I wasn't sure if I was going to continue this story, but I'm not mean enough to leave you guys hanging. I had toyed with the thought of re-vamping it to fit the route Kurt took with the story, but I don't want to get screwed over again if things change in the next season. So I'll keep this one going as long as Sorcha tells me the story. Updates might be a bit sparse, but they will keep coming until I get an ending for it. Happy Valentine's Day . . . well, very belated now.
Miss you everyday, Uncle Scurvy, R.I.P.
Ride Free, Love Always, Aoife
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She leaned against the wall next to the door, head tilted back, eyes closed, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of her blue jeans. Her shirt bunched a bit where it met her pants, hugging what she less-than-affectionately called her "love handles." But Juice had never thought she was fat. The women he'd been raised by were much bigger. Though she was a little heavy on the bottom end, her 140 pounds were distributed fairly evenly over her 5'2" frame, and what man in his right mind would complain about a girl having a nice ass? She was simply a little softer than most of the women who hung out at the club. But she wasn't weak either; a good portion of that weight was muscle. Many times he'd seen one of the Mamas give Sorcha shit, and then get put in her place. She would say that she was built like her dad, but Chibs would say she looked just like her mother. Either way, she was 140 pounds of red-headed, Scottish-Irish passion and fury.
She opened her eyes and leaned forward, squinting at him from across the lot. "Take a feckin' picture already!" she called. He smiled to himself, got off his bike and headed over to her. She crossed her arms over her chest as he approached and leaned against the wall next to her.
"I would if you'd let me," he taunted. Sobering, he asked, "Who you waitin' on?"
"Got an appointment with Tara. Jax said he'd take me."
"How come you're waitin' out here?" She didn't respond, instead holding up a finger and pointing to the door. He listened for a second and heard raised voices through the wall. "Clay?" She nodded. "Well, I can take you," he offered. "What time do you have to be there?"
"Four."
"Alright, lemme run to my room real quick."
"'Kay."
He opened the door and snuck through the main room. Clay's back was to Juice as he shouted at Jax. Slipping down the hallway, he turned into his doorway and shut the door. His eyes roved the area, stopping on his desk. There was a file folder containing inventories for Bobby. He scooped it up and hurried back out to the front room. He spotted Sorcha's black leather jacket on a hook by the door and grabbed it. Turning around, he lifted it, indicating to Jax that Sorcha would be needing it for the ride. Jax nodded, and Juice continued out the door.
He handed the jacket to its owner and quickly walked over to the shop's office. Gemma sat at the computer on the desk and looked up as he entered. "Here's the list Bobby wanted," he explained, handing it to her.
She accepted it from him and set it on the desk next to her. "Where are you off to so fast?" she asked to his turned back as he hurried back toward the door. "Sorcha's got an appointment with the Doc," he called over his shoulder. "Gettin' her stitches out today." Gemma stared after him in curiosity, watching the two of them out the window. She was glad Sorcha wasn't hesitant to be near men. To be afraid of the people who loved you was something she never wished on anyone.
She leaned over and pulled her boot on. As she went to zip it, he opened the door and entered the room. "Oh, Baby," he exclaimed in sympathy. He moved to kiss her, but she flinched, pulling away from him. "I'm so sorry."
"No, it's okay," she assured him. "I'm just kinda jumpy." Her whole body screamed just looking at him. It was all his fault . . . and yet, it wasn't at the same time. This happened because of Clay and the boys, but they'd done nothing to provoke this kind of retaliation. This was a pre-emptive strike meant to rattle the club, shake them up. And she wouldn't let that happen.
"You gotta lay off the midnight joyrides," he chuckled, trying to make her smile.
"Yeah," she grimaced back, not really in the mood to be cheered up just yet.
"You okay?"
No, she thought. I'm never going to be okay again. But she knew that wasn't true. This was bad, but at least she still had her family. It would just take a little while to get over. "I'm fine."
"It's kinda hot." Bless his heart, he was still trying to make her feel better.
"Thanks, that's what I was going for," she managed to send back.
"You ready to go home?"
She couldn't go home with him yet. She couldn't even handle kissing him, let alone getting on a motorcycle with him. And beyond that, she could barely sit on a chair without pain; what would a bike seat do to her? "Y'know, they have to . . . uh . . . they gotta do some X-rays. Neeta can give me a lift."
"I can wait," he offered.
"No, Honey, it's okay; it's gonna be a while."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm really . . . I'm fine," she stuttered, trying to convince herself as much as him. He leaned in to kiss her again, but stopped when she flinched and instead kissed her hands.
"I love you."
