Summary: The summary and notes of part one, 'Fair Warning', apply to this chapter. This chapter in particular is inspired by and dedicated to: khyharah. Everyone should for sure check out their works as their writing is fun and creative! I've been reading one work and it helped me to finish this chapter by trying new things to get through sequences I did not particularly want to write at the time. Thanks again for all you do for the community and for your support of this work!
Author's Notes: Remember, sentences appearing as "(Dialogue)" are dialogue tags where characters speak in a language other than English (mostly Spanish) in the story, but appear as English to stay consistent as I do not speak the other languages that will be used periodically by characters to communicate.
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A tactical police unit formed from police cruisers, unmarked vans, and upwards of thirty men and women backed with the full force of the ATF descends upon the compound. Half a dozen officers storm the picnic table. Patches are plucked from their seats and thrown to the ground like sand bags. Opie gets taken from his comfortable leaning position; laid face first on the concrete. The rest are brought to their knees then chins, lined up single file.
Schuyler has to be hoisted off the table by two officials. The glass flies from her aloft hand and shatters. She mockingly complains about the potential to bruise. This leads for the officer behind her to ease his grip when detaining the prospect. Half-Sack comes to rest on the ground beside her. A wide, toothy grin on his face as his hands are zip tied behind his back.
Another subunit closes down the garage. TM employees are also detained. A raid beings inside the dual buildings. Medallions are torn off walls and shelves are swiped clean. Furniture gets flipped and paper is shredded. The agency's efforts are found to be in vain. All the while, enforcers circle the sewage truck without ever lifting a brow of suspicion towards it.
Eventually, Agent Stahl stomps her way out of an SUV throwing a hand radio in her frustration. "Get them the hell off the ground. We're done here. I want to be gone in five."
The same men who cuffed their hands cut the zip ties. Everyone wrings their wrists and adjusts their leather feeling little more than mildly inconvenienced.
"Find what you were looking for?" Jackson throws his head to the side, so his hair shakes out.
Stahl squints her eyes suspiciously against the sunlight. "I'm not sure how you did it, but you proved yourself resourceful."
"My father was resourceful. I'm adaptable." Jackson smiles charmingly. Opie, biting the inside of his cheek, shoulders his brother in encouragement, and receiving a sideswipe back.
"What the hell was in that eighteen-wheeler in the back lot, and where has it gone, hmm?"
"Not sure how aware you are of your own surroundings," Chibs heckles, "but this is a mechanic shop. Occasionally we're to receive a shipment."
Stahl doesn't expend her energy engaging with a common accessory. She refutes with her eyes secure on the man in charge. "Is there a driver who can support his claim? One who has documentation on hand?"
Schuyler dismisses her with a leer. "Charming is a quaint little town. I'm sure he's gone for a stroll. Maybe grabbed a doughnut."
Stahl gets in Schuyler's face. "It was a pleasure meeting you. Would you like my business card? We can join a yoga class…Go shopping, just us girls."
"Look at that, obsessed with me already. What do you say, I'll wear the tie, you wear the veil?"
Stahl pitches her voice low. Her patience runs thin, but her efforts to keep her temper in check are evident. "In seriousness if you ever feel like talking to someone. I'm happy to make time to listen."
"I bet you say that to all of your suspects."
Last to have his hands freed, Half-Sack sneaks up on Schuyler and wraps an arm around her neck. "Doubt it. Nobody she's chasing looks half as good as my sister." He plants a kiss on her cheek and Schuyler's lips curl. Eyes locked dead with the federal agent.
Realizing she will never have the last word; Stahl abandons the premises with her unit in tow. Off to formulate schemes to carry out another day.
"It doesn't get closer than that." Juice airs a sigh of relief. The prospect continues wringing his wrists where the zip tie left temporary indents.
"Too close," Schuyler agrees. "But we pulled it off."
The club relocates to the bar. Opie takes a phone call which reminds everyone the day is yet to be over. "That was Piney. He's got a fix on Meineke's compound. Says they want to make a deal on the rest of our shipment. Knows no one's buying. They're offering less than half street tag."
"Cocky sonsofbitches." Opie's mindful expression causes Jackson to reconsider. "You think we should sell to those guys?"
"It gets the guns out of our hands. You can't say the club doesn't need the cash."
"That assumes we leave them alive," Tig implies.
"That's not an option." Jackson catalogues the possibilities. "We make them think we have a deal. Wait until they're comfortable. Ambush them after. Did Piney mention a body count?"
"South of two dozen," Opie's tone is pessimistic.
Tig concludes, "Then we're gonna be all hands-on."
Chibs indicates for Schuyler to speak. "Tell them what you told me."
"If it were me I would have the guns melted down. Throw them in a fire pit and forget they existed. Arson draws attention but leaves no evidence. It's a clean get away. If Opie could use his talents to rig something more sophisticated…?"
Opie reserves his emotions. "'Could turn those conspiracy freaks into ash. The Old Man would be home free."
Jackson signs off on the collective strategy. "The club with him, bro. It's a solid move. I never doubted us for a second."
Schuyler shows a compassionate hesitancy. "Is it something that makes sense for you to do?" She would willingly accept any excuse.
Opie picks his head up. "We told dad we could handle this. I'm going to help see this through to the end."
Schuyler parks in front of a café on Main Street beside a familiar red Dyna. In the establishments' furthest back corner Cherry and the Tacoma prospect have been sharing a table for the better part of the day. Cold cups of coffee are close at hand.
"Miss me?" The prospect rises from his seat to make room for the Patch.
"Like a fish misses water. Where the hell have you been?" Cherry's words are hurried, but not disrespectful.
"It's been an eventful day." Schuyler fills the seat across from her excitable companion.
The prospect comments, "Smells like you passed a fire on the way here."
Schuyler's mind drifts back to the last several hours spent receiving one on one pyrotechnical lessons from Opie. The plaid wearing giant had opted to work solo as he had grown most accustomed. After all, the last time he relied on a partner to carry out an operation he was subsequently uprooted from his life for five years. It was Schuyler's passion to incorporate new skills into her repertoire that convinced him otherwise. Her ability to look at the high school dropout as though he had knowledge to pass on eased him into the role of teacher. Schuyler's anticipation bubbling to the surface had been infectious. He ended up looking forward to his latest masterpiece's combustion.
In the meantime, Jackson precured a blue Chevy truck with the thought of using it for transport. He arrived on scene a mile from the hideout at the same time Piney peddled in on his tricycle. The senior citizen was to be the overseer. The ex-army men wouldn't trust anyone else inside club ranks.
"Thank you for putting things in motion sweetheart." Piney's bear paw weighed heavily on Schuyler's shoulder.
"Don't thank me. Jackson's the one who turned my stream of consciousness into a viable plan." Schuyler was sure to give credit where due.
