"Tigger!" Clay called from the inside of the Teller-Morrow office. "Call."

Tig walked into the office, wiping his greasy hands on a cloth.

"This is no pussy-hotline. Your crows call here when Gemma is around, there will be no fucking of any kind for weeks."

He took the cordless phone, expecting it to be a call from one of his regulars out at Caracara. He wasn't in the mood.

"Yeah."

"Hi. I'm sorry to bother you at work. But you said I could call."

In an instant his mouth went bone dry. He tried to swallow and noticed Clay watching him. He stepped out of the office for some privacy.

"It's Morena," she clarified into the silence. "I'm not your..." he guessed she couldn't say pussy, "... one of your… er… crows." The way she ended the sentence sounded like a question.

He almost felt his cheeks burn and he was disgusted with himself.

"How's the neck?"

"In a brace. I sprained my longis colli and capitis muscles when I collided with you."

"Jesus, your what? No doctor speak. English woman."

"I have whiplash." Her laugh was breathy and relaxed. "I have to live down the fact that I got it while colliding very spectacularly with your chest."

"Manly and muscled chest. Just tell people that." The corners of his lips couldn't stop from lifting. He caught himself.

She laughed. "I'm sure that will make all the difference in the world."

There was an awkward silence before they both started speaking at once.

"-If you need some time off-"

"-I'll need some time off-"

"I'm sorry. You go ahead." Her breath came out in a whisper with what he interpreted as a nervous giggle.

Despite himself, he was charmed. He didn't remember the last time he was around a woman whose giggle was genuine and not part of the act that precluded paid sex.

Her voice did funny things to his insides. This time, he couldn't blame it on the alcohol. Fuck. "If you need some time off, it's no problem. I'm at the club for the next week anyway, so the place won't go to hell."

"It should only be for a week or so. I can't really move around or see what's going on around me. It's quite frustrating actually."

Clay peaked out of the office and raised his brow when he saw Tig leaning casually against the wall, left leg bent at the knee and free hand resting in the pocket of his overalls.

He couldn't remember the last time he was that relaxed. The realisation instantly made him uncomfortable.

Sensing Clay's attentions, he straightened, his voice clipped. "Time off's not a problem."

"Thanks." She must have sensed the change in his mood. "I'll see you next week. See your apartment I mean."

He nodded and realised she couldn't see it. Words were required. "Yeah. Got it."

"Who you cosying up to on the phone? Haven't seen you have to work that hard to score women."

"It's no one."

"Bullshit." Bobby strolled into the office. "Gave us quite a show, brother. 'No one' has you leaning against a wall and whispering sweet nothings like a prospect who's pissed and getting ready for his first fucking lay."

Clay puffed smoke from his cigarette and laughed loudly.

"Jesus." Tig shook his head and headed back to work. For the rest of the afternoon, he tried to forget about soft whispers and feminine giggles. And he tried to forget the image of Donna. Bloodied and dead. His head was pounding with the need to contain his thoughts.

That night he headed to Caracara with Juice, Chibs and Bobby.

At 11pm he started drinking.

By 3am, he had fucked three different croweaters.

By 4am he ended up at his apartment. Even though he'd said he wouldn't be there.

By 5am he was finally drunk.

By 6am he had passed out.

When he woke, it was noon and he was covered in a film of sweat. Burying his head in the coolness of his pillow, the scent of fresh lemons assaulted his senses.

Tig let out a frustrated roar, punched his pillow and then groaned. He flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Feeling like shit was usually the partner to a wild night. He was grateful he had come home alone. He didn't think he could stomach Caracara's finest in bed next to him.

For years, he had lived this life and he had been happy in it. SAMCRO was his family, Clay was his best friend and the sons were his brothers. But a feeling of apathy and discontent grew within him daily, choking him, making him feel unsettled and vulnerable. He wasn't used to examining his feelings. And he wasn't used to dealing with so much guilt.

At some point he had realised he hadn't chosen this life. He had been born into it and it was who he was. There was no room for baggage like family or relationships right now. Ever. Random and frequent sex to satisfy his carnal needs. It had always been enough.

So why wasn't it anymore? Why did he silently observe Jax and Tara, Opie and Lyla and wonder what that kind of happiness felt like? Why was the warmth that spread through his chest at the impossible fantasy of happiness accompanied by the smell of lemons and the mirage of dark eyes and cascading layers of hair?

And why her? A woman he barely knew. A woman whose life was so vastly removed from his own. A woman who would never be able to accept the violence that followed him always. She didn't belong.

And yet, he wanted her. In the dim room, Tig admitted it. He ran his hands over his face then lay his arm across his forehead, his eyes closed.

I want her. Maybe, he realised, I need her.

He wanted to touch her, taste her. Run his hands all over her curvy body, cup her and pull her close. Lord, he wanted to crush his hands through her hair and ravage her mouth, hear her sigh in his ears.

He wanted her.

But she won't want you back. His eyes stung.