fire is deafening. The strobe lights coupled with the pyro display are overwhelmingly blinding.

The frontline takes the stage stoking the audience into an uproar. A monologue preempts the music so the musicians can personally connect with the crowd. Their effect draws willing eyes like magnets. Anyone unfamiliar with the band falls captive to their showmanship.

Being the main event, and the period at the end of an all-day concert, the band's job is to leave patrons with a good taste in their mouths. A task they are primed for. The set contains an appropriate blend of rebellious party anthems and uplifting ballads.

Schuyler expects her friends to ignore her warning and drop like flies into their chairs. To grow bored. To shut themselves off from the music. To block out any emotions that could be brought to the forefront of the tuned in mind. Evidently, she had miscalculated. Since more and more Schuyler catches Opie and Jackson letting their hair down. Juice and Half-Sack live it up while strumming air guitars. Even the eldest members are able to relax, despite the intrusive pyrotechnics making a monstrously loud ruckus, and nod along to the somewhat recognizable songs.

Shinedown broadcasts a message: no one is alone, and music can unite people. A sentiment which cannot be missed as Misfits plays out to its fullest extent. It happens to be the slowest song on the roaster and, while anything but a love song, its power lies in connecting the beating hearts of the audience into one living organism. A reminder that everyone has a place in this world.

~They called us crazy cuz we never fit in…~

Schuyler's understandably surprised when no one in her party gives up on the band halfway through the starry-eyed number. Quite the opposite occurs. Eyes fixate on the vocalist who gets shrouded in a mute, blue spotlight. The tempo gradually decelerating to linger on his powerful words. His companions play their instruments with all their might to fuel their leader's passion.

~It didn't matter that we weren't on the list…~

Schuyler feels her pulse slow. Misfits is a song she adores and draws her thoughts towards Texas. She's genuinely excited to recount the show to her family there and is certain jealousy will be their response. What's more is she's thrilled to have shared this experience with her new family. Even if they'll be hard pressed to admit how much they enjoyed themselves.

~We broke the mold and found our own kind of cool…~

A gentle hand coming to rest on her back disrupts Schuyler's pleasant thoughts. The unexpected touch trying to gain her attention becomes paramount, dampening her other senses and overriding the music as if someone turned the volume down in her mind.

Chibs' flat palm slides down between her shoulder blades and around her hip where his fingers wrap loosely. Whatever ideas were brought to Chibs' mind by the live performance led him to embrace the woman at his side in a less then discrete manner. If their friends tore their eyes from the stage there would be no denying Chibs' intentions.

Nevertheless, Schuyler meets the man's gaze. Neither is fronting any more. Schuyler feels Chibs' grip tighten when their eyes meet with resonate understanding. And again, her thoughts are drawn to the family she left behind.

~So come out, come out, wherever you are…~

Her parents, specifically. Gestures of romance were rare as could be expected amongst crime syndicate royalty. Each was keenly aware a misplaced hand or lingering glance could be read as weakness. Samantha was just as much a part of club life as her husband and together they presented a united front. Everyone aware of SAMTEX knew that. Any inner workings of their partnership, however, were a concealed secret.

Schuyler can recall live events her parents would escort her to. It's the one setting they felt they could safely congregate free from their chosen business. Music happened to be the sole connection she held to her father beyond the kutte. When attending concerts with anyone beyond their daughter the couple would remain steadfast in their rigid, standoffish act. But when it was just the three of them, their family unit, the seasoned lovers could be vulnerable. And Eddie would cradle his arm around Sammy. If only for a song or two.

~We were misfits…~

These memories are Schuyler's examples of a flourishing relationship worth pursuing. As these mental images swell in her mind's eye, she ducks her head to hide a growing smile and slowly crosses her arms to avoid giving away her position. Gazing at the hand atop her waist, she instantly feels connected to her parents, their legacy, and feels her cheeks burn scarlet.

Seeing Schuyler recede has Chibs fearful he has overstepped a boundary. He knows better than to try and force a reciprocation of his feelings. To foster a connection in public when rules have already been put in place. And in front of the club no less! Holding Schuyler as if he has any claim to her. He feels humiliated and begins to withdraw, wishing he could undo the damage he's responsible for, with the knowledge he has moved too fast. In an instant, he convinces himself there will be no second chance with the woman who is so incredibly certain in her every action.