"I shouldn't have doubted either of you. You're helping an old man clean up a stupid mess. It won't happen again." Piney's gaze had traveled to his son. It was as though Opie knew his Old man had been building up the nerve to question him. "You came because you're the one in charge of explosives here son?"
"Yeah dad, 'my handy work. The club needed me, and I wanted to be there for you on this." Confidence mounted in Opie for his decision to don his leather jacket stitched with the Reaper once more. The first time he had pulled it on since he brought it home from Chino in his personal items bag and stored it on a shelf near the back of his closet.
Being men of few words, no more were exchanged between them, but Piney brought his son into a conservative, but firm hug.
Last to arrive were Tig, Chibs, Juice, and Half-Sack who had been sent to retrieve the AK-47s from the sewage truck. Located easily because Schuyler had paid the driver to tip them off. 'Stained' had taken on a double meaning for the troublesome gear. The men showed up wreaking of excrement. The youngest complained the entire time. Going so far as to rub themselves against trucks or trees when given the chance. Tig, on the other hand, gloated about pulling off another job scot-free and dodging the nosey ATF. While the club loaded explosively rigged weapons wrapped in sandbags into the stolen pickup, Tig yapped about taking a victory lap at the Jelly Bean, a local sleazy strip club, when his colleagues' beratement began.
"Not smelling like that you're not." – "No amount of ones will mask that stench." – "You couldn't pay me enough!"
Schuyler added her own two cents. "His outsides match his insides now. My money says he's a frequent flyer. The girls there are probably use to him spewing bullshit."
"There's no reason to hate a man just because he's got a higher body count than you." Another double entendre.
"I think our scales are different. I count orgasms, not bodies."
Jackson chuckled, heaving a sandbag off his shoulder. "Yeah, and all she's got to do is look at a dude to make him cream his jeans. I think she's got us all beat on that one, Tiggy."
Conversation and labor continued in equal measure. Schuyler took the compliment in stride. No one thought any different of Tig's antics. He was known to attend cash only businesses for miles around. Schuyler quietly theorized that the outlandish man might have been setting himself up to have a realistic cover story for several hours. She made a note to herself to question him later.
Piney escorted Jackson and Opie to the drop site. When they returned the blue truck was gone and several thousand dollars were in hand. A drop in the bucket of their overhanging debt. At the bottom of the hill, the explosion was heard before being spotted through the tops of trees. There was hooting and hollering, but no one was more impressed than Opie.
Schuyler drew her focus back to the present. "Something like that. I had the fun job. My guys smell a lot worse than I do. If you stick around," these words meant for Cherry, "maybe I'll tell you about it someday." She flippantly waves her hand. "Prospect, the truck is yours. Try not to hit anything on your way out of town."
"What about the cargo?" He almost assuredly is unaware of what he had been transporting.
"It had to take a couple detours, but it got where it was needed most." Schuyler looks between the young adults. "Did anyone bother you kids today?"
"No one paid us any mind." Cherry's voice twitters. She's self-assured in her ability to follow directions.
"Figured you guys were caught up at the clubhouse. We heard about the raid." The prospect informs without lowering his voice. "The town talks."
A pair of middle-aged women in sundresses look down their noses at the table of three. Schuyler's expression is reprimanding while Cherry's is more dumbfounded at the man's thickness. "Like I said. You should head out. Before the garage closes."
The prospect makes a saluting gesture. "Roger." Before taking his leave, he asks, "And, you won't tell Happy about my mistake today, will you?"
Schuyler droops her shoulders. "Your Uber rating is plummeting the longer you stand here."
"Right. Right." The prospect beelines for the door with one last wave to Cherry.
"And Prospect!" Schuyler calls. "Next time you spot a damsel in distress, you alert your nearest supervisor, or you keep walking." She receives a flustered affirmative then he vanishes.
Once alone, Cherry bombards Schuyler with a tidal wave of declarations. "You've got to see things from my end. Jerry assigned me to Clay. And yeah, I knew who he was, but nothing was certain at the time. I had to do my job. In case…" It's clear she hadn't wanted to entertain the possibility a relationship may not be feasible for herself and the young man she had come for. "And it meant absolutely nothing."
"We do what we have to. Doesn't mean we have to be proud of it. Did you get to see Half-Sack after? Explain it to him. Maybe, hookup?"
The brunette becomes discouraged. "I couldn't find him. Figured he grabbed up one of the other girls and was avoiding me that next morning. Can't say I blame him!" Her pitch rapidly rises and falls with her mood. "It doesn't bother me, really. I get it. I'd never expect him to stop or slow down on my account. I just want him to know, if it had been up to me, I would have chosen him that night. I chose him now."
"That's bullshit. He can feel jealous, but you're not permitted to feel jealously when he runs off?"
"You mean, jealously is natural?"
"I wouldn't agree with that either." Schuyler's lips quirk. "Just because I'm not a jealous person doesn't mean what you feel is any less real. Half-Sack was feeling it, too. He thinks a girl like you can have anyone and you chose a guy that looks like Clayton Morrow." She crinkles her nose in disinterest.
"He has to realize –."
"He doesn't. He's new. It hurt him."
The senor woman's voice takes on a teasing air. She hadn't meant to be too hard on the girl. "Look, men think there's one thing they bring to the table. You reject that, you reject who they are. And you, young lady, went and jumped on someone else's."
Cherry can't hold back a grin. "Men can't tell the difference between a hard decision…" Schuyler makes a hand gesture like she is pulling a guy off. Cherry cracks up, earning a second glare from the women attempting to enjoy their early dinner. "…and genuine interest. Men think their dicks are so goddamn special that they model their entire personalities by them."
"Not Sack though. He was – different. We talked for hours. He never pried. He was so shy about being there. He was sweet."
Schuyler squints her eyes. "They always are. Anyway, you have to show Half-Sack that no matter what you two may get up to it's his dick you chose. Every time."
"I can. It's just that Clay –."
"Clay couldn't care less about you or who you attach yourself to. He hasn't made his mind up about the prospect and his sticking around." Schuyler, on the other hand, has. She wants the boy to be happy. Or, as happy as he can be in as hectic a lifestyle as he has proven himself bound and determined to lead. "It's Clay's Oldlady you need to convince. She hasn't found out. Or, at least, she hadn't up 'til today. You need to make the adult decision and get ahead of this. Go talk it out. Worse comes to worse it ends in a catfight. But, if you take responsibility and hold your own against her, you may stand a chance."
"Is she a tough as nails bitch like you?"
"Little darlin' if you knew Gemma you would understand it should be her wearing this vest. Not me."
Cherry gives a shiver. "The only way out is through." Schuyler's nod encourages her. "Maybe she'll like me just fine. So, if I get Mrs. Morrow's approval –."
