***

I'm pleased for a multitude of reasons. Firstly, because I'm actually getting an update out on a Friday for once. Secondly, it's a fairly long update, and contains what I hope will be some pleasing not-too-graphic smut. And finally, I'm heading into another weekend of inadvisable shenanigans. The following chapter is partially written already, so hopefully it won't be another two-week gap in updates.

Let me know what you think of the story so far!

Music. This week, I give you Under the Lighthouse by Big Wreck. It's a love song for the dysfunctional, which works for Tig and Anne, neither of whom are prepared to give so much as an inch of their dinged up little hearts away.

"No you woulda left me anyway
Well I'll just bow my head
I swear you might've left me anyway
So I'll leave you instead."

I also strongly suggest anything by the Armchair Cynics (another Canadian band) but especially the song Believe.

-B.

***

Life returned to normal. Or at least, a version of normal. It seemed like Anne had been a patch of duct-tape on a leaking ship—an imperfect solution, but something that bought time for Half-Sack. Without her, he was sullen and shifty. He refused to set foot in the ring, but started picking fights in bars and showing up for work with bloodied knuckles and black eyes. He'd mastered Anne's trick of fading back behind a blank mask as if the world was irrelevant. He didn't defy authority as much as evade it entirely.

Meanwhile, Tig was angry. He resented that they couldn't inflict a greater vengeance on the Nordics. He hated the process of removing the partial swastika from his back. And he loathed that he missed Anne. Without her distracting presence, he was bored, irritable, and haunted by the guilt of killing Donna.

Gemma's eyes, concerned and assessing, cut at him. She kept her distance, but when he glanced up to see her watching him from across the room, it was obvious that she knew things had changed. That made him angry, too.

There was some comfort to be found in the women who rose the challenge of salving his ill temper, but always short lived. He grew weary of halfway tricking himself that it was Anne's body against his, then realizing that it was just some crow eater whose name he couldn't recall. One night, he dreamed about Donna flying at him in a rage; Tig woke with his hand starting to close around the throat of some unsuspecting crow eater asleep at his side. Swallowing back self-loathing, Tig tossed the poor girl out of his bed. She wasn't the last girl he fucked, but she was the last one he let himself fall asleep next to.

Gradually, Anne and the infuriating Lodi events slipped from his thoughts. Until a day in September when Juice approached him at the bar.

"Hey."

Tig regarded Juice levelly over the rim of his pint. "Hope you're not looking for a bonding moment. I'm not in the mood."

"Nah. Look, I dunno if you even care. But I found this for Sack, and I printed a copy for you." With that, Juice placed an envelope in front of Tig.

After Juice retreated, Tig picked up the envelope. He held it in his hand, wondering at the feeling that this was something he didn't want to open. With an angry sigh, he ripped it open and unfolded the contents.

It was, unexpectedly, a copy of an article from a Calgary magazine. The editorial—dated for the summer of 2008—was about a youth rehab program in Calgary that Anne had co-founded. The story painted Anne and her colleagues as saintly but stubborn social workers who had elevated the non-profit organization from its roots as a drop-in centre in the city core.

Tig felt fascinated and sick reading it. It was clear that Anne was a woman with steel in her soul long before the Nords came along, but there had also been an openness and joy to her that he had never seen. In the photo accompanying the article, there was Anne, her long hair partially dyed blue of all things, and a proud smile on her face. He wasn't sure he liked the punk look, but seeing her in that picture, at the centre of a group of teenagers and social workers, woke an ache in him he couldn't put a name to. She was strong, happy, and surrounded by people to whom she mattered.

It was hard to reconcile the woman in the picture with the one who'd briefly walked among the Sons so recently. He recalled her saying that she couldn't go back to being a counsellor. Was this something else the Nords had cost her? His fingertips touched her face for a moment, then he closed his eyes.

Tig pulled the zippo from his pocket, lit it with a sharp crack, and held the flame to the corner of the paper. It caught and burned with soft orange glow. He watched the fire eat up to the edge of Anne's picture and then tipped the page into an empty pint glass. When it had burned away, he calmly pocketed the lighter. She was gone. End of story.

And then, after six months of the new normal, Clay's cell phone rang. It was a short conversation, and when Clay hung up, he rubbed his hand over his eyes and sat wearily at one of the stools in the garage. Tig raised an eyebrow and sauntered over to find out what was bothering Clay. When he saw the look on president's face, he sent the non-Son mechanics on a coffee break.