Only to freeze when Schuyler swivels to fit more comfortably against his chest. She, in essence, uses him as a support beam. His heart stutters, realizing she's accepting his embrace. He stands perfectly still and says a prayer that none of their siblings turn their heads. For the length of a song, he can believe they will get a chance to try.

Self-assured, Schuyler tells herself that no one can see her from behind Chibs' frame. When the next songs calls for the audience to join in an act of solidarity, she takes the opportunity to draw remaining eyes away from herself.

Schuyler taps Juice on his right shoulder. He turns his back on her searching for the culprit and gets met with her hand pointing behind him towards the lawn. Hundreds of cellphones and lighters have been set ablaze. Arms sway to the restorative melody. Juice takes the cue and taps the prospect on his right shoulder. Schuyler's plan worked and her company remains clueless to the embracing couple as they soak up the concert experience.

Schuyler's own experience wouldn't be complete without dancing along to the finale. After all, it's in line with how she has behaved during the entire rest of the show. When Shinedown bumps the tempo and threatens to blow their every speaker out with their curtain call Schuyler stealthily pats Chibs' leg so he knows it's time to let her go. From there she shimmies between the chairs and her friends where they spend the remaining number dancing wildly to their hearts content. Bouncing on the balls of their feet and chanting at the tops of their lungs they are sure to feel the effects of the concert the following day.

The radio plays out of the venue. The Reaper Crew detours for one last stop at a food stand. They consume their meal contentedly as they lumber in the direction of their bikes on a buzz compatible to that of a post-church hangout. Each is ready to return to their secluded sector of the world. Civilian life makes for an entertaining vacation, but it will never be permanent habitation for this selective group.

Parked at the far end of the gradually vacating lot they are of the last to leave the premises. Civilians scramble into their vehicles and lurch into lanes in a hurry to beat the accumulating traffic. The MC goes completely unaware of the thinning crowd around them. The further they walk the quieter it becomes, and soon individual conversations are distinguishable from the group's own.

The bikes are clustered within several parking spaces underneath an illuminating lamp post. There are no other parked cars close at hand and darkness stretches wide between any pair of towering light poles.

The men are eager to get on the road. They replace the chains on their wallets and straddle their bikes imaging the long drive ahead.

None of them took notice when Schuyler grew exceptionally quiet during the walk. Nor were they alerted to the widening of her gate as though she were more anxious to reach her bike than they were.

Resolutely, she paces around her V-rod as though putting it between herself and another object. She retrieves something from her saddle bag and carefully conceals it behind her back.

It isn't until Schuyler separates from the group that her siblings begin to take notice of her behavior. They search for her expecting she'll be on her bike ready to leave. Rather they spot her leaning against a tree in a patch of artificially cultivated grass.

The woman, always aware of her surroundings, had been listening to a conversation held between a pair of nondescript men who had followed her from the seats, outside of the stadium, and through the lot. The further they strayed from swaths of people the louder their crass conversation grew. They had seen the lone woman walking in a huddle of men and decided they would breach the ranks. The men, drunk and overzealous from the performance, were searching for an easy lay.

The stalkers walk in the glow of a vertical spotlight and disappear into a blacked-out buffer zone between street lamps next to Schuyler. They figure she has decided to approach them since she left her group and confidently call out to her.

"Hey beautiful. How's your night going?" The first man ventures.

"You're looking pretty bored out here rolling with these deadbeats." His friend surmises.

"Looks to me they don't know what to do with you. Why don't you come with us? We'll show you how to have a good time."

Schuyler smiles playfully regardless if they can make out her features. "You think you can show me a good time?"

The first man pushes himself in front of the other drawing dangerously close to Schuyler. "Come back to my car and I'll show you how good a time you can have in the backseat. We'll go for as long as you can handle it."

"Then I'll have my turn," the second man threatens.

The trek to the bikes gave Schuyler time to come up with a plan to teach these men a valuable lesson. "I'm not interested. But maybe I can show you a good time." The object concealed behind her back is loaded .38. She shoves it in their faces walking them backwards away from the tree. "Does this look like a good time to you?"

