I'm ALIVE, bitches! I bet you thought I'd never be back. And yet here I am. :) I hope you haven't forgotten about me, or this languishing fic. It's been a Weird Time the past few months, and I apologize for my long long absence.

Enjoy...

at five o'clock you come shuffling in
and when i lock you out i want to get you
let you, get you in
Better Than Ezra, "Get You In"

"What the fuck, Ollie?" Tara hissed as she dragged her into the clubhouse office. "What are you doing?"

Olivia wouldn't meet her eyes, and she bit off an impatient sigh. "Nothing! I'm not doing anything. You didn't—it wasn't what it looked like."

Tara stepped closer and grabbed Olivia's arm before she could turn away. "It looked like you were about to kiss Juice. In the office. He had his hand on your leg."

"I know," she said on a breath. "Trust me, Tara, I know. I wasn't going to kiss him. I don't think he was going to kiss me. I love Opie, and Juice's got Yvonne and—but it's complicated. It's really fucking complicated."

She studied Olivia's face for a long time, her olive eyes hot and probing. It was all Olivia could do not to squirm, but she'd been subjected to Tara's scrutiny enough times to keep her cool. Somehow. "Does Opie know you're still in love with Juice?" she said at last.

Olivia frowned, but after a moment her expression smoothed. There wasn't any point in denying it; Tara knew her too well, and she'd seen what she'd seen. "I don't know," she said. "He knows Juice is still in love with me."

"Jesus," Tara muttered. "This is so fucked up, Ollie."

"You think I don't know that? You don't think I'd change it if I could? I don't want to be in love with Juice! I don't want Juice to be in love with me! I have such a good thing with Opie, Tara. I love him so much and he makes me so happy."

Tara shook her head as she ran a hand over her face. "I know you do, babe. I know he does. I'm not trying to give you shit or be a pain in the ass."

"I know," she said. "And you're right about all of it. It's fucked up, and it's not fair to any of us. But what do I do?" Under normal circumstances the question would be rhetorical, but Tara could tell from Olivia's expression that she genuinely meant it. She was at a loss, desperate not to hurt anyone, and it paralyzed her.

Tara crossed her arms around her middle as she thought it over. "I don't know," she said, her thoughts turning to Jax. "Maybe Juice is…it's nostalgia. Your past. You two had a good thing. It was comfortable and familiar and made you feel safe. The thing with Opie is—well, not exactly new, but at least in a new way—and that's kinda scary."

It was similar to what Olivia had been thinking ever since the sculpture incident, and to hear her best friend echo it made her relax a little. "You're right," she said, her voice quiet. "It's hard for me to see Juice with someone else, and I'm doing some sort of twisted if I can't have him no one can thing. I want him to be happy; I really do."

"It's just hard to see him happy with anyone but you," Tara said.

"Yeah." Olivia's mouth quirked in a rueful smile. "Is that completely fucked up?"

Tara lifted a hand in a shrug and perched on the edge of the desk. "Nah, babe. It's human. You guys were intense. It was a long time ago, but shit like that doesn't just go away."

"Don't you think it should?" Olivia slumped next to her and scuffed her boot against the floor. "Eventually? When you fall for someone else, the old shit should go. Right?"

She let out a brief, cynical laugh. "You're asking the wrong person, Oll. The only guy I've been serious with since high school turned out to be a total psycho."

"Mmm," Olivia said in mild agreement. "In all fairness, I had a complete psycho of my own once upon a time."

"True," Tara said. "Let's hope I don't have to stab mine."

Something about her tone made Olivia give her a sharp look. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" she said, overly bright and deeply unconcerned.

"Don't try to lie to me, Tara Grace. Is he here? Did you see him?"

Tara ducked her head, and her long fingers gripped the edge of the desk like it was a life raft. Olivia watched her, waiting, and finally Tara let out a long, rough breath. "He cornered me at the hospital. Apologized for"—her laugh was brittle this time—"for loving me too much. For being too intense. God, Olivia. I would've fallen for that once. I feel so fucking stupid."

"No, Tara, no. He's the bad guy here. You're the victim. And, ya know, being a victim doesn't make you weak. He's a good looking guy. Charming." Olivia slid an arm around Tara's waist and gave her a squeeze. "It happens," she said. "It happened to me."

