Last week, I watched Inglourious Basterds for the first time since the Christmas holidays. It was only in seeing it the second time that I realized how much Soshanna is an inspiration for Anne. She's not one for emotional outbursts, and she has none of the flashy showmanship that Hammersmark uses to control situations. Nonetheless, she's a canny chick who keeps her mouth shut and does what needs doing. She bends, but does not break. And underneath it, she's carrying enough fear/anger/hurt to burn the country down. Anne would get that. She considers emotional outbursts to be a sign of weakness, and ruthlessly censors herself. Not always a healthy trait, but Anne is acclimatized to unhealthy situations. Tig is a walking unhealthy situation, so that's for the best.
And since I'm in a mood for disclosure, I envision Anne as looking a lot like Jennifer Connelly. Not Labyrinth Jennifer, but Requiem for a Dream Jennifer—that was how I saw Anne in the warehouse. Oh those eyes… it's not an easy movie to watch.
If you're just reading for the squishy stuff and don't give a shit about the plot you can safely skip most of this chapter. Also, I took some liberties with the time-line to account for poor planning. Sorry!
-B.
By the time the sun went down, it seemed impossible for one day to hold so much crazy shit. It was for the best that Anne was out cold and out of the way.
Opie was back from his grief-fueled walkabout. He'd blown into town shortly after they got back from Oakland. It was a changed man who stared down the club in church, heavily bearded, slimmer, and eyes gone dark. Fortunately, but he bought the line about the Mayans killing Donna. It had been chilling to see the cold cruelty in Opie, knowing it should have been aimed at Tig, but at least they'd given him what resolution could be found. Maybe now, standing on the wreckage of mistakes and pride, the club could be strong again. Secrets only hurt you if they didn't stay secret.
Things in the club had been tense since Donna's death, but tonight was the night Bobby would get home from prison. Finally, a break in the storm of crazy surrounding Charming. Opie didn't look ready to party, but he'd returned in time to see Bobby home. That was how you honoured your club. At least the brotherhood was back together.
Gemma leaned up against the bar where Tig stood, waiting for Clay. She quirked her lips in the infuriating and attractive way she always did when she had the upper-hand. "Shame your girl couldn't play tonight."
"Yeah. She took Stahl's death pretty hard." He shrugged, then with some defensiveness added, "But she never cried. Girl's more wolf than woman, I think."
"Wolves are pack animals." She glanced over at a stripper who was doing a few warm-up twirls around the pole. "Think she'd be down with this kind of party?"
"Dunno. She's not like most girls."
"Not the ones around here, anyway." Gemma frowned. "Hope she stays quiet once she's not so nervous. Too many mouthy bitches around here already."
"Ain't that the truth." Tig replied, letting her see his smirk.
Gemma narrowed her eyes but let the sly implication pass. "Have some fun, Tig. The club needs a little relaxation right now. Bobby coming back, the charges blowing over… this is what we need. A little levity to do the soul good."
Clay was gesturing for Tig to come out to the garage, so he gave an ironic bow to Gemma and left the clubhouse. Under the fluorescent lights of the garage, voices drowned out by blaring rock music, the two men had a brief but intense talk about Opie and the mess he'd made of the Mayan. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of an unfamiliar car pulling into the Teller-Morrow lot. At first he thought it was ATF dropping off Bobby, but it was too early, and that wasn't a government car.
Tig and Clay approached, walking in step. It felt good to move as a club, like a pack of wolves circling the unwelcome strangers. Chibs, Opie, Juice, Happy, and Half-Sack completed the circle, all feral smiles and narrowed eyes. But then, a surprise. The man who stepped out of the car was the same one he'd seen in the hospital while Stahl died. A lot of things became very clear in a short period of time.
White. Fucking. Supremacists. Who the hell lives that way? Bad for business, and such a fucking stupid line to live behind. Tig's hands closed into fists. Race mattered, yeah, but it wasn't about who owned the world—brothers and money mattered more than colour, every goddamn time. And anyone who didn't see the sexiness of a confident Latina woman was a moron.