"Crazy bitch!" – "What the fuck man?! Hell, with this!"

Schuyler has time to pull back the hammer and point the barrel at the ground before the avid stalkers turn tail and scurry off into darkness.

It's true Schuyler had ordered weapons to be left behind. She herself had left her knives and gun locked in a safe in her closet. However, the gun she now holds is a backup. She keeps it hidden next to her emergency cigarette carton underneath a set of clothes she travels with.

Schuyler darts back to her V-rod. She packs the piece securely while speaking pointed at the men who try abysmally to hold back their obnoxious support of her. "I expect y'all to do as I say, not as I do. Now hop on a bike and let's get the lead out before I get arrested!"

The motorcade peels out of the lot leaving food wrappers on the asphalt. It's agreed that Schuyler should ride in the middle of the company, tucked in safely amongst the bikes, in case her stunt was brought to the attention of the venue's paid for hire security team.

The drive to Charming feels longer than it had at the start of the day. The group breaks up into pieces, heading off on their own one at a time. Juice readies to leave by way of idling his bike turned halfway around a corner and waiting for Schuyler to pass him.

She stalls long enough to exchange farewells. "Nos vemos, Juicy."

"We'll see you," he says loud enough for her to hear over their motors. "Thanks for making today happen. It was a blast."

"There's no one I would have rather seen that show with." The friends touch knuckles and go their separate ways.

Before long merely three bikes are traveling together. Schuyler comes to a stop in the middle of a deserted street and kills her engine. She revolves around the seat to face Chibs and Tig who stop a few feet behind her. In the dead of night, they carry out a whispered conversation.

"That shit you pulled back there was reckless." Chibs' comment could be meant for any one of them. The corner of his lip twitches up while staring at the half helmet he drops in his lap.

Schuyler is riding on an adrenaline rush from the concert. She's aware they took turns playing fast and loose. "What's the point in living if you're not going to take risks along the way?"

"Shit was badass." Tig slings his own helmet onto his handlebars leaning heavily on his outstretched arm. "Serves those junior mints right for what they did. Maybe they'll think twice about chatting up a chick who's spoken for."

Schuyler shakes her head derisively. "Last I checked I wasn't. Is it just that easy to make it official in your world?"

"Felt official to me at the show." There's no humor in Tig's voice. A dark haze swarms in his eyes again. "If you wanted to be sure of it we can take it back to yours. Finish what we started."

As tempted as she may be by Tig's unwavering charism, she's conscious of the fact they are not making a decision alone. The time she shared with Chibs burns fresh in her mind. "And you? How do you feel about this?"

"Well, that'd a be jus' fine by me." Chibs' eyes rake over the people in front of him in entirely different ways. With Tig it's as though he's seen the man a thousand times and gravitates to his favorite features never growing tired of gazing upon him. With Schuyler it's as though she's a new map he has yet to read but he's eagerly prepared to study. "The quicker you two do…". His voice trails off. Similarly, to how Schuyler had made Tig a promise, Chibs vows there will be a future encounter.

Schuyler can't help but shake her head in disbelieve. These men are planning on playing the long game with her and the buck doesn't stop after tonight. A seductive smile stretches across her face and she motions for Tig to join her. Motors reeve to life and the new couple races off.

There are fewer places for Tig to hide his four-hundred-pound machine at Schuyler's rented dwelling compared with Chibs' house. As a precautionary measure Tig parks his panhead where it will be obstructed by Schuyler's motorcycle and her Ford F-150 truck. Schuyler acknowledges a new system will have to be put in place for the long term. Currently, hiding in plain sight is the furthest issue from their minds.

Schuyler elegantly dismounts. "Should have stopped off at your place. You could have ridden bitch to me on the way here."

"I've never known Chibs to hit a woman, but you being the first person I share a ride with might be what pushes him to." Removing his helmet, he ruffles his curls into a more suitable place. "Not worried about me using the front door?"

"Most normal people are asleep at two in the morning." Schuyler leads Tig with her house key gripped in hand. "Anyway, I've brought plenty of strange men around at odd hours of the night. I'm willing to bet you're by far the strangest."