"That was Unser." Clay said as Juice and Opie approached.

"Bad news?" Tig said.

Clay shrugged. "Not for us. Agent Stahl was in Oakland. She got jumped and beaten—occupational hazard. They figure she's not going to make it."

Opie shuddered. He closed his eyes and nodded. Tig saw Opie's pain unmasked and looked away. Maybe Stahl's death would give some kind of resolution to the mess she'd left behind. Then he thought about Anne. Was she safe? Would she come to see her sister?

"This is a good time to lay low, boys. ATF is going to be prowling, and we're near the top of a very long list of people who'd be happy to put that bitch in the grave." Clay said. "Spread the word."

There were phone calls to make. To other chapters, to allies, to friends. Tig had one additional phone call to make, and it wasn't one he was ready to tell Clay about.

***

Two days later, Tig's cell rang. He looked at the number, and stepped away from the garage to answer it.

"Hey, I think I've got something for you." It was a woman's voice, hushed slightly as if to prevent anyone from overhearing her.

"Yeah?"

"Your favourite coma case had a visitor today. Family."

"Got her name?"

"Annika Harris." There was a sound of clattering computer keys on the other end of the line. "She's staying at the Holiday Inn on Oak Street."

"That's my girl. Room number?"

"310." There was a pause. "Cops showed up to talk her. She yelled at them, but she was crying when she left."

"Did you hear what they were talking about?"

"Not much. She called them vultures and told them to fuck off." The clerk laughed softly. "It was kind of awesome."

Tig smiled to himself. "Thanks babe."

"Any time."

That evening, Tig rode to Oakland, irritable and eager at the same time. He didn't like how confused Anne left him, but he wanted to see her again. He also felt deep pleasure at the idea of Agent Stahl kicking the bucket, which he suspected Anne wouldn't share with him.

He arrived at the Holiday Inn after dark. The man behind the desk barely glanced up as he walked past the desk and straight to the elevators. He liked that it was easy to walk in, but it wasn't a safe place for Anne to be hanging out, especially in Niner territory. On the third floor, he rapped firmly on the door marked 310.

There was no response. He knocked more forcefully, and then called out. "Anne, c'mon, it's Tig. Open up."

After a long moment, Anne opened the door. Six months had changed her, and at a glance, Tig wasn't sure it was all good change. She was tanned and looked strong, but her wary eyes had a terrible stillness to them. Her hair was longer, pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail that trailed over one shoulder. She wore a tank top and a skirt that brushed her ankles. Barefoot and blank-faced, it was a painful reminder of the Lodi warehouse. Except this time, there was a gun in her hand, partly hidden behind her leg. It was unfair how beautiful and dangerous she looked.

After an off-balance moment, abruptly confronted by the rush of memory and the lack of welcome on her face, he realized how annoying it was to deal with a woman who handled shit the same way he did—silence and violence. At that thought, he wondered if she'd done anything unpleasant since he saw her last.

"You even know how to shoot that?" Tig asked, raising an eyebrow at the gun.

"Planning to give me a reason to prove it?" She replied. Her stoic mask slipped a little and her lips twitched in a brief smile. "Didn't take you long to find me. Bribed a hospital clerk?"

"Something like that." Tig wasn't used to clever women.

"I'm flattered." She said dryly, and then her eyes went hard again. "Or is this club business?"

"Chill. I just wanted to see if you were okay." Tig raised his hands defensively. "Are you?"

She looked away, nodded more to herself than him, and stepped back into the room. Tig took that as an invitation and followed, closing the door behind them. In her wake, he caught the citrus scent of gin. The open bottle stood on the nightstand, next to a can of tonic.

Anne went straight to the bed, which under other circumstances might have been an invitation. However, her posture wasn't welcoming. She leaned against the headboard, one leg tucked under her and the other drawn up to her chest, and set the pistol on the sheets next to her. She was avoiding his eyes. Again, it was painfully reminiscent of the warehouse.

Tig rubbed his temple. He leaned over her and scooped the pistol up in one hand. Anne didn't protest, but he heard her inhale—an enticingly vulnerable sound—as his arm brushed against hers.

He paused and looked down at her, realizing that her façade of cool indifference was barely holding up. It made him feel better. Without even making the decision to do so, his hand reached out to stroke her soft brown hair. It was the first time he'd touched her in almost half a year. He let his hand linger there for a moment. On some level, Anne was still his.