"I love you too." As he closed the door, her chest tightened. How could she be afraid of her own husband? Tears rose to her eyes and for once in her life, she didn't stop them. She deserved to cry. And once this was over, she would make sure that little blond bitch paid for hitting her, and that the boys put every one of those bastards in the ground . . . just like they'd done before.
Over at his bike, Juice handed a helmet to Sorcha, put his own on and swung his leg over the iron mustang. Though it wasn't necessary, Sorcha waited until Juice started the bike before she got on behind him; it was a habit from riding on her father's kick-start motorcycle. There was little--in Sorcha's opinion--that a ride on a motorcycle couldn't fix. Though she was more than welcome to help the guys in the shop fixing them, her father still didn't want her to have one. She was able to ride on her own, but the club didn't think it was a good idea. None of the other club women rode their own bikes. Her "membership" status was unprecedented, but that didn't mean they had to break all the rules for her. And she was just fine riding with someone else. She liked not having to think while she was riding, just close her eyes and fly like the crow on her forearm.
Juice had always been her favorite to ride with besides her father. He was a good size-match, and since she'd been in high school, was pretty much the only one besides her father who didn't have a regular rider. Clay had Gemma, Jax had Tara and then Wendy, Opie had Donna. So when all the younger people wanted to go somewhere, particularly when Juice was still a prospect and did what he was told, she rode with him.
Now she more than willingly climbed on behind him, a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. She situated her body and wrapped her arms around his waist. He briefly laid a hand on her leg before pushing off and making for the street. Sorcha let her eyelids droop and laid her head against the reaper patch on his back.
"Nothing can hurt you anymore." Sorcha kept telling herself that as she stood staring at her reflection in the mirror. The calf-high brown boots and t-shirt were hers, but the camouflage mini-skirt she'd borrowed from her roommate.
"Come on, Sorcha, let's go," Kara called from the other room. Sorcha'd been to countless parties with the Sons of Anarchy, and by most accounts they were more dangerous than any fraternity. But she'd still never been to a genuine "Frat Party," and it made her a little nervous. Sorcha met the other girl in the hallway.
"I still don't feel right about this," Sorcha admitted.
"You party with bikers and you're worried about a few fraternity boys?"
"Yes," she insisted. "They don't know the rules."
"Rules?" Kara started laughing. "Come on, Spitfire, what's the worst that could happen?"
She hated exam rooms. They were always too cold, and the paper under her butt made a horrible noise with every tiny shift. Tara entered the room, clipboard in hand, and closed the door behind her. "Well, now that your stitches are out, I have some good news," she opened, taking a seat on the stool next to the table. "You're healing well . . . everywhere." Sorcha breathed a sigh of relief. "You'll definitely have the scar on your face and the small ones on your arms and torso, but I doubt anyone who knows you will care." Sorcha nodded; she would gladly take the visible scars to be completely intact everywhere else. It had taken her so long to recover the last time . . . "You got really lucky, Spitfire," Tara continued. "No broken bones, no diseases, and you're not pregnant." Tears welled up in Sorcha's eyes. Eight years ago she'd gotten an infection that had threatened her ability to ever have children. But that had been four men.
"I guess it helps that it was only one this time," she mumbled. Tara stopped and gave her a questioning look. Sorcha froze; she'd forgotten that everyone thought she didn't know what happened.
"Do you remember it?" Tara asked carefully, lowering her voice even though they were the only two in the room. Sorcha looked at the doctor helplessly. What was she supposed to say? Yeah, I remember every excruciating detail of it, just like the last time. Only this time the guy who raped me is untouchable--a senator's son. Tara's gaze softened as Sorcha sat at a loss for words. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do. But if it was me, I'd talk to someone about it. Jax or Opie . . . or Juice. You owe it to them to let them help fix it." She knew Tara was right, but she could only nod in response. "Well, you can get dressed again; there's a certain guy in leather waiting for you outside."
"Thanks, Tara." The doctor began to head out of the room, but Sorcha caught her attention with a hand on her arm. "Y'know, you were always more of a sester ta me than Wendy."
Tara smiled, looking genuinely grateful. "Think about what I said, okay?"
"Okay."
When Tara had left, she put her clothes back on and headed to administration. "You're all set, Honey," the woman behind the counter smiled. She nodded and continued to the waiting area where Juice was sitting anxiously in a chair, although "sitting" was a generous definition for what he was doing. He perched on the very edge of the seat, arms leaning on his knees, one foot bouncing in anticipation. The left side of Sorcha's mouth curled upward as she stood watching him for a second. But she thought it best to end his misery, so she stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. He bounced up onto his feet.