"Don't call her Mrs. or Ma'am. For a woman who commands authority she sure does hate titles."
"Alright. And if Clay doesn't order me on the next bus back to Nevada, do you think Half-Sack will hear me out?"
Schuyler folds her arms inward leaning against her elbows on the table. "He doesn't even know how hard it's been on him, waiting for you." Cherry's smile is bright, hopeful. "But hey, do not go diving into this head first and blind. I'm going to tell you something we used to say in grad school. 'Don't go co-signing leases because they agreed to a second date'. You said you'd been preparing yourself for years. You think you know what to expect. Something with a guy like Clay or Jerry. Things they want. If Half-Sack really is different he may want something different too. Go with it. See what you end up with."
The two faithful companions pay the running tab and walk out onto the street. Cherry mentions how she will get to the garage at closing time. Her goal being to find the matriarch on her own for a private discussion. "That way no one sees me if I walk away bloody."
"Gemma will respect you a hell of a lot more if you start communications. That was my one miscalculation. I didn't prioritize the queen bee."
Cherry plays with a single strand of hair between her manicured nails which are in need of a touching up. "Thanks for today. I needed this. A chat with someone who really gets it. I had friends at the brothel, but most of the guys wanted to keep a polite distance until they were sure about me. I've been pretty alone since I made my way west."
"Should I ask where it is you're from?"
Cherry grows quiet, yet answers. "Louisiana."
"That's a lot of states to trek through on your own."
"I had my reasons. Don't really miss anyone I left there."
Schuyler's leg crosses her Harley. "Let's hope we find you plenty of reasons to stay."
"Hey Schuyler." A flirtatious smirk resurfaces on Cherry's face. "You warned me about diving head first. Think about taking things slow. Does that make Kip's bed off limits?"
Schuyler rights her handlebars. "Don't worry about that. I'd say his bed is fair game. Wouldn't want the kid losing his interest in you, would we?"
Schuyler wraps her knuckles against the redwood. An action she's seen used in meetings down in Texas more than in California when a member has something to bring to the table. The motion seems appropriate.
It's the day after the clubhouse raid. The ATF's disturbance put the club behind on matters with a sensitive expiration time. Church has since crossed the thirty-minute mark. A longer meeting than many members can tolerate. They've wracked their brains for solutions. Each answer proposed brought more questions and consequences the club can't afford. Jackson and Tig are butting heads more than usual. Unable it would seem to come to an agreement over any course of action. Schuyler has kept her head down. Letting the men tire themselves out, so they would be inclined to hear her proposal.
"I've got an idea. It's sort of a last resort. But I think we can agree we're at the ends of our ropes."
Two hundred thousand dollars stands between the Sons of Anarchy and an ongoing partnership with the Real IRA to control the trade of artillery dominant along the western Americas. McKeevy, Clay's Californian contact who heavily influences the state's ports, is *adamant* the payment will ensure his profit margins are met while SAMCRO's business undergoes remission. Money has been stockpiled over the course of several weeks from odd jobs and member's alike. Schuyler contributed a modest sum of five grand from a personal savings the same morning. The Sons remain seventy grand short. McKeevy would be paid in full or not at all.
Clay extends a hand, and his ear, towards center table.
"We've tried everything to rake in the cash. Protection runs for Unser, the favor for our man inside, and yesterday's fiasco with the doom preppers." She catches everyone's eye at least once to build intrigue. "Everything short of donating kidneys. The one thing we haven't tried: pirating."
Tig snarls his refute. Less pissed at the woman and more at the frustrating circumstances. "Fucking DVD boxsets. Are we gonna rob storage units while we're at it? Looting is small time for petty want to be criminals."
"Nothing that small. Drugs. Trading, not dealing."
"I'm not sure you read the waver," Bobby interjects, "but this club has a no drug policy. Or haven't you noticed the lack of pinned pupils in this town?"
Juice reclines in his chair. Fingers interlaced behind his head. A sharp contrast to his right knee which has been jackhammering into the floor for the past several minutes. "Nothing but green for miles around."
Schuyler keeps her patience in check. The day began with a dragged-out meeting and her extended shift at the vet clinic ensured it would end the same way. "I'm not talking narcotics. I'm talking about prescriptions. Black-market sales. A little higher than we normally punch." She eyes the SA. "It helps to think of it less like being illegal and more like stealing from those with resources to give back to the resourceless."
"How do you suppose I get my hands on such a valuable commodity?" Clay's is all teeth to see a plan unfold.
Jackson reinforces this notion. "We've got no experience with that kind of business. We wouldn't know where to start."
Schuyler pushes her chair out from the table. She walks towards the back of the room where she paces between filing cabinets. Occasionally she faces the table where she haphazardly draws lines with her finger tips to create visuals the men don't follow. "Hear me out: The medical field operates as an interdependent community where everyone knows someone. Sales reps, insurance providers, trainers and dietitians, specialists, you name it. Hospitals themselves operate similarly to fast food chains. The juggernauts hold a monopoly because they have the locations and resources. Their role in the community is to share those resources with everyone else in an endless cycle. The more they trade, the further their name reaches and the higher they get to drive up prices. They literally market themselves as the best and the consumer falls for it. The little guys are left in the mud. The outer rings of the community. It's not unusual to see them fight for scraps. Their bottom line hardly gets met month to month. Protocol and red tape kills their earnings." She's met with blank stares. "Alright, alright. The smaller and more in need of a place, the more willing they are to bypass all that. That's where we come in."
Chibs assists her to fuel interest. "You say if we steal from the elitists the little fellows will pay for the stuff in cash?"
She nods vigorously. "The bigger the hospital, the more often delivery vehicles roll through. Meds, surgical tools, hell, grooming kits. A lot of the time shipments come from warehouses, but they can also come from other hospitals."
Jackson throws out a question. "We would be targeting one of those delivery trucks?"
"Supply trucks coming from warehouses are too risky. Investigations are more thorough and harder to slip because the products are in original packaging. There's no history. A delivery truck hauling resources sent from one hospital to another might have been passed around a few times. Even prescriptions. Overflow, discontinued products that haven't expired, etc. It's nearly impossible to account for every single missing item. Even when, say, an entire truck disappears from the road." Schuyler clasps her hands atop the empty chair across from Clay. Her leg juts out from her body as she leans on the opposite hip. Her words growing more confident with every sentence. "The best part is we sell to smaller practices at a mark down. Hospitals that can't afford premium prices but want to help cases with special needs. Expensive ones that owners can't always afford. Insurance companies cover the big players and the whole thing gets written off in the long run. Everyone wins out."
Tig's exacerbated groan is deafening. "With what time? McKeevy heads back to Ireland in four days. What you're spouting will take weeks of stakeouts, tracking trucks, buying the right people off. All for what? Who the hell is going to buy prescriptions off white trash bikers? Besides it'll take forever to unload a truck's worth of product."