Tig sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the gun over in his hands. The serial numbers had been filed off. He nodded approvingly and set it on the nightstand next to the gin.

Anne had closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she let him see the pain and fear she felt. She must have been waiting for someone to come, not knowing if it would be Nords or Sons. She'd probably been sitting in that exact spot, gin in one hand and a gun in the other, wondering if anyone would break down the door and do to her what had been done to her sister.

"They don't know who did it." Anne said after a moment. "Do you think it was…"

Tig shook his head. "Don't know for sure, yet. Lots of people hated her."

Anne nodded. When she spoke again, her voice was small. "Is Kip okay?"

Half-Sack hadn't been okay since Lodi. Tig wrestled with what to tell her. She looked like she was carrying enough pain already. He wasn't good at judging these things. "He had a hard time when you left."

Without a word, Anne shifted and closed the distance between them. She touched her forehead to his shoulder and put her hand on his. He understood what it cost her to show weakness. He felt a dizzying mix of protectiveness, frustration, and affection for her.

Tig put an arm around her and felt her bonelessly relax against him. She was trembling, and he figured it had more to do with exhaustion than anything else. Tig removed his boots and cut, then lay back on the mountain of starchy hotel pillows with one arm behind his head and the other around Anne. She laid her head on his chest and sighed as he ran his hand down her back. Tig breathed her scent. She felt right against him. Sweeter and stronger than any crow eater. Fierce towards everyone except him.

He noticed the edge of a tattoo showing under the neckline of her shirt. Hadn't she gotten rid of the swastika by now? He pulled her hair aside and touched the back of her neck. She bowed her head and allowed him to pull down the neckline enough to bare the tattoo.

It wasn't a swastika anymore. He could recognize some of the lines of it, buried in the larger design of a stylized black bird with vaguely tribal lines. He traced them with his fingers, liking the soft warmth of her skin under the dark lines of the tattoo. He swallowed. Most of the old ladies of the chapter were marked with crows. Was that something Anne knew?

"A crow?" He asked.

Anne lifted her head and shook her hair back to hide the tattoo and look him in the eyes. "No. A raven."

Tig nodded. He looked at the clock, then down at the exhausted woman in his arms. It was past eleven in the evening. "You need to sleep."

Her eyes looked unnaturally green, shadowed with red from crying and sleeplessness. Her hand was on his chest, and he was having a hard time not thinking about other things those lovely hands had done in the past. "I don't sleep much these days."

"Sleep." Tig commanded.

She gave him the ghost of a smile and laid her head on his shoulder. It was almost funny how fast she fell asleep there, her body going from relaxed to limp and her breathing steadying out to a deep and even rhythm.

When he was sure she was under deeply, Tig carefully disengaged from her, gently lifting her arm from his chest and then laying her head on the pillows. As he shifted, his hand landed on something that had been lost in the sheets next to her. He picked up the leather bracer and looked down at the woman sleeping next to him. Her hair was splayed across the pillows and the skirt tangled around her knees, leaving her long, sleek calves bare. In sleep, her face looked innocent.

He sighed. It wasn't good to feel so involved with a woman. He slid the bracer over her wrist. She didn't stir.

Tig went to the window and looked out at the parking lot. It was quiet. He pulled out his cell phone and called Clay, pitching his voice low.

"Hey. Stahl's little sister turned up."

"Aw, shit. That isn't our problem."

"Clay…"

"You're with her, aren't you." It wasn't a question. "Goddamn it, Tig."

"Tell me we don't owe her this. Tell me I don't owe her this. The way Half-Sack is, it's not her fault, Clay."

He heard the president sigh heavily over the phone. "Fine. You gonna bring her in?"

"It ain't safe here. We'll go in the morning."

"Fine." Clay repeated. The line went dead.

Tig stepped out on the balcony of the hotel room, leaving the sliding door open to keep Anne in sight, and lit up a cigarette. The cold air felt good on his face, and with the curtains open, the neon hotel sign cast light across Anne's sleeping figure. He smoked and watched her, allowing himself to feel protective. Losing Agent Stahl was no problem to Tig, but whoever did it wouldn't get their hands on Anne. She'd been through enough. She and Half-Sack were still walking wounded from what happened in Lodi.