"You okay?" His hand rested gently on the small of her back, and he leaned down slightly to look her directly in the eyes.
"Yes," she responded, laying her hand on his arm as reassurance. "I still have to do a follow-up HIV test, but other than that, I'm clean and healing well."
"That's awesome, Babe." He pulled her into an embrace, and she couldn't help letting herself linger in it a little longer than she should have. She shouldn't get her hopes up; there was no reason to expect he still wanted her as he once said he did. He must have hooked up with a dozen or more girls just since she'd been home last. But still, she felt her heart leap as he held her just as long as she allowed him to.
They stood around the backside of the moving van to have a little privacy from her father, who sat in the drivers' seat. "I'll wait for you if you want me to."
"I don't expect ya ta do that; frankly, I don't think ya could."
"You'd be surprised," he shot back. "I don't want anyone else, Spitfire."
"You say that now. Just wait til et's been two months 'n you haven't gotten any."
"You don't ever plan on coming home to visit?" She shrugged in response. "And it's not like I can't ever come up there . . . and we do have these handy things called cell phones and the internet now." She sighed up at him with a desperate look in her eyes. "Hey, it'll be okay." His hands cradled her face, and he pulled her into a kiss.
Tara knocked on the door and entered to find Sorcha standing in front of the mirror. She wore a simple tank top and jeans, showing off most of the scars she now carried. The older woman caught Sorcha's eyes in the reflection. "Everyone who matters isn't going to care," Tara assured her. "And if it really bothers you, I'm sure there's a flannel left in Jax's closet you could borrow."
"Et's not that," Sorcha replied. "I jest don't know how m' mind's gonna react to another party so soon." Tara slowly approached her and wrapped her arms around Sorcha's shoulders in a sisterly hug.
"But this party is full of people who would kill for you." Sorcha nodded and took a deep breath. Tara smiled, kissed her on the cheek and said, "Come on, Spitfire; there's a lot of people out there who want to see you." The two women headed out to the main room where music blared, young women showed as much skin as they could get away with, and old men drank more than they should . . . including the one she called "Father." Chibs sat with a whisky bottle in one hand and a young blond on one knee. Surprisingly enough, the first person to greet Sorcha was Emily, the infamous Crow Eater.
"I heard you were back in town," she smiled. "How ya doin'?"
"Pretty good, considering," Sorcha replied. "You?"
"Oh, you know: workin' hard, playin' hard."
Sorcha nodded in Chibs's direction. "How's he been?"
"He's glad you're home."
Tara was slightly stunned by the conversation between the two. "Doesn't it ever bother you to see your dad like that?"
"Nah," Sorcha commented. "Why should it? He's earned the right ta have a little fun now 'n then."
"Besides," Emily put in, "Chibs never goes for redheads."
"Really?"
"Watch this," Sorcha smiled. She maneuvered over to a girl with orange-gold curls and asked her something Tara couldn't understand, then headed back to her companions. Tara watched intently as the girl neared Chibs and said something to him, obviously trying to get his attention. Chibs blew her off without a second thought. Tara's eyes widened, and the other two started laughing.
"Et might make me a betch, but I love watchin' 'em," Sorcha giggled.
"Let's get a drink," Tara suggested, trying to save any other girls from getting their hopes lifted by the apparently evil-minded redhead. Although, she had to admit to herself that she'd probably do the same thing in Sorcha's position. It re-affirmed in her mind that her father cared about her differently than any other woman on the planet. And it was just fun to play with the girls who didn't quite know the club yet. They took their leave of Emily and headed toward the bar. Tara went straight behind the bar and uncapped a beer, taking a sip and offering it to Sorcha. Without hesitation, Sorcha took a drink and handed it back. As they surveyed the room, making comments about the ridiculousness of most of the women, Jax approached them.
"There's my girls." He dropped a kiss on Sorcha's cheek, and another on Tara's mouth. "You look like you're healing well, Spitfire."
"On the outside anyway," she smiled back. Jax's brow furrowed in concern. What had happened to her was enough to screw anyone up for life, and she was his sister as much as Opie was his brother.
"You want an escort tonight?"
Sorcha thought about it, but before she could answer, she caught sight of a brown-skinned, mohawked figure heading toward them. "Thanks, but something tells me I'm gonna have one whether I want it er not."
Jax followed her gaze and smiled. "Be nice to him; he got stabbed in prison not too long ago." She simply looked down at the new scars on her arms, then raised an eyebrow at him. His smile cracked into a chuckle. "Fair enough, Darlin'." As Juice approached, Jax and Tara headed off to be alone. Sorcha hoped it wasn't on the rancid sheets of Jax's old room that she--and apparently everyone before her--hadn't yet had a chance to wash.