And then, the obvious struck Tig smack in the face. This was the reason Stahl was dead. This man, or his pet Nazi Weston, had killed the ATF agent. It was a short line to draw between these righteous bastards and the Nords. These men were why his woman was sleeping with tranquillizers tonight. And more importantly, they were men who would do the same thing to Anne that they'd done to her sister.
Anger swallowed him, but he rode the wave of it, guiding it towards making plans instead of just attacking. When the businessmen withdrew, leaving their offering of cigars at Clay's feet, Tig and Happy prowled in the wake of the car. They watched it until the tail-lights vanished down the road.
Happy turned dark eyes on Tig. "He's a problem."
"That fucker showed up at the hospital. He stood right next to me and Half until Stahl was confirmed dead."
"Nord."
"He's higher up the food chain than that. But yeah, I think it's connected to Lodi."
Happy just nodded. People were going to die, and more than likely, it would be the two of them doing most of the killing. Soldiers, brothers.
It was a short, furious meeting with the hastily gathered ranks of SAMCO. There was no question of calling off Bobby's party on account of some Nazis throwing threats around. Clay snarled, "No one rides alone, especially the women. Other than that, we do not acknowledge those pricks. Charming is ours. A cigar shop and some cuddling with the Hale brothers ain't going to change that."
When Bobby arrived, it was impossible to stay angry. Not having the fat bastard around just felt weird, and the books were a mess. They needed him. And what was there to be upset about, anyway? Tig knew exactly where Anne was—in a building surrounded by brothers and enough guns to arm a small legion. Zoebelle and Weston couldn't touch her. Tomorrow, Clay would pull their gang connections and Juice would nerd it up with his laptop to figure out what they were dealing with. Tonight, it was beer, bitches, and Bobby's return.
With Zoebelle long gone, the party wound up. It was good to feel the bass vibrating through his bones and the strippers were hot as hell to watch. Knowing Anne was out cold, he let his hands wander over any of the young things who strayed across his path. If Anne stayed, he figured he'd be under the same kind of rules Clay lived by—which meant that his time for indiscriminately groping crow-eaters was coming to an end.
He had planned to crash in the clubhouse that night and avoid the temptation of Anne's vulnerable body. It was useless. The thought of her sleeping alone drew him in like a moth to a flame. Now that he knew what the threat against Anne was real, it felt important to watch over her. He didn't like the idea of her being alone while Zoebelle's men were out there.
But Anne was not alone. Adrenaline surged when he saw that the kitchen light was on and the bedroom door was open, burning through his buzz in a matter of seconds. His first thought was Gemma, but the queen had been carried off to bed—literally—by Clay, hours ago. Tig reached for his gun and came around the corner on wary, silent feet. The kitchen cast enough light to dimly illuminate the bedroom, revealing the slouched silhouette of Half-Sack. Anne was still asleep. Tig eased the gun back and leaned in the doorway, suddenly exhausted.
"The hell, man? Didn't know you were in here." Tig said.
"Hey." Half-Sack's voice was quiet.
Tig stared the prospect down, the question as sharp as a drawn knife between them. Half-Sack finally broke the silence.
"She's your girl. I get that. Ain't moving in on her, never planned to. She's like, I dunno, ten years older than me anyway." In the dim room, Half-Sack's shoulder twitched in a shrug. "But my head's all fucked up, and at the middle of it, she's there."
"So?"
"I needed to see her sleeping again. I needed to see her helpless." He said, then seemed to realize how his words sounded. He spoke more quickly. "I don't want to hurt her, Tig, I swear to god I don't."
"Then what? What do you want from her?" Tig could hear the edge in his voice. If Half-Sack couldn't be okay with Anne, then Clay was never going to let her stay. He'd lose her. He sighed in exasperation. "The fuck is it with you two? You're best buds one minute, then you're both freaking out the next."
Half-Sack shrugged again. "I hate her. And I love her. All at the same time."
"She did it to protect you." Tig said uneasily. He didn't want to think how much of the screaming he'd heard in the warehouse had been because of Anne's delicate hands. Half-Sack nodded slowly.