"Yeah, but you were just a kid. I'm a full grown adult woman who should have more sense."

"Tara." She let out a sigh and pulled her arm free to tangle her fingers with Tara's instead. "That kind of victim blaming is exactly what he wants. He wants you to feel weak and helpless and like it's all your fault. None of it is your fault. Not a single thing. Don't let him get inside your head."

Tara let her head fall to rest on Olivia's shoulder. "He knows about the abortion," she said after a moment.

"Ah…" Olivia said, softly. "What did he say?"

"He…he said he wished I'd trusted him enough to tell him."

Olivia couldn't smother a snort. "Wow. He's a piece of work. Tara, babe, I know I keep saying this, and I know it's easier said than done, but try not to let him get under your skin. It's all bullshit and manipulation."

She cleared her throat and shifted her weight away from Olivia. "He also gave me some pictures. Of Jax and some…girl. I guess he picked her up somewhere."

"You mean, like…naked pictures?"

Tara nodded. "Fucking."

"Wow. Are you…holy shit. He took pictures of—?" Olivia was practically speechless. Tara's ex took pictures of Jax fucking some random girl? And gave them to Tara? "What did you say?"

Tara shrugged a shoulder. "Nothing. I didn't actually look at them until he walked away, but…Jax and I aren't together. It's not like he owes me anything."

"True, but clearly Kohn thought the pictures would get to you."

There was a silence, and Olivia watched Tara carefully. Her face was practically unreadable, but a slight tremor around her mouth gave her away. "He seems different," she finally said.

"Jax? Or Kohn?"

"Jax! Kohn is exactly the same."

Olivia drew in a long breath. "Okay," she said. "Because of the kid?"

"That," Tara said, nodding, "but also, just…it's been a long time. People do change. They grow up."

"Mmhmm," Olivia said.

"Oh, Ollie, don't. You're the one nearly making out with your high school ex in the office!"

"Whoa!" Olivia held up her hands to ward off Tara's rant. "Calm down. I didn't say a word. If you want to hook up with Jax again I'm not gonna stop you. He's got the baby now, and he's been married. But it's just, you know, the same shit we always worry about. That hasn't changed."

"The MC," Tara said.

"Yeah. The MC."

"Opie and Juice are both MC, too."

"I know." Olivia sighed. "Opie's legacy, and Juice is—desperate to belong. He always has been." Her mouth moved in a bitter twist. "It's gonna get him into serious trouble one day."

"So what do we do?" Tara said in a sad, quiet voice.

"I don't know," Olivia said for maybe the hundredth time that day. "What can we do? You love one of these guys you kind of have to love the club too. Right? You can't make him choose."

Tara's brow furrowed. "Can't you? If it's life or death. Can't you?"

Olivia hesitated, her mouth falling open as she considered. "I think…I think he can choose. He can decide you or club. But it's not fair of us to…force the choice on him. As much as we might want to. As much as it might be for his own good." She shivered and rubbed her arms as though suddenly chilled. "Let's quit talking about this. I'm starving, and I promised to buy you lunch."

"It's not gonna go away."

"Yeah, well, neither is Kohn. Go to the cops about him, Tara. Or, I don't know—tell Jax. Something."

Tara rolled her eyes and hopped off the desk. "Come on, bitch. You did promise me lunch."

Olivia found Opie in the garage when she got home that evening. His latest passion project—a 1938 Harley Flathead he'd gotten for a steal at an estate sale—was barely recognizable as anything rideable. He was taking it apart and rebuilding it, piece by piece. A way, he said, to block out everything else: club, family, real life.

It was a sentiment Olivia could understand.

She rested her hand on his shoulder a moment and walked around to the other side of the bike. "Need some help?"

He smiled, the big sweet one that took years off his face, and gestured with a wrench. "Knock yourself out, ace."

She dropped to the concrete and studied the bits of antique motorcycle. "I think I know where you're going, but maybe you should draw me a map. Just in case."

The only thing he loved more than working on one of his projects was talking about them. His face lit up like a kid in a candy store and he spent the next twenty or so minutes explaining his vision for the bike. Olivia nodded along, catching a strong dose of his enthusiasm as he spoke, and once he was done she grinned up at him and grabbed a wrench.

