Time on the road, his powerful machine roaring beneath him, Tig felt almost human. When he turned into Teller-Morrow, his head was clear, his conscious though, cloudy and troubled as ever. Getting off his bike, he spotted Opie across the yard. They exchanged a cursory nod. Even though Opie seemed to have moved on from the death of his wife, he knew better. The other man would never forget. And Tig was sure, he struggled to forgive. And who was to say he should. A man didn't just recover from losing the kind of life and love he'd shared with Donna. A man shouldn't have to. But he'd found some kind of happiness with Lyla. Tig wondered why that sort of happiness eluded him. You don't deserve it, his conscious whispered. His gut clenched.
The decision he'd made with Clay was a fucked up one. And although they had never discussed it since, the ramifications lived within him, gnawed at him. One day he expected, it would consume him.
Walking into the clubhouse, the usual scene greeted him. Crow eaters off on the couches sucking face and dry humping each other while some prospects salivated over the show. At the pool table, a leggy blonde he recognised from Caracara straddled Chibs's lap, whispering something that amused the man greatly, his hands roaming freely up and down her midriff. Smoke hung low over the tables; Juice, Bobby, Piney and Jax were smoking and playing poker.
"Poker at 11am. Jesus, you're all fucking brave. I think I saw Gemma across the lot. She catch you all in here boozing, feeling up the porn princesses and playing cards, dicks will roll."
"Get off your fucking soap box boy," Piney said around the fat cigar in his mouth. "You want in or not?"
Tig grinned. "Sons of bitches. Gemma 'aint making mince with my balls."
"Pussy."
Tig grinned and moved over to the bar, grabbing a whisky and throwing it back. He glanced around the room and looked at each of the men. He didn't really have a best friend. Clay was the closest to him, the closet brother. But the shit with Donna had placed an uneasy wedge between them. And although business had resumed as normal, they both felt the shift in their friendship. Things would never be the same. The unfailing loyalty he had once provided on a platter was now harder to serve up to the president of SAMCRO.
Tig was very aware of what most of his brothers thought of him. Depraved, violent, perhaps sadistic and cruel. Some of it was true. Most of it, not so much. He couldn't say he didn't play up to their image either. It was easier to pretend to be someone else. Much easier than the reality of truth. Like most of them, he had a complicated past, complicated upbringing, complicated adolescence, complicated relationships and a complicated history with violence. Well, maybe the complicated relationships were a thing of the past. Now he fucked 'um and left 'um. That was one area he refused to complicate. A man had needs. He ensured he tended to those needs - with frequency. But there was no place for love and tender feelings. That part of him had died a long time ago. He didn't need it. And he certainly didn't want it. I don't, he reiterated. He blamed the ricocheting affirmations in his subconscious on his sluggish functioning.
By late afternoon, numerous cars had been tuned, truck tires changed, club business attended to and the ramblings of another party out at the porn studio confirmed. As much as he wanted a hot body and a stiff drink, Gemma had invited the sons to dinner. Jax and his Old Lady were celebrating their engagement and knowing Gemma, no attendance meant getting your balls placed into a vice while she squeezed them viciously.
Stepping over the threshold, he was welcomed by Jax and all the sons. Food was piled high, delicious aromas mixing with the smell of cigar's, cigarettes, men, leather and… lemons. Lemons. What the fuck? Among many other dishes spread across the table, fucking fate had Gemma lay the platter of marinated, fried fish served with loads of freshly cut lemons right in front of him. Wide eyes, freckles and dark, long, cascading hair sprang into his mind unbidden and his body tightened in reaction.
"Beer, Prospect!" he called as a tray passed by him. No one paid him much attention. Tonight he was drinking to avoid thinking about innocence and lemons. He bit into the offensive fruit, facing his irritation head on. Fucking fool, he thought, his throat burning as the bitter taste filled his mouth.
For dessert, Tara served up lemon cheesecake. Tig rolled his eyes and cursed, throwing his napkin onto his plate. He was losing his fucking mind.
"Jesus, what's with the fucking lemons?"
Tara started, surprised. "Excuse me?"
Instant remorse. You just weren't disrespectful to Jax's Old Lady. "Tara… I ur.."
"Brother, what the fuck?" Opie stepped up and looked at him with an angled brow and concern. Concern. It almost undid him.
He wanted to punch something. Or someone. And what made it worse was he didn't even know why he felt this way. That's a lie. You do. Jesus. That made it even worse.
"I'm sorry. Sorry. Just not feeling it." He grabbed his leather jacket and spoke swiftly as he headed to the door. "Gemma, Tara, thanks for the meal. It was delicious. Really. I'm just gonna take off."
The door slammed. The room stared stunned.
"What the hell just happened?" Jax asked.
Clay waved his hand, smoke from his cigar trailing everywhere. "Probably late for a lay."