"She's like Happy. She can do shit that no one should be able to do. She hated Connor using her, but she did everything he asked, because that was the best way to protect us. She never panicked, never cried. That's crazy. She didn't even choke up when she watched her sister die." Half-Sack frowned. He lifted his hand as if to touch Anne's face, but thought better of it. "If she were a man, we'd either shoot her or patch her."
Tig rested his head against the door frame and closed his eyes.
Sometimes I think she's a monster, Tig. But then I see her like this…" Half-Sack looked down on Anne with an expression of determination and protectiveness"…and I can remember that she got hurt as badly as I did."
Tig thought about what Gemma had said about pride. "She's too proud to show it. But she has nightmares, and she's got scars like yours."
Half-Sack nodded again. He stood, still looking down at Anne. "I think she should stay. She's too fucked up to live a normal life now. Maybe she deserves us."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Isn't it? We're a brotherhood. Women come second, always will. Gemma built this club, and Tara's got history. But Mary? Piney loved her and she still got run into the ground by this club. Bobby's ex-wives, that blond chick who got shit-kicked by one of Happy's old flings? Women have to be crazy to want us."
Tig noted that the list did not include Donna. It didn't need to. Women getting killed was rare in clubs, but it happened. This was a distressing amount of insight to come from a moronic kid half Tig's age.
"Sack. Get the fuck out of here." Tig said it firmly, but with no anger or venom. Half-Sack was right. And somehow, his anger was drained by the sight of Anne, peaceful and safe. Half-Sack wasn't the only brother who'd been changed by Lodi.
"Yeah, yeah." Half-Sack replied. "You gonna keep her?"
Tig gritted his teeth. "Yes."
"Then make her your old lady. Protect her." Half-Sack said, more iron in his voice than Tig had heard from the boy, even over that scrawny hang-around he'd gone nuts for last year.
"And if I don't?" Call a woman an old lady and you might as well be calling her wife. Tig had no intentions of sharing Anne with anyone, but he wasn't keen on the idea of getting trapped, either.
"Damn it, Tig." Half-Sack stood. His expression was too tormented for him to look threatening.
"Look, prospect." Tig growled. "I'm not responsible for her. She's done a pretty fucking good job keeping alive so far, and if she wants to stick with the club, that's her choice."
"She's in love with you. That's no choice." Half-Sack moved to the doorway and waited for Tig to step out of the way. "If she knows you want her here, she'll stay, even if it gets her hurt."
Tig stayed standing on the threshold of the bedroom long after Half-Sack had left. Eventually, he shed his shirt and jeans and slung his cut over the back of a chair. Once he'd turned out the kitchen light, he moved through the darkness to Anne.
At first, he lay next to her, but not touching her. He blindly gazed at the ceiling and imagined that he could feel the heat from her body against his skin, though she lay several inches away. Her body was coiled defensively in sleep, face turned away from him.
He rolled onto his side and looked down at the shadowed face of the woman who might love him. In another lifetime, he'd never have let her any closer than arms-reach, emotionally. Yeah, fucking her was a given—who could resist that kind of sweetness?—but getting involved wouldn't have been on the table at all. Things were different now.
Tig knew how close he'd come to getting killed in Lodi. Without the phone Anne had jacked, he and Half-Sack would have been worm-food. Half-Sack was a changed man, but so was Tig. He wanted to live. Having come so close to getting splattered, he wanted to have life by the throat, wringing the most out of it. And maybe, maybe, that meant keeping a queen of his own. Where else was he going to find a woman who was hot, didn't finch at the sight of a little blood, knew when to keep her mouth shut, and wasn't dumb as a sack of rocks? Gemma was already taken.
When he pulled Anne firmly but gently against him, burying his face in the clean softness of her hair, she made a quiet sound of welcome. There were no words. Tig didn't think she was even really awake. She just melted against him, and when he placed his hand over hers, their fingers fit together in a way that was deeply comforting. He fell asleep embracing the woman he was ready to claim as his own.