Tig ducks blindly into the house. His eyes are on the attractive woman disrobing. Disappointment wells when she stops with her socks. "Nice cage out front. I thought you'd own a beater."

Schuyler leaves her shoes under a coffee table in her bland living room. She can't help but to smile at him giving away her attempt at humoring him. "Yeah? Something tells me I'm about to."

Tig throws his head back with a howl of laughter. Excitement mounts in him because there's no longer a need to restrain himself from her. Hungry for her wise-cracking lips, he wolfishly seizes her by the waist.

"Wait, let me brush my teeth. You wouldn't want to know the taste of Alpo." She tries to loosen his fingers to sell her line of reasoning.

He does the exact opposite by bringing their hips together. "It's starting to grow on me."

"I think I've grown on you."

"Something's growing."

They coast on the same wavelength. Eagerly matching one another's intensity. An open-mouthed kiss melds their tongues together. Schuyler picks Tig's shirt open, one button at a time. Her hands comb through a smattering of chest hair, easing the material off the man's shoulders. This time when Tig pulls Schuyler's shorts down her body she steps clear out of them.

Their clothes litter their path through the house.

Tig's hands knead Schuyler's smooth, curvaceous thighs to test how rough he can afford to be. She doesn't shy from his demanding touch. He glides them underneath her too-big shirt, across her stomach, and further up to fondle her chest over her bra. He unlocks his lips from hers long enough to breath out, "I've imagined the shape of your body a thousand times." He tugs on her bottom lip before pulling away. "Nothing compared to having you now."

"What makes you think you're just going to have me?" Schuyler says, pinning him with a predatory gaze. "By my count, you owe me from the concert."

"Really?" Tig discards Schuyler's shirt behind him. Carpet surfacing underfoot suggests they've entered the bedroom. "Well…show me the error of my ways."

She steps out of his reach to lay herself atop her bed. "I'm an equal opportunist. Lose some more layers, so I can see what I have to work with. Then we'll settle the score." In nothing but a purple bra, with her back facing him, she lounges on crossed forearms. The soft pads of her feet are flat to the ceiling. She kicks lazily.

Tig steadily strips his clothes. He's utterly captivated by the carefree woman before him. He cannot imagine ever becoming desensitized to viewing her tattoo. The flowers seem to come alive. They ripple against her skin as if effected by a breeze each time she flicks her ankles. Her posture indicates that his presence doesn't intimidate her in the slightest. A fact he greatly appreciates. As much as he had been in a rush to get Schuyler alone he doesn't want his time with her to be over sooner than it necessarily has to be.

The looks Schuyler throws the man over her shoulder are flirtatious, clearly in no rush herself. Tig is built like a brickhouse. His abdomen may not be cut but it's firm. Formed from years of grunt work. Veins protrude in his hands as he unbuckles his belt. She catches her mouth watering when he discards of his boxers. Whether it be from the booze she indulged in over the course of the day or the strain of change over the last few weeks, Schuyler is more at ease with Tig than she has any business being. Judging Tig's rising cock, aching for attention, the feeling is mutual.

"Enjoying the view, are we?" Schuyler asks, though guilty of the offense herself. "Care to join me?" Schuyler half expects the man with a one-track mind to pounce her without any pretense. She's pleasantly surprised by what he decides to do on his own.

Tig drops to his knees beside the full-sized bed. His hands lift Schuyler's hips above the mattress, so she kneels strong on her hands and knees. Unceremoniously, he licks along the path of her soft, parted lips and sighs heavily against her when he feels her grip the back of his head. One of his hands slides down Schuyler's leg to massage at the ink compulsively. He delves deeper, spurred by her guidance.

Schuyler pulls Tig close by a fistful of short curls, searching for contact with his explorative tongue and abrasive whiskers. She angles his face and sets his speed. Tig is pliable, letting himself be tugged in place, while his willing mouth is ground against her. She coaxes him to coat every crevice of her most sensitive skin. A sigh tumbles from her lips when Tig's mouth wanders. His tongue lapping between her cheeks greedily.