Schuyler cocks her head. "Do you think I would suggest the job if I didn't have a game plan?"
"You've got someone in mind?" Chibs had been under the impression the doctor was resourceful but had no idea she was so well connected.
"Not just someone. I've got contact with the man in charge. He's a friend down South. He's got reach in the underground. Buyers, tracking numbers, and coyotes. He knows when shipments are scheduled and can change delivery dates with the push of a button."
Juice butts in. "A friend back in Texas?"
"A little further south than that. Sinaloa."
Clay raises an objection. "We don't get involved with cartels. We chose to back the Irish war forty years ago. We ain't stepping in a Mexican one."
"He considers himself a freelancer. He built his empire on his own. He'll give the local cartels business, mainly covering injuries, but for the most part they keep it peaceful and to themselves. Difference in business models."
Bobby brings the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Say we uproot a truck in transit. Does your guy have buyers this far north? And what's the payout for something like this look like?"
"I trust his reach. The further the products travel through his network the higher the payout, but the more people are cut in and the longer we wait. I'm confident he'll have contacts looking to buy in state or maybe up north a ways." Schuyler's business tone dwindles when she speaks on profits. "Reward varies by truck. PPE and over-the-counter drugs can be as little as fifty thousand. The rarer, class one prescriptions. Trucks hauling sonograms and X-ray machines. More variety means we can cater to more people. I don't want to hype it up, but you're looking at closer to half a mill."
Looks of astonishment are exchanged. "It's hard to spot fault in a plan with that size of a price tag." Chibs looks to his President with encouragement and shoulders the brother on his left. "Where's the risk really? I'm having trouble finding it me self." Meanwhile, Juice throws an arm around Jackson while nearly pulling the blond from the chair in his eagerness.
Clay glares. "You knew about this, and you didn't bring it here weeks ago? While we've been sweating about the Irish?"
"I told you Pres, it's a last resort. Can't be hitting trucks connected to the same hospital twice. Each job shrinks the pool. And you've got to wait months in between a hit. Can't risk anyone inside or out of this framework forming patterns."
"How many times you try to pull this off?" Bobby shoots back.
"Once or twice. They were years apart. We were in a really bad way last time, and it was necessary, but it's been – a while."
Clay exchanges looks of skepticism with his SA. Neither being used to a change in tactics or trying new things where business is concerned. "You think you can make this happen on our deadline?"
"Shouldn't take long. My burner's in the cigar box. Everyone's welcome to listen in."
"If I don't like what I hear…"
"You can pull the plug on the operation." Schuyler grins at the senior member certain he can be convinced. Schuyler exits swiftly and has the phone dialing an unknown number when she walks back inside the chapel. She sits in what is normally reserved to be Piney's seat. The phone gets placed in the center of the rectangle on speaker.
"Talk to me." It's a man who picks up the line. His voice is not naturally gruff, but he strains his voice over the phone to sound more intimidating. He may be indoors judging by the lack of background noise accompanying him.
"Beau, you're on speaker in church. Don't embarrass me."
There's a sharp intake of breath. "Screw you Sky! You couldn't wait like seven more days to make a business call and let me win a bet?"
Schuyler rolls her eyes at her own shortcomings as much as her brother's. "I'll cover it for you because you're about to win another one."
"Must be important to ring in chapel."
"I need to know if we still have a line on 'El Boticario'."
Beau inquires skeptically, "The Pharmacist? I thought you said we were done working with him."
Schuyler meets Jackson's eyes. Her face conveys she feels surrounded by doubters. "Plans change. This charter needs it. Can you help us out?"
"Yeah, I'll get RK right on it. He should be…," the phone voice travels. Revealing his location to be Schuyler's old clubhouse. "…around. You thinking about trucking it south? We've never done a haul that far, but you know the guys would be into it for that kind of bankroll."
Schuyler shakes her head, dismayed. "I'm hoping he'll have contacts closer to us. I wouldn't agree to taking it further than Canada. We're on a time crunch. Need to move it within the week."
There's a pause. "Well, hey, you're still going to cut me in on this, right?"
"You don't get paid for picking up the phone when I call."
Beau presses. "Does RK get a wire transfer for getting you the number?"
Schuyler rubs the bridge of her nose with her thumb and middle finger. "No, because it would come from my take. And what this job makes is going back into the club."
"Oh, so you want to talk percentages. The divvying up of responsibilities."
Tig sneers. "This is getting to be too familiar."
"I'm hanging up, Beau."
"At least fork over the money for our bet on El Boticario!"
Schuyler extends her hand towards the phone. "And whoever you run off to tell about this make sure you mention this is the last time. I mean it."
Beau has already forgotten the conversation. He holds the receiver away from his mouth and shouts. "Hey Roadkill, your sister wants a favor. For free!" – One last word registers faintly from the far-off distance before the line cuts. "What?"
Schuyler shrugs her shoulders in apologies. Minutes tick past when the burner rattles with the vibrations of a message received. A phone number flashes across the device's window. She dials and is not kept waiting.
"Asistencia medica o empresarial?" A woman's voice picks up. Polite, crisp. A receptionist by the slackest of definitions.
Schuyler replies in fluent, albeit conversational at times, Spanish. "(I have business with The Apothecary. Name: Schuyler.)".
Schuyler is put on hold before being transferred. This time over to man with a heavy, authentic Mexican accent. "(Could it be? I thought we had finished our business, friend.)".
Schuyler rolls her eyes again. She can't catch a break. "(It's been some time Alonso. How are you?)".
"(Business is steady. Better today if you have something to bring to me. Mexico or America?)".
Schuyler can picture the Cuban cigars on his desk and the framed certificates hanging on his office wall. Alonso "El Boticario" Alejo was a chemist who earned his doctorate at a considerably young age. A retired Pharmacist who spent forty years manufacturing on site in Sinaloa's wealthiest hospital. He attracted a prestigious cliental and was known to cater to the best-established families.
Two years into his retirement, he was approached by the wife of a terminally ill kingpin who had personally requested Alejo's expert craftsmanship before he became of unsound mind. The eighty-year-old man had made arrangements to die with dignity, so his son could inherit the cartel, and Alejo came out of retirement with an image and record that he hadn't lost his stride. The network started as a side hustle assisting his closest clients who desired to receive Alonso's continued oversight regarding their medical histories. What followed was an underground supply chain branching clear across a continent. Alonso began mixing top of the line prescriptions in his house. He quickly developed friends who were willing to reach beyond Sinaloa to South America and the United Stated to gather El Boticario new supplies or trade his products for those who needed it most. To this day, he still makes new prescriptions as favors to his allies. But most of his business comes from trafficking and mulling stolen product which is in high demand.
