She texted him. Just to be obstreperous. Moments later, the cell vibrated in the pocket of her scrubs.
"WOT? No picture?"
She actually laughed out loud, staring down at the screen, standing at the nurse's station in pedes. All of the nurses looked up startled. She didn't laugh often. Or at all. But she smiled at them now and two smiled back, tentative. Was she really that scary? How had she become the brusque doctor? If she was ten years older, they would be circulating nasty rumours. She sighed.
In the locker room she took a long scalding shower, barely able to touch her own body with soap and washcloth, it had been so long since anyone had put their hands on her. Her skin was aching as she toweled herself dry. With a surprised vanity, she realized she had only sweat pants and a t-shirt to change into. And she was wearing clogs. Sexy, Tara, she said to herself. Then had she to sit down on the bench to think about that.
Filip "Chibs" Telford? Physically, the opposite of Jax Teller in every imaginable way. Yet, he had a swagger and a style that was unmistakable. She had wondered for long months why he was single and then was not surprised when she met the exotic Fiona. Of course he had a beautiful wife and child in Ireland. She thought about Fiona, had he returned from Ireland alone? Wayne Unser had casually with purpose sought her out in the hospital six weeks before, telling her that Abel had been found, SAMCRO was returned stateside. His face was guarded but his hand on her arm steadied her as he spoke. She had stammered, staring at him, her shaking hand over her mouth, nodding, thank you thank you, and then excusing herself to her office where she locked the door and cried herself dry. On the list of her personal sins, she could cross Abel's kidnapping off.
What was she doing re-immersing herself in Jax's world? She had no right. And more than that she was spinning out some crazy fantasy involving Filip. He would never allow himself to be drawn into her dark waters. He was acting in place of Jax, in support of Jax. Even if he was remotely interested, he would never break the covenant of the MC. She thought of their early morning ride, the crooked grin, the cocked eyebrow, and the feel of him between her legs. She berated herself. Angry and disgusted. She needed to talk to Margaret about a transfer. To anywhere.
With a heaving sigh, she stood, sad and tired and walked out into the parking lot.
The Cutlass was parked the second row over and Chibs was leaning against the quarter panel, smoking, booted feet crossed and she saw him immediately. With his shades on she couldn't be sure he had seen her but then the slow smile on his rugged face gave him away and she wanted to weep.
She walked closer and he lazily straightened himself, grinding out the smoke beneath his boot, raising the shades to his forehead. Her face must have been revealing because he stopped smiling.
"Bad day?" he asked and the question was so sincere she had to close her eyes.
She shook her head no. "Good day, actually. Saved a baby's life, I'm pretty sure."
Still he studied her face. Then he nodded and handed her the keys. "New meats all around. And a spare in the trunk. Those tires were shot, Tara."
She stared down at one of the brand new Michelins. Had he washed the car? And she felt reduced. "You didn't need to do that. Don't you think if I had the money I would have replaced them myself?"
She watched him react, just a narrowing of his eyes, and then he pulled the shades down into place, pursing his lips. This made the insane scars on his cheeks stand out starkly, the thick twisting lines lifelong proof that someone had hurt him very badly. She felt a stab of shame.
"No charge, right. I got it."
She turned her face away. "No. I'll pay you."
"You needed tires, girl."
"I know. I know I did." She felt her legs quivering. "I guess you need a ride?"
"Naw, I'll make a call." He fished his cell out of the pocket of his cut and began to back away from her, still talking. "My bike's at your house. Don't run it over or sell it if you get there 'fore I do. You can take it for a spin, though. Seems like you might need to." He turned away.
She buried her face in both hands and breathed through the smell of antiseptic on her skin. The sterility of her life. She lowered her hands. He was tapping on the phone screen. "Filip!" she called to him.
He stopped but kept his distance.
She shook her head. "Please."
He lifted one shoulder. She had the keys in her hand and she walked quickly over to him. She held them out. "I'm so sorry. That was brutal. Please, I'm sorry. Will you take me home?"
He was unreadable behind the blue shades but she recognized the closed look in his face. It was one she seemed able to coax out of all men. Then it softened with a small imperceptible tilt of his head towards her. He took the keys. "C'mon, doc."
He drove fast and with a reckless precision and Tara loved it. She drove the car like a little old lady. If the Cutlass had been a black horse she would have been wearing battle armour and leaping into the fray with him.
At the house, his bike was parked beside the front walkway to the door and he nosed the car against the garage door. "You keep her inside?" he asked, idling.
She shook her head no and he keyed off the engine. "You do lock her up, right?"
Again she shook her head.
"This car." He whistled low. "You should. You should."
Outside, on the cement drive, they stood miles apart. She knew she had done this, separated them. She wanted to explain herself to him, ask him about Fiona, tell him she was as over Jax Teller as the cow was over the moon. She wanted to reach for his hand, cook him dinner and breakfast. She wanted him to keep talking to her in his deep male voice with his impossible accent.
"What about that ride then?" he asked.
And she felt the small sparks of their wires crossing, an electric welding. It burned out everything else and she could only stand there grinning at him and nodding.
"Go on and get changed."
He had two helmets now and this spoke more to her than if he had produced a bouquet of yellow roses from behind his back. On the bike, she squeezed him hard, please forgive me, and at the first red light he reached down and cupped the back of her knee with a gloved hand.
They rode for miles, out of Charming, through endless fields of sunflowers, just beginning to open and turn their faces into the light. She lay her head against his back and let the vivid yellows and greens flash past her until she felt as though she were hallucinating colours. Everything else disappeared around the dark edges of her vision. She welcomed the dissolution of thought. The vibration of the bike, the warmth of the sun, the solid male body, and the buffeting wind centered her, focused her, stripped her bare until she was only her physical self and its sensations.
He seemed to know she didn't want to stop. He took frontage roads where he could open the bike up. Bumpy abandoned highways that ran along the canal. Then he slowed for an on-ramp and they were back on the freeway heading home. He settled against her. She had forgotten the envious stares of men driving minivans, women with carloads of children, boys in muscle cars. The avoiding glances of business men in Mercedes and an old woman in a vintage Cadillac. She smiled to herself but missed the intensity of their solitary ride. She slipped her hands up beneath his t-shirt, flat-palming the hair on his stomach. With one hand he pressed at her knuckles, holding her hand fast against his hot skin.
He parked the bike in the street, and she stood, leveraging her hands on his shoulders, wobbly and exhilarated. She handed him the helmet.
"Didja get healed?" he asked her.
She could only laugh and nod. "Thank you," she said.
He watched her, still behind the sunglasses, but with his lower lip sucked between his teeth. She waited for him to say something. She needed him to say something because all her own words and actions seemed vague and insubstantial.
"It's all good, darlin' girl. You got my number."
She furrowed her brows at this. But he shook his head and jumped on the starter pedal. She stepped back, arms loose at her sides, hands empty.