Bored of foreplay, she releases him. "Roll over for me Tigger."

Never one to ignore an order, Tig eagerly complies. He spins on his knees until his back is against the bed and he tilts his head onto the mattress.

Schuyler smothers Tig with her thighs. She combs gently through his hair while rubbing her cunt against his face and she has to stifle a moan when he buries his tongue deep inside her. A bit of additional pressure from her fingers tracing an arch shape between her pink lips has her inaudibly humming in ecstasy and Tig drinks in her pleasure. It's a minute later before Schuyler composes herself and let's Tig up from his humble position.

"Perfect." Tig mumbles while placing a kiss to her hip. His voice sends vibrations through her curve-laden body.

"Tastes as good as the wrapping suggests?"

Still kneeling, Tig replaces his lips with his fingers. Gently parting her folds, he presses into her while kissing and nipping the skin of her round ass. His free hand fumbles under the bed and, irritated, comes up empty. He remembers where he is and asks pointblank, "Do you have lube?"

Schuyler is momentarily yanked from the scene by her own laughter. "You're confident I'll need it," she teases. "Bottom drawer. In the back."

"I know you will." Tig expertly retrieves the lube from her bedside table. The bottle fits nicely in his hand and the syrup-like gel warms on his skin. "I didn't know you had roommates. Who were you being quiet for?" He positively revels in the sound of his slicked-up fingers gliding into her wet entrance.

"You'll have to do a lot more than that to get a rise out of me, baby."

"Say that again," he demands. Tig abandons his task. He shifts down the bed feeling an urge to seek out Schuyler's eyes.

Schuyler's expression morphs into a devilish grin realizing she has discovered Tig's Achilles heel. "You would be riled by something so simple. That's all you really want, isn't it Tigger? You want to be my baby boy."

Tig shoots up from the floor. He holds himself back long enough to fist his cock, coating it in excess lubricant. "What if I do?" Then his hands are impulsively separating her legs; he's climbing on top of her.

"Woah, woah. Absolutely not!"

Her hands push him away by his chest. "Let's try this instead." Schuyler rolls onto her back and rests her weight on a single hand. She spreads her legs in a way she deems comfortable and motions for him to join her more calmly, by her own terms.

Tig edges nearer, happy to follow her lead. Hands fall to the comforter on either side of her body. His knee comes to rest on the mattress and he leans in to steal a new kiss. Unintentionally, his weight is made to be off balance.

Schuyler has her own plans. She reaches with both arms, wraps a leg around his calf to topple him, and drags his body onto the bed in one fell swoop.

Tig lands on his back. Before he gets his bearings, he realizes Schuyler's weight has settled over his legs.

"You should have anticipated this." Her hands develop a mind of their own. She kneads her way up his torso with languid kisses accompanying them. The journey ends with a single bite on his right pectoral. Her teeth pull his skin taut.

"Ow, hey!"

"What's the matter, tough guy? Afraid of getting bruised."

"Eye for an eye."

Tig sits up, so his body can be parallel with the floor. Supporting Schuyler in his lap is the excuse he's been looking for to grope her ass salaciously. Kneading her buttocks together and prying them apart, he relishes the skin giving between his hands. True to his word, Tig finds a place to bite down on her neck looming centimeters above his mouth.

"Pause. Let's agree, bite where clothes will cover any marks, yeah?"

"Whatever the lady wants."

Tig theatrically leans Schuyler away from him to gain more access to her unmarred skin. Another bite on Schuyler's ribcage makes her gasp and close her eyes. "That's better."

Schuyler grasps Tig's cock standing at attention between their bodies. Only his words slow her momentum.

"There's rubbers in my wallet. Front pocket of my jeans."

"How conventional." She hasn't forgotten the discussion needing to be had. Far from it. Aware of the severity of her words she maintains an intimate point of contact. Her hand glides featherlight over his shaft, stimulating his intrigue. "You know, I've been considering it. Do we really need to go through the paces on this one?"

Tig's breath hitches when Schuyler's finger finds a prominent vein to trace at an agonizingly tame speed. "What-what do you mean by that?"