"(My side of the border this time.)".
The now seventy-five-year-old speaks with seasoned authority around a dark walrus mustache. "(A shame it will be not to pay you in person. What can I do for you?)".
Schuyler signals that Alonso will work with them before she speaks in English once more. "I'm working out of northern California these days. We're in a bind and find ourselves in need of a substantial pay day. I was hoping you had connections in state or one further north. Oregon, Washington, Idaho."
"(You know I do.). But it happens that I need supplies sent to Nevada this week. Metaphorical well has run dry for a lucrative client. I would rather he stay in play. You understand." The pharmacist stresses the importance of confidentiality in his business. "It takes many years to earn my favor and I do not enjoy mistakes. Is this acceptable to you?"
"This is the northern California chapter President speaking," Clay offers his assurances. "I'm sure my guys can handle anything you give them. We just Patched in a new charter along the Nevada border who would be happy to extend their help. But we've got to know what it is we're walking into."
Alonso reiterates his intent in Spanish. "(Do you trust these men?)"
Schuyler understands his need for caution. His network runs on the basis of cultivated relationships with his clients, lieutenants, scavengers, and runners. Schuyler's family has a long, shared history with Alonso. Her father worked with him over the last decade. While she would be willing to take point, her status as a medical practitioner disqualifies her. Normally when working with Alonso, Schuyler acts as lead translator and negotiator while her brothers handle the extraction and transportation. Edward is no longer around to assume the role of lead, and Ethan (someone with experience working with Alonso) is too far away to assist. Alonso does not know these Charming men nor those in Nevada. He will have to rely on Schuyler's intuition.
She grants him her confidence. "(They are fast learners.)".
Alonso ponders her words. Then he continues. "Provide me with your new location. I will find a promising shipment container set to deliver within forty-eight hours. It will be close, but not enter the town you have called from. It will not be expected to arrive in Nevada, so no one will look for it there. You will be given a location and time. I expect no witnesses or injuries to come from this. More than likely, you will contact the target overnight on a barren high way." Alonso gives a pregnant pause to make sure his next order is understood. "Schuyler may not be present."
"Why the hell not?" Tig's booming demand reminds Alonso and Schuyler there are numerous ears present.
"Schuyler knows the protocol. The delivery will not be attached to the hospital she works at in any way, but all practices in the surrounding area will be notified. There will be talk. Perhaps interviews if the shipment comes from a big enough branch."
Schuyler nods along, having been walked through the man's line of logic before. "I need a solid alibi. I will work at the clinic whenever the job gets pulled. I can take on twelve-to-eighteen-hour shifts until then. It'll look as though I'm working overtime and should avoid scrutiny. But Alonso," her next words are directed at the phone. "I have a major surgery booked this evening. A patient I've grown attached to. It's perfect. I'm scheduled for a twelve-hour shift at noon. If you can slam some orders through it would be best done tonight. There'd be no time for my crew to plan if the shipment stolen happened on a schedule change. That gives the Sons of Anarchy a weighty alibi, too."
Alonso sounds approving. "You're correct. But with less than a day to organize it will be cut close. I can reserve a two-hour window. Send me your location. Choose four men and connect with your men in Nevada. The same amount will be needed to collect and then hand the target to my coyotes."
Jackson shifts in his seat drawing nearer to the burner. "How long would it take to move that amount of product and what percentage would the club get?"
Alonso answers definitively leaving no room for debate. "Forty percent. I trust you will share this between your two groups. A time cannot be determined until the runners receive the shipment and discover what has value."
Schuyler speaks soothingly, sensibly before any man can protest. "That's average. The runners receive forty percent. Alonso takes a slice, but it goes back into the network. Compensating drivers who are hit after the fact, sometime buyers too, and it helps with recruiting new runners so more locations can be reached."
The officers trade whispered words at the head of the table. Clay announces their collective decision. "Indian Hills will receive five percent when the job is done. We will subsidize them two percent every six months until their cut totals twenty-five percent. A show of good faith as they learn what it means to be Sons and adjust to the responsibilities. All opposed?" It's a call for a silent vote. No one raises their hand. "Alonso, we accept your offer and appreciate your expertise in this matter."
Plans are finalized over the course of several minutes. It is determined Jackson and Tig are to head the mission because, in Clay's words, the two need to kiss and makeup. Juice and the prospect will accompany them. Juice would be driving into Nevada and Half-Sack needed a real test of endurance. The rough outline of a plan would involve ambushing the truck between eleven and midnight and then to have it near or entering Nevada between twelve and one when Schuyler's shift at the clinic would end. The money would be mulled back to California within another forty-eight hours. Enough time for Chibs to plan a meeting with McKeevy and allow Clay to drop off the payment package.
Alonso ends negotiations. "I will send word. Do well not to delay."
"Alonso, always a pleasure."
"The pleasure is mine. Perhaps we will continue to have business in your new residence?"
"(No, no, this is the last time, my friend. Promise.)".
"(Yes, I have heard that before. And Schuyler.)". Alonso's tone grows grave. "(My condolences. Edward was a good man. I valued his friendship as much as I valued his business.)".
News travels fast. In the weeks that followed Edward's wake she had informed many of their active contacts south of the border. Word passed quickly from there and reached the furthest corners of their social network. More than likely half of the North American continent has heard that the legendary and infamous Edward Schuyler no longer holds the keys to Texas. "(Thank you. I know he felt the same.)".
The phone call ends and so with it the church meeting much to the relief of those present. The chapel doors swing open. Members leave to make their preparations.
"Schuyler, can I have a minute?" Clay waves her down. She takes Tig's seat. A sign she isn't intimidated by his offer. "I've got to admit I'm impressed. Learning Spanish has come in handy for you, hasn't it?"
Schuyler sits with her back ridged. There have been few instances where Schuyler and Clay have interacted beyond church meetings and even fewer causes for them to be alone. She treats this talk like a performance review.
"Being bilingual has gotten me out of a few scrapes, but it's a little thing I can do to make others more comfortable."
Clay grins wirily. "This job with Alonso…it's huge and its smart as hell. Most the time it's me and Jackson pulling our asses out of the fire. Everyone's got to pull their weight around here, but if we pull this off…" Clay leans against the chair rest. An attempt to make his probing words sound more casual than they are. "The club will owe you a debt for coming to our rescue."
"Don't mention it boss. It's about doing what is best for everyone."
"What this club needs is revenue. With luck, the truck will pay off McKeevy and buy us time to get the new warehouse up and running. Then we can get back to earning on our terms. The best way we know."
"It's a more predictable means of earning. I'll give you that. Working with Alonso, the time served is less if we get caught but the stakes are equally as high."
"You sat on the decision to bring this to the table for a while. You made the right call. Have you been looking at other ways to earn that you want to share with me?"
