She answered on the first ring, smiling, her heart thumping wildly. "Filip."
"Tara," he said. "It don't work like that, sweet girl." His voice low and so rhotic, the alveolar trill so pronounced, that she knew his heart was in his throat. "You must tell me it out loud."
"I love you," she whispered into the phone.
She knew about the cut, the rockers, the reaper, the patches. Even when a brother wasn't flying colors, most had them inked into his skin, part of him, never to be taken off. She knew the statement club identification made, the challenge that accompanied each patch, the language deciphered by those versed in it. She understood, in theory, the subtle and the unsubtle politics of the club. So, she wasn't surprised when he showed up without the cut but she was slightly staggered at how feral he remained in jeans, boots, and a black shirtsleeve buttoned up over a wifebeater.
For all his MC ambitions and identifying insignia swagger, Jax had a touch of Abercrombie & Fitch about him. Chibs decidedly did not. She studied his face, the nasty goat, the frightening Glasgow grin, the eyes that could flash from calmness to murderous rage in mere seconds and she knew that even in a bespoke pashmina three-piece he would cut a foreboding figure.
Walking through the airport, she realized that, out of the context of SAMCRO, they were the unlikely couple straight out of a poorly written bodice ripper, the heart surgeon and the biker outlaw. With a slight start, she realized that most romances were exactly that kind of pairing. The good girl and the bad boy. She filed this predictable behavior away for a more serious introspective look later. She squeezed his fingers as they moved through the gate.
On the plane, he was behind her, crowded into the narrow aisle, hands lightly on her hips. A harried businessman was in front of her and he stopped without warning, lifting his carry-on above his head. "Excuse me," he said to her dismissively, his elbow sharply in her face.
Suddenly Chibs' arm was over her shoulder, grabbing the man's wrist in a hard and tight grip. "Excuse yerself," he growled, and she quickly ducked beneath his arm, moving behind him.
The man blanched and nodded a quick apology.
"Tha's more like it," Chibs said, pushing him loose and dismissing him with a sneer. He turned and reached for her hand and pulled her past the man, to where she indicated their seats.
"Wanker," he announced, taking both of their bags and stuffing them into the overhead before allowing her to sit in the window seat. "Jaysus, I need a feckin drink and we ain't even off the tarmac yet."
She thought of the pair of knives and the Berretta 92 left behind. Then she considered his fists. "You don't like flying?"
"Not much. No. Thought I'd already done all the flying this year I'd be doin' in a long time." He sighed. "A plane is worse than a cage. I cannae breathe, luv."
She nodded. "This is not like hopping the pond to Ireland. It'll be less than three hours. I'll hold your hand."
"Did you bring any drugs?"
She watched the woman in the seat across the aisle swivel her head in their direction. Tara rolled her eyes at Chibs. "That would be no. Did you have a particular scrip you wanted filled?"
"Whatever these straights are downin', tha' work for me."
She kissed him quiet.
Halfway there, several airline bottles of booze emptied, she turned in the seat, taking his hand into her lap. "Jax came to see me at the hospital this week."
She saw the slight narrowing of his left eye, the only revelation. "Tha' right?"
"He said, uh, he was thinking of me."
"I guess he was. I can imagine it put the hurt on him, too. You're something amazing."
She looked at him, overwhelmed at how in love she was falling, there seemed to be no bottom to the well. "It wasn't like this, Fil. What we had wasn't this."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm different. With you I'm different."
"Different good?"
"Yes. Of course, yes. Different so good. You're good for me."
He brought both hands up to her head, holding her face, pulling it towards him. He rolled his forehead against hers. "I think you could make me a better man, Tara."
She laid her head on his shoulder.
Once they had landed, he relaxed and through the sheer force of his comfort level enveloping her, she felt herself let go of worries, concerns, doubts, fears. It was as though they had stepped into another world, other existences. He held her hand always, or had an arm slung around her shoulder, her waist. She laughed and he smiled more than she had ever seen. Without the cut, he was more of a cautious novelty, the Scottish accent, a woman on his arm. She watched as people responded to him with open hearts and she marveled in these small interactions.
They rented a car at the airport. He stepped up to the counter and ordered a high-end convertible. She schooled her face. She was learning to enjoy whatever he offered without criticism or discouragement. His tastes ran to the eclectic and unusual, but always promised enjoyable entertainment. She was not used to being indulged or indulgent. The car was perfect. With the top down they headed for the bay. She luxuriated in the leather bucket seat and the cooler Pacific Northwest air on her face.