She uses his shoulders as a brace. She leans over him until their lips are tantalizingly close. "I've never been here before. This should be different than what I'm used to." Holding firmly, she uses the head of his cock to draw teasing patterns against her velvety sex. "In every way. What do you say baby? Want to take a chance with me?"

The last thing Tig needs is more convincing. He's just able to conjure a coherent thought through the haze taking root in his mind. Chasing her lips, he replies, "You're charting this course. I'm just along for the ride."

A groan spills from Schuyler's lips as she pierces herself on Tig's swollen cock, stretching and expanding to be filled by him. Tig clamps his mouth upon hers to swallow the intoxicating sound.

They quickly agree on a pace to rock their hips together in tandem. Soon Tig loses himself in the enveloping warmth he's been craving. Her skin exudes volcanic levels of heat which consume his every nerve-ending. A break in their kiss means he gets to nuzzle her neck and happily drown in her coconut scented hair.

Schuyler, meanwhile, rests her cheek against Tig's mass of curls, toying with several strands, and paws demandingly at his ink. Emblems of the MC rest atop his biceps. Bold blacks highlighted by the smallest portions of color. One of many signs of his individuality in an otherwise conformist organization. Yet, it's the pinup girl tattooed on his left forearm that catches her eye. Her fingertips brush over the small words written in fading lines.

Schuyler's grip on his arm becomes abusive. A reaction to Tig shortening the length of his thrusts, plunging deeper into Schuyler with increasingly desperate strokes.

"Are you really so eager?" Her voice revisits a teasing, singsong note.

Tig replies in little more than a growl as he pulls Schuyler further down onto his lap. "Fuck, I want to cum inside you!"

"Say please," Schuyler smirks coyly.

Before he can rebut, Schuyler slips the ring and middle finger of her right hand into his open mouth. "Changed my mind. There are better uses for your mouth."

Tig, secretly longing for praise, lavishes her fingers with his tongue. His eyes remain set on Schuyler's face and his cheeks hollow around her slender digits.

She presses the back of his tongue. "Very good." She retracts her fingers to blaze a trail between her legs. Baring down, Schuyler's powerful thighs strain with the effort to keep an even, fast pace. Her fingers imitate the rhythm of her hips over her quivering clit. "I want to see you fall apart."

Tig feels the pressure build low inside him. Her commandeering words send a jolt of electricity pulsing through his body. His hand climbs between her shoulder blades to cling to her like a life preserver. Blunt fingernails dig into her skin with enough strength to bruise. His curls fall around his shoulders as he throws his head back. In a strangled voice, he shouts, "SKY!"

She clamps a hand over his agape mouth. In his ear she whispers in a commanding tone, "Call me 'Ma'am'."

His eyes slam shut as he forces her down onto his cock for the last time. His shoulder muscles roll under Schuyler's palm as his release washes over him.

Schuyler doesn't wait. She captures his attention with an inflexible grip on his jaw. "Eyes on me." Simultaneously, the pad of her index finger runs over his mustache. "Do not move."

Tig nods numbly in a euphoric daze. Eyes glaze over and his senses are oppressed as Schuyler satiates her own pleasures using his body.

Any attempt at composure is forgotten. Curses escape her while she arches into Tig. Gripping his shoulder, she lays herself bare. Fingers rub circles adamantly into her clit while her muscles contract rhythmically, cockwarming the length she holds inside herself. Her chest shakes from exertion until she is spent.

Schuyler slides from his lap and rolls onto her back, panting lightly. From her left Tig voices a question. "Now, we're even?"

"Agreed. Was it worth the concert? And the wait I put you through?" she asks in return.

"It's never been that hard for me to wait on something and I was addicted to heroin in the 90s." Though joking about the addiction, Tig's sentiment is deadly serious. Exhausted, Tig reclines on the bed beside her wanting to meet her eyes. "I don't think I can wait that long again."

"I don't intend to make you." She turns her head towards him and pointedly sniffs at the air. "How long have you been sharing Chibs' shampoo?"

"Couple years. But it's my brand, I've got sensitive skin. Real particular about what goes in my hair. You know, you should ask a person before you pull on it like that. I mean, I wasn't doing that to you. I respect you enough not to cross that line."

