Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from "Sons of Anarchy." They are the property of Kurt Sutter and Fox Network. No money is changing hands in the writing, reading or distribution of this story.

Intended Part 3

The magazine slid into the Taurus Millennium smoothly and clicked into place, such a satisfying sound. Blued steel, double trigger action, injection molded polymer frames, Smith and Wesson cartridge, a drop safety…Butcher wasn't good enough to be killed with this gun, but Tig was going to do it anyway. He waited on his bike outside the motel room door; there was no need for any concealment of the pistol or his face. Butcher knew him, and he'd be dead. Jocelyn knew him too, and Tig wanted her to see him, wanted her to know he'd neutralized the threat, that he'd been there for her, that he cared. Well, maybe he didn't want to get in quite that deep with her. What he really wanted was her feeling grateful enough to fuck him in the motel room she and Butcher were staying in, after Butcher was laying dead on the floor. The thought made Tig smile; it would be sort of déjà vu.

That night two years ago when his cell had rung at two in the morning, Tig had been sure it was Clay. Who else could possibly need him at 2am? But the voice on the other end was nowhere close to Clay's.

"Tig?"

"Who is this?" It was a woman, her heavy breath so hard and fast that it nearly muffled out her words, but over all he got a sense of chaos on the other end of line. What the hell was going on?

"It's Joss." She paused, sounded like her voice gave out for a moment and he could hear her teeth chatter together as she worked to get it back. "I—"

Jocelyn? What the fuck? "How'd you get this number?" Of course she'd repeatedly asked for his number, wanted to know how to get in contact with him; wouldn't give up her hope that he'd agree to some bullshit contract killing of her father. It was the only reason she'd painted herself up and gone into that biker bar the night he'd met her, she wasn't looking to be anyone's piece of ass, but she would be if it meant hiring a killer. But she was sixteen, and while there were some things he'd gladly do with her and had been, hiring on as a hitman wasn't one of them. What sixteen year old didn't want their parents dead? That's all he needed, offing her daddy and having the little shit change her mind once it all went down and going to the police. But Jocelyn had been persistent, asked him all the time, pestered him about accepting the job, kept raising the pay off amount, but at the most, Tig only said he'd "think about it" and kept putting her off, pretending to contemplate the job just enough to keep her hanging around, sucking his dick. And now the little rich bitch was calling his cell? Obviously she'd touched his phone without his knowing. That went beyond arrogance!

"Tig!" She said again, almost screamed, and then burst into such violent tears and sputters all he could make out was, "…need you…don't know what to do…"

He berated himself as he sat up and got to his feet, he berated himself as he pulled clothes and a Kevlar vest on, grabbing a gun and strapping on the knife, not knowing what he was about to head into and not understanding what it was that was making him do so in the first place. He didn't owe her anything, never made her a single promise even. Was it his fault that she saw him as some sort of rescuer from whatever it was that ailed her tonight? No. There was no sign on his back that read "hero," that was for damn sure. So why was he rushing in like a knight to save a damsel in distress? There was something critically wrong with him, even more so than before. He was thirty-nine years old! No sixteen year old kid living in a fucking mansion should have this much of a hold on him, despite how adept she was becoming at deep throating his eight inch cock!

No, he wasn't going to her. Whatever was going on with her tonight, whoever or whatever was attacking her, she was on her own. What did she expect him to do? And why did she expect him to do it? Did she think she meant something to him? Was that it? What indications of that had he ever given her? No, she was just a little snot nosed brat, somebody's spoiled princess, and Tig wasn't wasting his time with her anymore, no way, no how. But even as he was thinking it, he was on his bike, passing a semi at eighty miles per hour, heading for Joss's house hoping he wasn't already too late.

The sprawling house was dark, only the outside lights along the drive were on, and one light in the foyer. The place was still, too still, something was definitely going on, but had been somehow hushed up. He didn't like walking into this; it felt too much like an ambush, everything was so purposefully quiet. He parked the bike in the shadow of the house, away from any windows, dismounted and drew his weapon. What did Joss have going on in there tonight that had made her call him in the state she was in? He'd never bothered to ask why she wanted her father killed, it hadn't mattered to him why, he didn't have any intentions of working for her, but now he wondered as he skulked along the perimeter, taking cover wherever there was any, alert and suspicious of every shape and noise in the dark as he made his way up the front steps and to the French doors. He paused, listening for any noises inside, no voices, no shuffling around of feet, nothing. At least there was the light in the foyer, he'd be able to see when he entered, but then, anyone else in the house would also be able to see him. Why didn't he just leave?