He found a seafood restaurant that also brewed its own beer and they sat in the bar, eating and drinking, for hours.
The next day they slept in, a rarity for both of them. He ordered room service and then, after she was completely sated, he drove her to the interview.
Another Catholic Hospital, a specialized pediatric unit, and a trauma center. The interview was over an hour long. She was humbled by the review Margaret and St. Thomas had given her. The team toured her around the surgical theatres, the pediatric floor, the maternity ward, and then their trauma center. Out through the glass doors she saw Chibs, leaning against an ambulance, talking with two paramedics.
That night the found another restaurant on the quay and afterwards they walked arm in arm to a small, dark bar. Beer and whiskey chasers. He taught her how to drink a boilermaker. A couple was dancing in the corner but he told her no, that's where he drew the line on his dignity. She stood, kissed him, and walked over to the jukebox.
He was seated backwards on a bar stool, elbows on the bar behind him, booted heels caught in the rungs. He was watching her dance alone, his head tilted, drinking. She was dancing for him. And for herself. Free. She had queued up the machine, books and books of older compact discs, with heavy bass-laden tunes from both of their youths. Two girls joined her, and she closed her eyes, swung her hips, hands high over her head, and let herself go. She knew he harbored no judgment, anything she could conceive of he would support. He trusted her more than she trusted herself. It was a safe feeling and such a relief that she wondered if she had ever felt so much safety at any time in her life. She was centering herself, finding the still point inside of her mind, her body following. Refusing to think or to feel, she wanted a physicality that she had almost always denied herself. Control was the thing that held her together, kept her flesh from opening and her bones flying away. But the music, the alcohol burn still in the back of her throat, far from home, and this man. He urged her to her center, wordlessly. She wanted to explode around the detonation that he brought to her. She wanted to disintegrate with him.
A man joined them on the floor, and had one of the girls in his arms, twirling her. The other girl found Tara with a hand outstretched and Tara took it, the skin warm and smooth, and they danced together, hips swinging, knees bending.
Two songs, three, and she looked over at him. He wanted her back beside him, she knew this. He held up her whiskey glass with a small nod. And she smiled at the girl and wound her way back through tables and chairs to him. She stood between his open knees and he kissed her hard, all whiskey taste and his eyes open. She turned in the grip of his thighs and watched the dancers.
Chibs was breathing, hot and heavy against her neck, his hands up underneath the hem of her shirt, flat on her belly, brushing with the tips of his fingers. He brought both arms up around her, locking his hands over her left breast.
"You're making me jealous and horny at the same time, doll. This old heart won't survive it." With an insistent hand on her head, he turned her face back to him and kissed her deeply. "You want to get out of here maybe?"
She nodded. "Yeah, let's do that."
The next day he drove them through vintage downtown neighborhoods, California bungalows, mail-order Victorians, brick apartment buildings. Coffee bars and grocers on the corners and small parks peopled with families.
"This would be a nice life," she said, no expectation.
"This what you want?"
She shrugged, watching the simple world flash by. "I don't think I've ever really wanted anything for myself. Outside of medicine. Once I began wanting that, I wanted it fiercely." She turned to him. "I had a miserable childhood, Fil. It put me off wanting a lot of things that most women, I think, do want."
He nodded. "Believe me, I get that."
At an intersection, two male bikers pulled up opposite them, shouting something at one another over the rumbling of their Harleys. She watched Chibs out of the corners of her eyes, he let his gaze run from boots on the ground, to the bikes, to the leathers and then as they passed by, she caught his eye in the rearview assessing the colors. He drove on.
On the plane home, he took the window seat. When the seatbelt light flipped to off, he lifted the arm and pulled her against his chest, mouth to her ear. She listened to him breathe; it was soothing and deeply comforting. She squeezed his thigh.
"Mile high club?" he asked and she laughed and laughed.
After a long time, the world below them browns and blues and greens, the horizon darkening into evening, he began talking. "Tara. I know you said this isn't recreational for you. But there is a game afoot, right? I mean, if they offer you a job, you're going. You've got the house for sale, nowhere else to live. Nothing is tying you to Charming any more. So, I need to know what you're playin' at, luv."