Tig's exaggerated griping has Schuyler rolling her eyes. She shimmies off the mattress in the hopes he will cease. As he continues, her hand slips behind her back to unclasp her bra and she lets it drop to the floor. She leaves him on the mattress, entering the adjoining bathroom for a moment of privacy, but leaves the door open a crack. An invitation.

Tig waits for the sound of cascading water before pursuing her.

When he enters, Schuyler is facing the shower. Her hair is drenched, and steam has risen over head. Tig's eyes rove her body. Her breasts hang heavily and separate when they are no longer supported by her brassiere. Stretch marks accent her ribs. The only marks on her body other than the ones she chose to have placed and they are equally as breathtaking.

He opens the sliding door and steps behind her.

Schuyler's hands rub soap over her arms and chest when she engages him. "You know that's the first time I made it in a while that my bra wasn't the first thing to come off."

"That's 'cause I'm an ass man." His hands rest on her hips as if to prove his point. It will take him time to become use to touching Schuyler so wantonly. "It's one thing me and Chibs disagree on."

"Really? Something to look forward to. It's your turn." Schuyler trades places with the man. Rivulets of water track down Tig's back and she feels a need to trace them with her hands.

Tig dips his head into the stream. Eyes are closed while Schuyler charts his rough skin as if it's something to be admired. "I saw you with him during the last band."

"Were you jealous?" her voice pangs with a hint of guilt.

"No, no." Quite the opposite. "Don't worry. I don't think anybody else saw. I did because I couldn't keep my eyes off you."

Schuyler smiles bashfully. She reaches for a bottle of soap. Lathering his back, her hands dip lower and lower as she goes. "What about seeing us together?"

He answers honestly. "'Was hard to look away. Had to. Kept from drawing attention." Tig takes the soap bottle from her. He scrubs the front of his body and lets water rinse the suds from his tan abdomen and limp hanging member. He spins to face her, letting the soap run off his back. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad?"

Schuyler nonverbally signals she wants to trade places again and lets Tig continue. "Chibs and I, we're use to keeping things confidential. Now that you're involved it's going to be a lot harder to keep us under wraps. Might make more sense if people see you two together from time to time."

"You mean like keeping up appearances at parties? Hooking up publicly. You're talking about a huge change. Why are you volunteering him? I mean, would he be open to it? Why not volunteer yourself?"

Tig wraps his arms securely around Schuyler. He holds her tightly to himself. One hand caressing her legs and the other cupping her breasts. "I knew what Chibs was up to before he did it. I get why he did it. He's old-fashioned that way."

"That's a polite way to phrase it." Schuyler reciprocates his embrace, adoring the way he speaks so fondly of Chibs, and shadows his arms with her own, relaxing against him.

"Yeah, it is." Tig scratches his beard along her shoulder. "Besides the club won't believe you got with me."

"I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or an insult."

"Come on. Look at me!" Tig rocks his hips forward. His length slides between her cheeks. "I'm too much for you to handle."

"Is that so?" Schuyler rotates in his grasp careful not to break contact. She's greeted with his trademark sneer. "I'm going to prove how easily I can handle you."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Author's Notes: You got me! It was all an elaborate rouse to progress the poly triad. Obviously the individual couples are in different stages of life and will always function in unique ways. However, their every action and inaction from henceforth will be leading to the period where the three of them can successfully be together.

I'd also like to mention that the conversation had around condoms was less about the condoms and safety (as a doctor, Schuyler would never risk herself or a partner, and they will be safe) and more about laying the foundation for a long term partnership. Something Schuyler has never pursued before, thus her desire for a difference in approach. And don't fret, Chibs isn't being left out. His time will come. Like everything else, this plot is a gradual process. For all intents and purposes (and time between updates; lmao) this is a 'romantic' slowburn.

In the next chapter, the story will return to its previously established format. We will pick up in S1E6 "AK-51". Know that within the next few chapters I plan to either combine or skip episodes I personally find 'boring' to make them better fit Schuyler's narrative and get us a little closer to the S1 finale. We will continue to introduce new characters, new stakes, and new secrets along the way. And Schuyler gains essential allies along the way.