Schuyler is shocked and doesn't mute her expression. It had been weeks since Jackson had brought up the possibility of diversifying the ways the club makes a living. The two had discussed his reasoning later. His motivations were to find a more sustainable business with less risk to members. For the ultimate purpose of providing a better life for his son. The conversation had dwindled, and they hadn't landed on an alternative. Which is why the topic never sprouted again. "Not actively, no. Nothing else seems as reliable or easy. But, if I think of something I'll be sure to let you know."
Clay pulls a smug expression. "Just like you were planning on telling me you were spending your free time playing matchmaker."
Schuyler's eyes widen. Caught. "That limp dicked prospect. He told you after we agreed to keep it between us. Now I'm definitely calling Happy!"
"You want to add being a rat to your rap sheet? The prospect did what he was supposed to do. Who do you think you are granting asylum to a common whore?"
"Surely we can agree you're in no position to tell me what advice I do or don't give to a fellow woman? Especially one who chooses to maneuver through our particular lives."
"Be that as it may the rules apply to you and more so to that Sweetbutt." Schuyler grits her teeth but starves herself from correcting his crass language. "Are you going to be the one to try to tell my wife any different?"
"My intention was never to challenge Gemma. What happened had nothing to do with her, or with Cherry. It was about punishing Prospect. Let's keep it at that." Schuyler knows in order to appeal to Clay she has to envision the world through his eyes and parrot his morals back to him. "I was helping a young woman figure out what she wants and encouraged her to go after it."
He continues to find her impressive. "You made another good call. They worked things out last night after Gemma laid into her."
"Does that mean Cherry can stick around? And you're not going to gripe at Half-Sack about seeing her?"
"Try not to look too excited. And it wouldn't hurt you to have it out with Gem. Keep things on the up and up."
Schuyler remembers her own advice to her new apprentice. "I can always make time for Gemma."
Upon leaving the chapel for the final time she's met with a surprising sight. Donna Winston stands, a little timidly, but with her chin parallel to the floor at the bar's entrance. Making what is evidently a conscious effort on her part. Her husband is stood behind her. Towering a head and shoulders above herself. His hand fills out the curve of her lower back. It would appear the woman is becoming reacquainted with what was once familiar surroundings.
Schuyler approaches the mismatched couple. "I didn't expect to see you back so soon, Opie. Hi Donna, it's nice to see you again."
Donna steps beside her husband where she stretches her arms to cling around his waist. Said man fully encompasses her tiny figure with an arm draped along her shoulders. "You're going to start seeing a lot more of him." Her voice remains apprehensive in her gesture of support.
Opie informs, "I quit my job at the lumber mill. I'm here to get my locker reassigned and set up my tool box in the garage."
"Really? That's great man. Whatever changed your mind?"
The tightening of Opie's grip causes a crinkle in his leather jacket sleeve. "'Bills were getting out of hand. I wasn't spending enough time at home."
"I hate to admit it," Donna adds. "The work he's done in these last few weeks with the club has helped us catch up. We had a difficult discussion last night. I don't always have to like what he does when he comes here. But he didn't have to tell me how much he hated chopping wood every day. He wants to be here. He's – a lot happier."
Opie continues. "The hours in the garage are easier and I earn more with the club. It felt good, helping you guys yesterday. The way it's supposed to feel. I want to get back to that. I want to be where I was at before I went inside. Plus, it'll give me more time with the kids. They can get used to having me around again."
"Everyone wins, right?" Donna's smile does nothing to hide the crack in her voice or the justifiable fear that looms in the recesses of her eyes.
"That's great brother. I'm glad you're going to be sticking around. We need you here." She extends her kindness to his wife. "I think it's a decision you'll come to appreciate."
Opie glances over Schuyler's head. "Hey Jax. You got enough room in the garage for one more?"
Jackson joins the conversation. "No way man. You're coming back? We've still got the old shirt with your name tag stashed around here somewhere. I've got good news of my own." Jackson flashes a charming smile. "I just got off the phone with Gemma. My kid has a release date from the hospital. Another two weeks."
"That's wonderful." Donna gushes.
"Congrats man." A brotherly embrace is exchanged.
"He's got a ways to go, but it's official that I can bust him out of that chloride prison. Gemma wants to throw a house party, of course."
Donna insists, "Our family will be there. I can't wait to meet him. Elle is entering a baby doll phase, so she'll want to meet him, too. I apologies for keeping my distance. Things have been hard for so long, but I want us to reconnect. You're a part of Opie's family. Our family." Jackson graciously hugs Donna to let her know no hard feelings are held. "Please let Gemma know I want to speak to her. I gave her the cold shoulder last time she invited us over. I want to make amends."
Opie's smile is quick to be replaced by his trademark jaded leer. "Before that there's some information I felt I should pass on. When I went to hand in my resignation this morning I saw a foreman I hadn't in a while. Andy. He'd been missing for weeks. Showed up black and blue from half healed bruises."
Jackson's face darkens at the admission, yet he steels himself from piling on questions, waiting for Donna to respond in some negative way.
"Opie already told me everything. But I don't want to be a distraction. I'll be outside by the truck." Opie cranes downward to accept Donna's kiss. The woman retreats on light feet.
Schuyler questions the gentle giant. "You told your wife…everything? How much is that really?"
"Our problems began when I started keeping secrets. I told her about helping dad last night. Made her see it was the best option to keep the club out of hot water. She was furious, but no more than she would have been if I lied about it. I also told her about who roughed up Andy. Why I think it happened." Opie turns pleading eyes towards Jackson. "I'm done lying to her. I'm going to try being honest. Hopefully it helps her understand."
While Jackson wants to be present for his sibling, he needs to know what the club is going up against. "I get it man. Never hurts to try somethin new. But I need to know what happened to this guy."
"He told me it was retaliation. He's in major debt to Darby. Andy swore no one is buying their crank in town, but the Nords are drawing customers into Pope daily. Most the guys at the mill are seeking him out. Darby's making a push on Charming's borders. He won't keep out much longer. Not without cause to. I thought you should know."
"Alright. I'm going to have a talk Unser. He gave us a head start yesterday. Maybe he'll appreciate the favor in return. He hates drugs in Charming as much as we do."
"I'll go with you. Be good for me to tag along."
Jackson shows concern. As much as he's wanted Opie back at the table, he doesn't want his friend committing to more than he can handle. "What about Donna? Shouldn't you take her home and spend time with the kids? Free time just opened up for you."
If possible, Opie grows quieter, admitting sheepishly, "My mom's with them today." He flinches in anticipation of ridicule.
"Mary is in town? What the hell does she want?"
Opie voice his distress. "She had a health scare last month. After, she heard I was released and stopped in to apologize. She hasn't always been there, but I believe her when she says she regretted walking away. She's been coming around more and more. The kids like her real well. She's been helping me out."