Before he knew it, his hand was trying the door handle, it turned, opened silently and Tig stepped cautiously into the lit foyer, weapon out in front of him as he scanned the darkness ahead of him, his peripheral vision sharply accounting for what was to his left and right. If someone was hiding in the dark, they had better just jump out and get it over with, but there was nothing. Not a damned thing. What was going on? His footsteps echoed eerily into the darkened hallway as he moved, it was so hard to be quiet in such a damned big place with marble tiles and cathedral ceilings. Fuck this house! He'd been unseen so far, and the door was only a few steps behind him, he could be gone and no one would ever know he'd been there. But Jocelyn…no, fuck Joss! He didn't give a shit about the little wannabe sweetbutt, she certainly wasn't worth all the aggravation he'd been through tonight! Damn…he was seriously fucked up! Tig lowered his weapon and shook his head, he needed to get drunk, or high, or fuck something, whatever was going to drown out the thoughts in his head the fastest, but a sudden noise in the distance and a light coming on had him snap to attention again, his blood running cold and the Taurus in his hands pointed unwaveringly towards whoever was approaching him.

Closer, the footsteps were continuing up the hall towards him, a light, scampering step, he could see a shadow now moving along the wall. His finger pressed upon the trigger, tense, a bit more pressure and he'd pull it all the way back, but he waited, steady and cool, for his target to appear around the corner. A form lurched forward, walking as if its feet were unbalanced, stumbling up the hall. Tig's index finger curved, squeezed back on the trigger, another second and he'd be able to see well enough to get a head shot, he'd be ready, he'd drop whoever was coming down that hall. Another step, just one more step and there was brains on the wall.

The shadow suddenly gave up its identity and Tig froze, felt a shiver course through him as he stood, holding a gun on Jocelyn where she stood in the hallway. She'd stopped about ten feet away, as soon as she'd seen him. Smart girl, he'd have killed her otherwise. He wanted to drop the gun to his side and sigh his relief, but he didn't dare. "Joss!" He hissed angrily, mad at her for reasons he couldn't even describe, but she just stood there wavering and staring at him in a way all to familiar to him. He knew the look on her face.

"Tig," she sort of hiccupped, stumbled forward some more with her arms out to her sides. She didn't look right, besides the blank stare and stammering steps there was something dark speckled all over her face and her T-shirt. Blood? Did someone bash her on the head? Her father? "I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do, I didn't know what else to do!" She repeated again and again, tears flowing and full out crying hysterically as she ran to him, throwing her arms around him and burying her face against his chest.

Ordinarily he'd have shoved her away, didn't want anyone that close that way, but she'd caught him so off guard he'd lowered his weapon and wrapped one arm around her shuddering form, robbed of his usual cold indifference. "Shhh, it's okay. What happened?" He whispered, realizing all too late he did so in an effort to soothe her. Christ, he was fucking losing it!

Still shaking, Jocelyn lifted her head, her wide, empty green eyes looked up at him, but she didn't speak, only pointed into the great room on the their left, tucked her face against his chest and immediately began balling again.

Fuck, why couldn't she just tell him? "Stay here," he whispered, peeling her off of him, Joss hugging herself tightly in his absence. Again he raised his weapon, peering into the darkness of the great room, but all he could make out was the back of a couch, a loveseat, an end table. He moved slowly, deliberately, gun pointed at anything that looked like it may move.

"You don't have to do that." Jocelyn stood shaking and crying behind him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Just turn on the light."

There was the oddest sensation of something tightening in his gut that Tig rarely felt. He half didn't want to turn on the light, but his hand was reaching for the lamp, finding the switch and twisting it. The room flashed bright in a way that stung his eyes, Jocelyn letting out a little yelp in the foyer, as his eyes settled on the thing he just knew was there.

A man in a masculine lingerie get up of a red and blue silk bathrobe with matching red and blue silk boxers lie on the white carpet surrounded by what might as well have been a lake of blood. There was the stem of a smashed wine glass beside him, a bunch of red rose petals were scattered across the floor and chaise lounge. Looked like a romantic evening had been cut violently short. What remained of his face was a mass of gore buried in the carpet, not much was still recognizable, there was no forehead, maybe an eye and a cheekbone left on one side, the chin, but his face and head were pretty well blown off, bits of bone and flesh abounding everywhere. God Damn! Tig just sighed heavily and shook his head, this had to be Jocelyn's father, and in no time at all, she opened her mouth and confirmed his other suspicion.