"Let's get to it," she said.

It was a long time before either of them spoke again. They didn't need to. They worked in sync, without words, and whatever tool either of them needed seemed to come to hand like a type of magic. At one point she struggled with a stubborn bolt, and a can of WD-40 appeared at her knee. She flashed him a brief smile, spritzed the stupid bolt, and got back to work.

The sun was setting on the other side of the house, and the garage was in deep shadow by now. He had a work light on, and they barely noticed the passage of time—until a loud growling from Opie's stomach shattered the quiet.

Olivia giggled and Opie blushed. "Well. Supper time?" she said.

"Yeah." He rubbed his tummy. "Guess so." They packed away the tools, each one in its place, and he pushed himself to his feet. Held out a hand and helped her up. "You okay?" he said when she stumbled.

"Hard floor. I'm fine." She rubbed at a grease smudge on his cheek. "What's for dinner, lumberjack?"

"Ahh…" He took several steps back and squeezed the back of his neck with a big hand. Her brow creased in not-quite-but-almost-alarm. She didn't try to follow him.

"What's up?" she said, her voice quiet.

He wouldn't look at her. "I was thinkin'—I was thinkin' I might head home. For the night. Y'know, make sure the place's is still standin'."

"Oh." She cleared her throat. "Yeah, of course. That's, um. That's not a bad idea."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled closer. "It ain't—it ain't you, Oll."

"It's not?" she whispered. "It's not because of earlier, in the office?"

His face scrunched. Earlier. In the office. He'd been trying very hard not to think about it; it was one of the reasons he'd started working on the Flathead in the first place. The look on her face. The look on Juice's. The way their fingers had twined together so thoughtlessly. Like it was their natural state.

"You and Juice, you mean?"

"Mmhmm."

He gave a restless shrug. "No. I don't know. Maybe…a little? But not—fuck." He scrubbed both hands over his head, knocking his black beanie askew. "There's so much shit goin' on, babe. So much goddamn shit."

"Okay." She took a deep breath and stepped toward him. Her hand fluttered between them a moment before it came to rest on his arm, light as a sparrow. "Tell me. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

He shot a restless glance out the open garage door, but the street outside was empty, and the shadows lay thick. "It's—a lot of MC bullshit."

"I figured," she said with a brief quirk of her mouth. "Tell me."

He took her hand in his—the one that had been on his arm—and brought it up to kiss the palm. "It's Clay," he said at last. "He don't trust me. Not completely."

Her head tilted in astonishment. "You? He doesn't trust you? After you did five years for that club?"

"Yeah," he said, dryly, "but that was then. This's now."

"What's different about now?" she said, fearing his answer.

Their eyes met, and his expression was frank. "You."

She swallowed and stumbled back until she hit the work bench. The wood dug into the small of her back, and she gripped it with both hands. The smooth surface settled her, and when she spoke again her voice barely trembled. "He doesn't trust me?"

Opie jerked his head in a no. "Ain't that. More like…he thinks I'm not all in. He knows—hell, everybody knows—that club ruined my marriage to Donna. He knows how you feel about the whole thing, and he thinks…fuck, how'd Jax put it? My loyalties are divided."

She looked up at him, and even in the harsh glare of the work light he could see how pale she'd gone. "Is that what Jax thinks?"

"Not sure," he said after a thoughtful pause. "He says he trusts me. I believe that. But—fuck, Oll, don't tell anybody this, okay? I'm pretty damn sure his loyalties are divided too."

"What do you mean?" she said with a frown. "The MC's in his blood."

"Yeah, but…I don't know. He's been different lately. I guess ever since Abel? He's been kinda buttin' heads with Clay. Questionin'. It's makin' some of the guys uneasy."

"You?"

Another laconic shrug. "My loyalty's with Jax. I think everybody knows that."

"Clay included. Which would have him a bit nervous, I imagine, if the prince is suddenly…acting out."

"Uh huh."

She gave a brief shake of her head and brushed her hand over her face, as though clearing away cobwebs. "So what does all this mean? Are you—" She swallowed. She didn't even want to say it. "Are you…ending…this? To keep Clay happy?"