In her sleep, Anne shivered and curled in on herself. Icy and brave on the surface, but underneath that, she was carrying around a world of hurt. She protected herself by staying aloof—Tig understood that. He also knew how lonely it was to choose control over comfort. As he watched, Anne shuddered in her sleep and drew one arm up to hide her face. Tig sighed. He wanted to go wake her from the bad dreams. He wanted her to feel safe. He wanted to taste every inch of her tanned and tattooed body. But he stayed in the doorway, watching her sleep.

He lit another cigarette and thought hard about Anne, the club, and his dead old lady from years back. Then he thought about Opie's dead old lady, and the blankness on Donna's face after he'd blown half her brains across the dashboard of Opie's truck.

Anne shivered and came awake. Her head lifted and she scanned the room warily before her eyes found him. There was something faintly feral about the wariness and intensity of her gaze, as if part of her was still acting on the terms of her nightmare. Tig liked seeing the animal under her veneer of control. After a moment of silence, Anne rose and crossed the room on silent bare feet. She stood before him, mirroring his stillness and cool stare.

Breaking the disorienting moment, Anne placed her hand on the back of his neck and leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. The bracer slid most of the way down her slender forearm as her fingers caressed his neck. He tried to find the strength to push her away, but when his hands came up, it was to hold her more firmly against him. Tig looked out at the sky, praying that he wouldn't end up hurting her.

"I told you to sleep." Tig said. He let a bit of growl show in his tone. "It's barely been an hour."

He felt Anne's breath against his throat. "I don't always do what I'm told."

Her body was warm and enticing against his. She shivered and arched her back delightfully when he slid his cool hand under her shirt and stroked her bare skin. It was too much to resist when she made a tiny noise of distress at his cold touch. Tig lifted her chin and kissed her roughly. He didn't try to hold himself back. Anne responded in kind, her kiss both fierce and urgent. When Tig tried to pull away for breath, her teeth were sharp on his lower lip in protest.

And that was it for Tig's self-control. He tossed his cigarette aside and pulled her onto the balcony with him. When he pushed her up against the railing, she went willingly, her hands pulling at his clothes and her mouth hot on his skin. Firmly capturing her wrists, he spun her around and pulled her skirt up to her waist. Anne clung to the railing and moaned as his hands found her breasts. Tig took her there on the balcony overlooking the empty parking lot. And she wanted it that way.

No crow eater fucked like this. No whore felt as tight and hot as Anne's body writhing under him. At first she tried to muffle her own gasps and cries with her own forearm, braced on the railing, but when Tig slipped his hand under her skirt and touched the core of her, she wasn't able to stay quiet. Lost in her, lost in the sound of her voice and her desperate need for him, Tig felt alive. When she came, crying out his name into the chill night air, he wrapped his arm around her waist and climaxed harder than he had in months.

Tig's legs felt weak, but it was Anne who leaned against him as if she didn't have the strength to hold herself up. Grinning, Tig swept her up into his arms. She barely seemed to notice, though she smiled when he kissed her forehead and laid her back down on the bed. Catlike, she stretched and curled on her side.

Tig shed his shirt and pants and lay down next to her. Caution thrown away, he possessively put his arm around her and drew her up against him. Her lips found his and for a moment, Tig could trick himself into believing that she was his. Anne sleepily nestled against him.

"I think I can sleep now." Her voice was soft but held a warmth that hadn't been there before. Tig smiled and smoothed her tousled hair with one hand. "You gonna be here when I wake up?"

"Yeah." He said. "I'll take you back to the clubhouse in the morning. This is One-Niner territory—ain't safe to leave you here alone."

Anne was quiet. Then she asked, "Do I have a choice?"

Tig sighed. He wanted to say no. "Yes."

"And by 'yes,' you really mean no, but you don't want me to argue about it?' Anne said. Tig winced. Nothing was worse than a clever woman. Nothing.

"…Yes."

Anne thought about it for a moment. "Fine. As long as your friends know I'm not… friendly."

"You seem pretty friendly to me…" he said. It was understandable that she wanted some distinction from the crow-eaters, but funny that she felt it was necessary.

Anne's teeth closed warningly on his earlobe. It was amusing how much more relaxed and playful she was after sex.

"Hey!"

"I mean it. This… this is what it is. But on my end, it's only with you."

Tig smiled in the dark. "You're safe with the Sons. Always."

When he finally fell asleep, it was with Anne next to him. She slept loosely entangled in his arms, her delicate hand resting lightly on his chest. He dreamed of nothing at all, and it was good.