"Look I know I'm supposed to be happy for you man. I am. I'm glad things are starting to go your way. I worry, is all." Jackson feels a responsibility towards Opie he doesn't extend towards any other member. Of all the many traits they share in common having lost one parental figure in one manner or another is but another. Jackson wants Opie to find a way to balance his family and club life. His only hope is for Opie not to lose himself while trying to repair tattered connections.
"I appreciate you looking out. So, are you going to help me set up in the garage or what? We've got to be fast, or Unser will clock out for his mid-afternoon siesta. We'll miss our chance."
Schuyler pipes up. "I'll let Donna know something came up and she doesn't have to wait around. I'll offer her a chance to follow me over to Gemma's place. I want to have a word with her myself. I'll make sure Donna gets there and that they play nicely with each other."
Opie nods. "You'd do that?"
"I've got to keep my hands clean for the rest of the day. Hanging out at Gemma's will be good for moral."
Jackson states, "Tell my mom I'll be looking for her soon. We'll go over Abel's homecoming."
In the midst of a conversation wherein Jackson fills in Opie about the prescription heist the two longtime friends saunter off to the garage.
Schuyler finds Donna beside the beat-up pickup truck in a visitor parking space. She extends a welcoming hand into the inner circle. "Something came up. Opie's going to help Jackson take care of a few things. He says you can take the truck for the rest of the day."
Donna reacts with disappointment before she catches herself and dismisses the feeling. "Oh okay. I guess I'll be on my way."
"Can you free up a few hours? I'm heading over to Gemma's house. I have a few things to run past her. You're welcome to tag along."
"Thank you. I'd like that. Might do us good if we aired things out between us."
"Cool. I know you know the way, but you can follow me in the truck. I'll see you over there."
"Hey." Schuyler parks on the curb, having let Donna park in the open driveway. She catches up to the shorter woman and speaks candidly as they approach the house. "I hope you don't take offense to my not offering you a ride on my bike. It's sort of a nonstarter with me."
Donna turns in surprise. Her simply stylized hair shifts like a curtain catching a breeze around her oval face. "Is it women you don't drive around, or…"
Schuyler looks uncomfortable as she abysmally explains. "It's just something with me. I don't do it. I never have."
Donna has a follow up question that she keeps to herself. She knows they are not close enough for her to critique Schuyler's reasoning. "I don't mind. The bike isn't for me. I almost never ride with Opie. I prefer the truck. Although, if we could afford one I would trade that hunk of metal in for an SUV. It would be better for the kids."
Schuyler knew upon their meeting that Donna was the type of woman who never stopped thinking of her children and would work them into every conversation in any way she could. Preferably as soon as possible.
Gemma appears surprised, although unperturbed, by the women who grace her doorway. She invites them into the formal living room. As hostess, she offers them drinks, and the usual pleasantries are exchanged. Donna accepts a cold refreshment, and all too happily summarizes her children's current statuses in school. Gemma entertains the young mother with a cool smile and a mug of fresh brewed coffee in hand. They sit on the same plush sectional sofa. A formidable distance lies between them. A sign of persisting tension.
Schuyler politely declines the offer, never one to be a burden, and takes a seat in a dining room chair that never made it back to the buffet table. She sits with her hands folded in her lap and her ankles crossed, tucked under the chair, and is mindful of staining Gemma's pristine carpet and luxurious furniture set. Here, she awaits Gemma to broach the unnamed topic of discussion. In doing so, Schuyler observes a level of tension present between them which she hasn't felt since meeting the woman she has come to admire.
"I suppose you're here to discuss Cherry?" Gemma brings the cup up to her face.
"Did you document her time of death?"
Gemma stills, laughing shortly, before taking a controlled sip. "I didn't hurt her. I may have overreacted when she told me. I yanked the office door open so hard I tipped the entry table and broke a vase."
Schuyler reflects empathy. "I would say that's positively restrained compared to what I had imagined."
"Believe me, I had half a mind to pick up the shards and carve her pretty little face off. Right there on the doorstep. It's no less than that sorority girl deserves." Gemma retires the mug to a ruby coaster that matches the stained wood coffee table. An air of exasperation taints her mood. "Goddamnit Sky. She is so young. This shit never happens to me. We have rules for a reason!" Her hand rises to worryingly trace the pronounced scar on her chest. A phantom response as though her pulse independently chose to pick up speed.
"You can't blame Cherry for doing her job. You want someone to blame, you can blame your husband."
"Clay slept at the clubhouse last night. I don't remember the last time he did that."
"Sorry," Donna interjects timidly. A stranger when it comes to disrupting the flow of a conversation. "But what did this woman do? If you don't mind my asking." Donna had told the truth when she said she wanted to reconnect. This includes investing in the lives of club members and their families.
Gemma explodes. An accusatory finger points in every direction. "That walking teenage fantasy blew my husband then had the nerve to drive all the way from Nevada to confront me at my place of business."
Schuyler fills in the gaps. "Cherry worked as an escort for a sibling charter. I met her a few months back at a Patch-Over party where she was directed to involve herself with Clay. Except," Schuyler stresses the relevance of the second half, "on the same night she caught feelings for our prospect. She's here for an age-appropriate suitor. She has no interest in Clay. Gemma knows that. That's why she left the girl breathing."
Gemma speaks exuberantly about acts of cruelty. "As long as she keeps away from Clay we won't have a problem. And I warned her. She's going to get a job away from TM, so I don't see her any more than I have to. And if I catch her looking at anyone besides Eddy, I'll ship her bony ass across the border myself. Maybe in a body bag while I'm at it." The wellbeing of her family remains Gemma's priority. That maternal instinct extends to every member, including Half-Sack, hence the use of his legal name.
Schuyler's determined to ease Gemma's worries. "If it makes you feel better I had a talk with Cherry."
"That's why I'm so pissed off. How dare she speak to anyone before me. She knew you would go easy on her."
"I trust her. She has every intention of making things work with Half-Sack. Now what's causing you to be so paranoid?"
"I am not paranoid," Gemma insists. "I've been at this for forty years. With two husbands. No girl has ever shown this much nerve."
"Statistically, this was bound to happen." Schuyler can't help but find humor in the ordeal. She can't imagine her own mother reacting so severely after encountering one of Edward's flings. A routine occurrence in MC settings. Did Gemma really think Clay had never done anything with any of the local groupies that frequented post-church celebrations? "I knew when I met Cherry she could be bold. That's why I like her."
"My intuition has never let me down. I can admit when I make an oversight." The younger women acknowledge when Gemma lacks using the term 'mistake'. "I said she could stay, didn't I?"
Schuyler doesn't let up. "What's really been going on Gem?"
