He turned back, pulling his gloves on, looking at her, his face wounded. She smiled at him and watched as he closed his eyes and exhaled. He walked back up the driveway, straddled the bike and rolled it down into the street. She stood, slowly, unsure. He turned and held his hand out to her, sunglasses in place. He didn't want to be seen and she was fine with that for now. She fastened the helmet and joined him, taking his hand, settling herself behind him. The bike, his bike, had become as familiar a thing to her as he was. The slope of his back, the curve of the fender, the flexing of his thighs, the rumble of the engine beneath her, the swiveling of his head as he checked the street, her feet on the pegs, the pause before the throttle was opened. Her fingertips brushed the denim low slung on his waist. She leaned away, brave and fearless, so sure of him, his body acting shield, buffeting the wind back to her as though it were a caress.

She closed her eyes, leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his waist. They were flying.


On the outskirts of a dying railroad town, he pulled the Harley into another pioneer graveyard. A city cemetery and she could see the old Victorian statues, the pea-gravel walkways, and the leaning marbles. He took her hand and led her through the turnstile gate. They walked the main thoroughfare, then he cut them across a wide swathe of battered grass, headed for a small copse of Southern Magnolias. He ducked beneath the largest, and sat, back against the gnarled trunk, wrists on his raised knees. She sat beside him, the feminine curl of her body towards him.

"What is it with you and cemeteries?" she asked, pulling her fingers through her knotted locks.

"I like 'em. When I first got to Cali I couldn't believe how new, how plastic and shite everything here is. Where I come from you can go to mass in a church whose stones remember the Vikings. The oldest thing here are these graveyards."

She was nodding. "I was surprised when I was in Chicago to realize how little American history this state truly has. The architecture especially."

"Aye. Everything here is disposable. And that's how we build our lives, as though it's going to be rubbish some day."

"That's harsh."

He shrugged, looking past her, a broken headstone, the jagged edges of the break long worn smooth by time and weather. "Besides, cemeteries keep my feet on the ground, ya know?"

She shook her head.

"I can get my head muddled with too much thinking. The buried dead remind me that it's all temporary. Each one of us is going into the ground, and when that happens all the shite that kept you awake nights sweating your balls off adds up to nothing. A six foot deep hole of nothing. And look how peaceful all these lives are now." He swept one hand around him.

"But isn't the good fight about staying alive?"

"If you're a doctor, sure. It is. If you're an outlaw, you know it's inevitable. Each morning that you wake back up you just count as another lucky day in a short life. Death becomes your friend, not your enemy."

"Filip." She went up on her knees and leaned into him, kissing him, close-mouthed. She settled herself closer to him, taking one of his hands and drawing it into her lap. "What is wrong? Why are you in this dark mood?"

He closed his eyes, shaking his head, rolling his lips between his teeth. He sighed.

"Tell me."

"This is a waste of fucking time. You. Me. This. And we need to walk away from it. Both of us. Before the hurt gets any worse. And it's going to hurt, like fucken hell."

She looked away from him, his expression too painful to study. She tangled the fingers of both hands in and around his hand, tracing the lines in his palm, the ridges of his knuckles, the riotous dusting of black hair on the back. She took a deep breath and began speaking. "Why, Filip? Because you've made a pledge to the MC? This could be your life. I could be your life. Us. A life that would give you so much more than SAMCRO ever could. It's a choice and I understand that. And you're the only one who can make it. Choose me, choose this. You know that this is a good thing. A rare thing. You've said it yourself. Why throw it all away because of the club? Can the club give you a better life? A family? Security? Love? Don't answer that because you and I both know the answer already."

"I've made myself unforgivable, Tara. I've made my life a mess that can't be sorted. I've killed men, hurt dozens more. Last weekend I killed more than one man. More than one, do you get that? I cannot be washed clean. Maybe I was thinking I could have a better life, a different life. But I just don't see a way out of this."

"You just leave. Can you see that?" She shook his hand free and stood, pacing back and forth in front of him. "You just walk away. Not every leaving has to be a blood-letting, Fil. Violence. I know that you're convinced it is that way, vengeance, death, destruction. Millions of people live their lives without ever breaking like that."

He stood now, leaning with his back against the tree, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head.

She stepped close to him, holding onto his forearms tightly. "Tell me what the MC is for you. Not last month or ten years ago, but right now today. And tell me the god damned truth."

"Guns. Kicking head. And now drugs. Fucken Clay and Jax and the goddamned Cartel. I know I'll be dead within five years. Or locked up for life."

She felt thin, fragile, breakable. She could feel a hot panic rising inside her; she could not remember that she ever felt solid, substantial.

Suddenly, he unfolded his arms, reaching towards her and wiped her face dry with the backs of his fingers. "Don't cry, Tara. Don't cry."

She shook her head, her lips sealed shut. She hadn't known she was crying, but could feel the tears now breaking over the edges of her eyes, running down her face. She was moments away from sobbing. "I can't help it. We could have so much."

He pulled her to him and she folded herself against his chest, his arms around her shoulders, his mouth pressed against the top of her head. "I'm not worth crying over, baby girl. Believe me when I tell you this. I'm not worth someone like you begging me to stay. I should be struck down, here where I stand, for even ever having touched you."

"That isn't fair. You are not judge and executioner of your own life." She stepped back, looking at him, biting her upper lip hard. "Fil, I'm not innocent either. I killed a man and ripped up the rug where he bled out." He let his hands fall away from her. She watched his face, brows furrow in confusion and slowly smooth into resignation. "SAMCRO has done this, ruined so many lives, so many men. And you need to believe me when I tell you that. God only know why we've been given this small opening. But we can squeeze through and get clear. We can start over, together. We need to be selfish."

"Selfish? I'm not made like that."

"Then do it for me, Filip. Leave the MC and come start a new life with me. For me."

He nodded, eyes squinted nearly closed. She could see him turning this over in his mind, feeling at the shape of it, the weight of it. Then he took her hand again and they began walking. The cemetery was acres large and they took each path, each small road, hand in hand, until they arrived back at the gate and the sun was beginning to set.

"You wanta go get drunk?" he asked.

"It's a Sunday night."

"Does that mean yes or no?" He smiled.

"Yes."

"Brilliant. Let's hit Catfish Charlie's. So I guess we can't get too legless cuz the bike, right. We'll have to teach you to ride. Then I'll be pillion."

"I don't want to learn."

"Tha's good, cuz I don't wanta ride bitch. Let's go."


Later that night, he lay snoring on his back beside her. She turned onto her side, scrunching the pillow beneath her head, watching the shadow of him in the moonlight, listening to him breathe. She forced her mind to empty itself of all worry and thought. When she finally drifted into sleep, she dreamt that they were buried together in the same casket, entombed in the cold earth. He reached for her and she pressed herself up beneath his arm, holding him close as he held her tight. He was wearing a morning suit and she was wearing a wedding gown, and in the dream she was filled with happiness, overwhelmed by a feeling of safety, the two of them locked together in time. For eternity. In the dream, she closed her eyes and slept.