"I don't want to go to jail!" She wailed, crumbling to her knees in the foyer, clamping her hands over her face as she cried, rocking forward and back. "I don't want to go jail…"

This was the last thing he'd expected to be pulled into by her. She certainly wasn't the type to go around busting caps in anyone's ass; she was nothing like he was. She was a nice girl, he could tell that from the moment he'd met her, easy enough to like, if not a little bit needy. He'd been careful and restrained enough not to fuck her, because she smelled all over like a bitch that would get knocked up to trap him, and then spend the rest of her life, until he slit her throat, chasing him for support when he wouldn't stay with her; silly bitch stuff like that he'd expected out of her, but not this. Man, there was more to the little beauty queen than he'd thought.

Tig looked over his shoulder at her, a rocking, mewling lump in the foyer, and a smile pulled at his mouth. A new feeling hit him hard, but he was okay with it. Now she was speaking his language, he was impressed. She'd made a hell of a mess of it, he'd seen more professional hits by bangers, but just the knowledge that she'd been able to pull the trigger, from the looks of things, fired three shots into her father's head at close range, made Tig feel a little mentor like. He turned, had to get her calmed down and show her how the rest of this went, but something on the floor nudged his boot before he stepped forward. The gun she'd used, .45 caliber Beretta, he picked it up.

"Maybe," Jocelyn still shuddered and tears still streamed down her face, she was watching him as if she expected him to disapprove and beat her or yell or something. "Maybe we should call the police? I could say it was an accident?"

Tig pulled the magazine from the Beretta and laughed without looking at her. "You emptied the clip, baby. That ain't no accident."

That observation did nothing to ease her mind and Jocelyn erupted with sobs and cries again, doubled over in the foyer as if she were dying. "What am I going to do?"

Maybe it was just the plain irritating sound of her howling that made his stomach drop like it did, but Tig suddenly needed to gasp for breath as he stared at her. It was hard to tell who the bigger mess was, her or her faceless father. He didn't remember moving towards her, he just was suddenly down on one knee in front her, lifting her upright and brushing away her tears. "Look, this thing is going to be okay, I'll help you." This was do-able, there was a fire pit in the back, in a gazebo. Tig's voice was soft and easy as he stared at her red and puffy eyes, stroking her long, dark, tangled tresses out of her face. He wasn't usually like this with a woman, unless it was going to get him some, but Jocelyn seemed to respond well to it, and he needed her to be paying attention. Fuck, there he went again, why did he even care? Angry with himself for how soft he was going, and wasn't able to stop it, his voice got a little rougher. "You gotta listen to me though, alright? This isn't going to be nice, it's not going to be pretty, but you gotta promise me if I tell you to do something, you'll do it!"

Maybe she was putting the pieces together in her head about what he meant because horror flashed in her eyes as she stared at him and she started to cry some more. "I can't—"

"No!" Tig yelled, grabbed her fiercely by the shoulders and shook her hard, like shocking her back to sensibility. He stared at her intensely, her eyes wide with fear and dread, but locked on his. "You don't want to go to jail? Whether you do or not gets decided right now, right here!" Her shaking was subsiding, his words seemed to be sinking in, but this was no time to let up on her. "Now you get your game face on, and you get it on now! We need tarps, trash bags, plastic wrap, whatever you've got. You go and you get that, along with a bucket, a sponge and some bleach, and we get to work! You got it?"

She drew in a sudden breath as she looked at him, her head nodded a little. "'H' two 'O' two." The gibberish fell out of her mouth, half mumbled, half suggested.

Tig shook his head in annoyed puzzlement. She wasn't shutting down mentally on him, was she? "What?"

Jocelyn breathed deeply again, steadied herself and tried once more. "Hydrogen…peroxide." It was an effort for her to talk, but she was managing it, getting it together, just the way he'd hoped she would, if not a little slower than he'd have liked, but Tig was oddly patient. "For the blood."

"Yeah," Her and her shitty little genius speak, but Tig nodded, excited that she was thinking, focusing. He leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the forehead before he could even think about what he was doing. "Good girl! Now go, get all the stuff together and bring it back here."

Again she nodded, leaned against him a little as she found her feet and stood up, Tig rising with her and spotting her incase she wavered too much, but to his delight, she didn't, just straightened her back and wiped furiously at her tear stained face. "Alright." She said, and took another deep breath.

She took a step away from him, heading off in the direction of the garage, which made him think of one more thing to ask her, and he hoped it didn't set her back to crying and screaming. "Joss, your father got a table saw or something?"