Juice thought he'd made it, that he was in the clear. He was just relieved that the plan had worked out the way they'd wanted it to; he'd never be able to live down taking it in the ass in prison just so the Sons could get some protection. They released him back out to the yard. All he had to do was get back to his boys. Suddenly, pain tore into his back, and his knees buckled. He grabbed at Jax, who was there instantaneously to catch him as he fell. The fire spread the longer he tried to keep himself upright, and he gave up, allowing a group of guards to carry him back to the infirmary. It was a much different trip this time. He prayed to whoever might possibly be listening. He couldn't die yet. Desperately trying to rid himself of the pain, he focused his mind on her face and drifted out of consciousness.
"You doin' okay, Babe?"
"Why does everyone keep askin' me that?" Sorcha shot back, annoyed. She was tired of answering that question time and time again.
Juice laughed nervously. "Maybe we just don't know what else to say." She sobered and looked at him seriously for a second. Then she pursed her lips and shook her head slightly, admitting that she wasn't as fine as she made out to be. "Let's go grab some air." He wrapped an arm around her and lead her outside. She folded her arms against the cool night as the started to walk. Without asking her if she wanted it, Juice slid his jacket off, put his cut back on, and placed the sweatshirt over Sorcha's shoulders. She accepted it gladly, not caring that it drowned her; it was warm, and she'd forgotten how much she missed his smell. They stopped on the bridge and leaned over the side, watching bubbles float up to the surface of the water. He dared enough to put an arm around her, and she allowed it, laying her head against his chest.
"I missed you," she whispered. His only response was to pull her closer. They stayed that way until Sorcha thought she might fall asleep standing there. She looked at her watch. "We should get back."
"Yeah," he agreed. "I don't want your dad comin' after me 'cause we disappeared; the last thing I need is Chibs pissed at me."
"You've got nothin' ta worry about, Love," she assured him, laying a hand on his chest briefly as she started to head back toward the clubhouse. Like a loyal, protective, and obedient dog, he followed her at first, eventually catching up to her and grabbing her hand to lead her the rest of the way. Conscious of nervousness, he let go of her hand and opened the door for her. They found that things were winding down, many of the older men now in corners with young women and ignoring each other. She handed his sweatshirt back to him and immediately started cleaning up. She would have to do it anyway; she might as well get a good portion of it out of the way before she was too tired to deal with it. People would start passing out and throwing up soon, and having bottles and cups and full ash trays mixed in with that was more than she cared to think about at the moment. Juice dropped a silent kiss on her cheek and headed back toward the room he was renting. She couldn't help but smile to herself. Maybe he did want her back. Heaving a sigh, she grabbed a trash bag from under the bar and set to picking up. Over the next hour, she watched as many went home, leaving their messes behind them. Infinitely more entertaining, however, was watching the old men fall asleep during sexual favors, prompting their Sweet Butts to pass out as well. One of these days, she would have start taking pictures and making a scrapbook of the positions in which they fell asleep. Another hour passed as she got things to a very manageable level. Only bodies now littered the room. She would wait to sweep and vacuum until everyone was awake the next day. Doing it now would just be cruel. She headed back to Jax's room and stood in the doorway. The idea of spending another night in that bed without cleaning the sheets disgusted her. Her nose wrinkled, still picking up the odors. She traveled a little farther down the hall and stopped outside her father's room. There were noises coming from it that hinted at obvious pleasure. The next door was Juice's; it couldn't hurt to try there. It certainly wouldn't be the first time she'd slept in that room.
She turned the knob and entered, finding a slumbering log on the bed. Carefully picking her across the dark room, she pushed at his shoulder. "Juice." A moan followed by an unintelligible mumble came from the form. She pushed him again harder. "Juan Carlos."
"Uhn?" He lifted his head and cracked one eye open.
"Move over."
"What?"
"I can't sleep in Jax's room anymore; move over."
"Why not?"
"It smells like old socks and pussy in there." She unbuttoned and pulled off her jeans before sliding in next to him under the covers. Still half asleep, he wasn't about to argue. He instinctively slid one arm under her neck and wrapped the other around her waist. She was in no mood to object. She simply relaxed into the solid mass behind her and drifted off.