There's a pause in which it looks like Gemma will refuse an answer. She picks her coffee up once more. A refined grimace in place. "Clay and I have hit a rough patch. But really it's my fault. I found out," she hesitates, "I'm going through menopause."
Donna's gut reaction is to offer sympathy to the mature woman. She assures a hormone imbalance can be expected and her feelings of impending change are valid. Schuyler, on the other hand, squints hard at Gemma. She stands abruptly and crosses her arms over her abdomen in a cradling gesture.
"In what conceivable way would you consider menopause to be a 'barrier' in your relationship?"
Gemma matches Schuyler's confused energy in the opposing direction. "I'm only fifty-five. It's too early for me to shrivel up and tap out."
"What I wouldn't give for early onset menopause!" Schuyler laments. Her hands rub unpredictable patterns across her midsection. "I would gladly trade you my level seven cramps in exchange for your hot flashes and occasional bouts of lightheadedness. Oh wait, I have those too. But I don't have the benefit of forgoing that unfortunate monthly expense."
"Schuyler, can't you see she's upset. It's a difficult transition period for most women." For once, it is Schuyler who gets lectured. Donna's comfort level grows, and she shifts a sofa cushion closer to Gemma.
"Upset over what? The fact she has Mother Nature's solution to free and effective birth control." With an incredulous scoff, Schuyler concludes, "I paid money to have a metal rod jammed in my arm because every bigot with a degree refuses to tie my tubes until I reach their arbitrary age deficit, but Gemma gets to walk around without considering any consequences for her actions?"
Both women being dotting mothers in committed marriages gawk in despair. Schuyler recalls her present company and reels herself in. "While I stand by every word, I have a more palatable point to make. Look at the bright side. You're still hot as shit! Any woman would be lucky to look like you at your age." She reclaims her seat. While hiking one ankle onto the opposite knee, Schuyler combs her kempt nails through her short hair and winks.
"You knew going into it that Clay was a man, and he was going to get distracted by new, shiny toys. But he loves you and if he can't see how hot you are then let him sleep at the clubhouse until he remembers."
Gemma comments through pursed lips, "I thought you were going to say I should divorce him."
Schuyler averts her gaze. "We can cross that bridge when we come to it."
Donna catches Gemma's eye and they crack up. The notion being so far removed from either of their minds they find the suggestion comical. "I remember when that was Opie's solution. He pushed me for the first three years of his sentence. I could never bring myself to hear him. I just focused on the day to day."
Gemma grants an acclamation. "I am so pleased you stuck it out. Opie wouldn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't attached to you."
"Not just him. I didn't stay for the crummy house we rent, or even because I'm scared to raise the kids by myself. I love him too much to leave." The chilled glass of juice rotates clockwise in Donna's fidgeting hands. "We've been together so long, I'm not sure I would know who I was if I wasn't married to him."
Schuyler softens her gaze, her grin accommodating. "Just goes to show everyone is built a little bit different."
"You and Jackson really are two peas in a pod," Gemma dismays. "When I think he's found a girl and will start to settle down, off he runs again. It's a sign you've been spending too much time with those men."
Schuyler's mood brightens. Donna may be equipped to discuss child rearing, but Schuyler graciously takes every chance to boast about her parents. "The old nature verses nurture argument. I've been around those men my entire life. My parents certainly are not to blame. They set a perfect example."
Donna combs a strand of hair behind her ear. Receptive to learn about Schuyler's upbringing in the hopes it will bring them closer. "I know so little about you. Were your parents married very young?"
"They were never married. Texas is one of the few states that recognizes Common Law. They were happy for many years and shared everything. That was good enough for them."
"It 'was' good enough," Donna reiterates. "Is it not enough anymore?"
Schuyler's mood plummets. Her hands fold in on themselves in her lap. "My dad died in early spring."
"I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"That's alright." Schuyler speaks matter-of-factly. "He lived a long and fulfilled life. My parents were known for their reservations, but everyone knew they were devoted to one another." Her smile returns with her point made. "They didn't need rings or a certificate to verify that fact."
"I met them at JT's funeral. It was ages ago, but I remember they seemed happy." Gemma decides to poke the bear with a stick of her own. "You're young and have time to change your mind. Least you end up like my son."
Schuyler relents a little too easily. A way to end the conversation on an amiable way. "With Edward gone, I'll admit the thought has crossed my mind. Remembering what my parents had. It would be enough for me, too, I think." She practically sees Donna's heart swell from across the room and ruins the momentum for tears to swell. "Another bridge to cross when we get there. Should such a bridge ever be built."
"For the moment, Gemma, I want you to remember that Clay will come to his senses soon. And whatever you think of Cherry, I hope you realize she is Sack's problem now." Schuyler considers the young woman has also become her personal ward. She would have to take responsibility for any unwelcome behavior or incidences of descent. Cherry had been granted the green light by the required voices to start her own trial period in Charming. In a way, Schuyler would sponsor Cherry as much as Chibs was sponsoring the prospect. The idea elates her. She enjoyed mentoring her own prospect in Texas and figures she will enjoy the bonding experiences with Cherry even more.
Gemma shares a rather smug smirk. "Are you willing to bet your standing with the club?"
Schuyler matches Gemma's enthusiasm pound for pound. "Worse. I'm willing to bet my family's reputation. The safest bet I can make."
/
Did anyone happen to catch the Animal Kingdom or Queen of the South references I threw into the church meeting? I was quite proud of them!
I did warn you part one and two of these combined chapters would be heavy in dialogue. Specifically, the scenes shared between Schuyler, Jackson, and Opie, and subsequently Schuyler, Donna, and Gemma, did a lot of heavy lifting to set the ground work for coming chapters, including the lead into the finale.
As promised the next two chapters will heavily focus on the relationship blossoming between Chibs and Schuyler (did you feel the foreshadowing oozing off the scenes where characters shared their experiences with romance?). If not, keep this note in mind during a reread. We will also retouch on Chibs' and Tig's relationship before we get too serious/far ahead. Lots of excitement to look forward to!
Unfortunately, my final semester as an undergraduate is underway. I wanted desperately to get this chapter up to give return readers something to enjoy. Apologies for the late night (in my time zone) update. The last scene in particular gave me a hard time and is subject to alterations in future updates (although the sentiment will remain the same). Know that while I will continue to work on this WIP slowly during my few free moments in-between classes, I will more than likely focus on updating another new and ongoing series of one-shots stitched together because it has become my pet project and one-shots are easier. I don't say this to deter you from this work that I love, but to check out my other projects while waiting for updates. It's just what my schedule and sanity will allow for a while.
Regardless of my abhorrent upload schedule, I do so genuinely appreciate everyone who reads and continues to support my story. I hope you enjoyed this installment, and I will see you the next time I have a spare moment to update TROD!