He'd had too much to drink. It seemed to be the trend lately. It had been almost nine months since she'd last been home. He understood that she was angry with Juice, but did she have to take it out on him? Did she know how much it hurt that his own daughter didn't want to come home to see him? Lately it seemed like she was slipping away. He'd lost one daughter to the girl's mother; he couldn't lose Sorcha too. Not when he and the club were technically all she had left. Wasn't she lonely? He watched Juice asleep on the pool table with one of the blond Crow Eaters tucked under his arm. Poor kid. He'd never admit just how much Sorcha had gotten under his skin. But Chibs knew. "Aithníonn cíaróg cíaróg eile." A beetle recognizes another beetle. He was vaguely aware of a young woman sliding his pants off, but he didn't care. With all the alcohol in his system, there'd be no way he could get off anyway. He finally succumbed to the blurring of his mind and everything went black.
Juice woke up with a stinging scrape across his chest. His blurry eyes made out the figure of a young woman sitting on the edge of the bed. She ran a hand through her flaming hair and crossed her arms against her chest again, shuddering in the cool air of the room. He knew immediately that she'd had a nightmare. Sitting up, he scooted over to her and wrapped his still-warm arms around her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
He pressed his lips against her the nape of her neck. "You've done worse to me in bed." She chuckled half-heartedly, but at least he'd broken the tension. "You want to tell me about it?"
"I's feelin' the knife again," she answered. "Slicin' inta m' arms while I fought back." He moved over to one side of her and gently turned her face to him. Without words, he took her right hand and lifted it to his mouth. Over and over he repeated the motion until he'd kissed each of her new scars, finishing with the one on her cheek. As she felt his warm breath on her face, her chest began to tighten, and a familiar feeling overwhelmed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. His hands in turn wrapped around her waist firmly, silently telling her that he wasn't going anywhere. She pulled back, unable to stand it anymore, and pressed her mouth hard against his.
Poison poured from the smile he flashed at her. Blond hair, blues eyes, and a creepy feeling that you didn't want to be around stood blocking her way to the back door. "Come on, just sit and have a drink with me."
"Nah," she replied. "I'm done fer ta-night. I jest wanna find Kara 'n go home. Her head was already starting to feel fuzzy. She'd made sure she only had one drink. One cup of beer shouldn't have affected her like that. She was Irish and Scottish, and raised by bikers; she'd been drinking regularly since she was fifteen. Her alcohol tolerance rivaled that of forty-year-old men.
"Aww, come on," he slurred. "It's just one drink."
"No," she insisted. She tried to push past him and make her way back into the house to find her friend. His hand shot out and clasped her forearm tightly, twisting it until she cried out in pain.
"I said, one more drink." Had she been sober, she'd have dropped his ass on the ground, but now she couldn't even tell which way was up, let alone stay standing. She writhed beneath his grasp, vaguely aware of being dragged somewhere.
Afterward, they lay still, Juice running a finger gently across her back. "You must have been practicing while you were away." She gave him a swift jab to the ribs. "Ah! What?" he objected. "It's not like I care." Sorcha rolled over onto her side. He laid a cool hand against her hot skin. "I'm sorry, Babe. I honestly don't care how many other guys you've slept with." She rolled back over and looked him square in the eyes.
"Yer still the only man I've willingly allowed ta have me." It struck a chord. Since she'd left, he'd had dozens of other partners. Some because he was mad at her, others because he was drunk, and none of them ever compared to her. The tricks they all turned, the fancy moves, none of it mattered. He hadn't really understood why. They'd all been very good at what they did, but there was always something missing. And he hadn't quite comprehended until now.
"It's you," he said aloud, not entirely on purpose.
"What?"
"I want you."
"Ya kinda jest proved that, Dumbass."
"No, I mean, after all this time, I still only want you. I know it sounds stupid, but the one thing that's been missing was you." He was astonished at his own words. He'd never been this sentimental before . . . with anyone.
"Ya don't hafta pretend," Sorcha replied defensively, also caught off-guard by his statement.
"I'm not," he insisted, much more sure of himself this time. "I owe you my patch, my life, and you're the only one who has my respect." He paused for a moment as though afraid to utter the next phrase. "I love you, Spitfire."
This completely blew her away. They'd been together--on and off--for years, and never had either of them used that phrase. Sure, she knew she loved him the way she loved every other guy in the club. But she'd never been able to bring herself to say it. She knew what it meant to lose your heart to one of the club members; she'd watched Gemma and Clay since she was old enough to pay attention. The rush of being a club woman was dizzying, but her mother had shown her the ultimate danger of being one. Through all of this, she knew in the pit of her stomach that it would be the only life she'd ever be able to live. Pretending to be a normal girl would only get her so far until she had to let her inner "biker chick" out. Finally, staring him in the face, she forced her voice out of hiding. "I love you," she whispered before pressing her mouth to his again.