"Shit!" he said. He surged toward her and gripped her arms so hard it hurt. "Oll, no! Fuck no. Clay don't run my life. I just…"

He dipped his head and kissed her, soft and sweet. "I need a little distance, babe," he murmured against her mouth. "Somethin's comin' down. I feel it. I don't want you gettin' hurt by it."

"I can take care of myself," she said. "I make my own decisions."

He smiled and kissed her again, more firmly. "I know you do. Stubborn as all hell, that's my girl."

"Harry—" She wrapped her arms around his neck and he lifted her off her feet to deepen the kisses. Heat snaked through her belly, her chest, her cheeks. He boosted her onto the workbench and her legs went around him. "Tell me you love me," she whispered.

"I love you, baby girl. Love you so much." He kissed all over her upturned face, and when she tugged his shirt over his head he reached for the work light and flicked it off. Purple shadows, heavy and velvety, hugged close, and despite the open garage door they felt like they were all alone, marooned on an island in a sea of semi-dark.

"Opie," she breathed. "I love you too."

He peeled her tee shirt off, then unlaced her boots so she could kick them away. "I know it, sweetheart. I know."

She wriggled out of her jeans, her panties following shortly after, and in the dark she heard the jingling of his belt. Her legs squeezed him and he thrust into her, long and deep. She hissed out a breath and his teeth nipped at the soft skin of her throat.

They didn't need words for this, either. He rested his forehead on hers and moved, pulling her close with each jerk of his hips. She couldn't see his eyes, not quite, but she could read his face anyway, as he could read hers. They kissed over and over. He bit her lip and dug his fingers into her thighs and with a soft cry of surprise she came, hard and shuddering.

He followed seconds after, and as they both gasped and panted her chin fell so that her forehead landed on his shoulder.

She ached with love for him. It filled her to the brim and overflowed in a cascade. Her heart banged against her ribs, and she could feel his in a matching, frantic rhythm.

But it hurt. Her heart. It wasn't divided neatly in half, a careful slice made by a surgeon. Instead it was torn. Rent in two pieces, one of them held by the man in her arms, her man, the man who made her want things she'd never thought she'd want again…

And the other dwelled across town. With the boy seventeen-year-old Olivia had loved so dearly and so desperately. The boy she'd killed for. The boy she'd cried herself to sleep for a month over. The boy—a man now—who, in his own quiet way, threatened all the joy and sweetness she'd found with Opie just by being.

I should never have come back here, she thought, again.

She raised her head and Opie smiled, ruefully, as though he could read her mind. He pulled away and fixed his pants before he lifted her down and helped her with her clothes.

"There's been a Fed sniffin' around. ATF, too. Don't know what they're lookin' at specifically, but with Hale's hard-on for the MC…"

He let the thought trail off and she nodded. "Whatever it is, it's not good."

"Yeah," he said, grimly. "Clay's gonna want somethin' soon. From me, I mean. Proof."

"What will you do?" she said.

He pulled his shirt back on and avoided her probing gaze. "Give it to him, I guess. Club's in my blood, too."

"Right." She bit her lip and bent to grab her boots. "Watch out for that Fed, Ope. I think he might have a hard-on for more than just the club."

He cast her a curious look. "What d'you know about it?"

She shrugged. "Why is the FBI investigating a motorcycle club in Charming, California? ATF makes sense, but the FBI? I don't know. Doesn't seem square to me."

"Huh," he said, a wry grunt. "Ain't nothin' about this square, baby girl."

"That's the truth," she muttered.

A silence fell between them, a brief lull of understanding that held all the things neither of them could say aloud. He cupped her face in his big hand and kissed her. It tasted like goodbye. She watched as he ambled toward the door. Paused to shrug into his jacket and kutte.

"See you tomorrow?" she said, her voice thick. "At TM?"

"Yeah, Oll," he said. His teeth gleamed in a brief smile. "Tomorrow." He went on, not looking back, and lifted his hand in a wave as he straddled his bike. The engine roared to life, shattering the late gloaming's stillness, and she shuddered at the sound.

The way he'd felt inside her, so big and thick, filling her up. His mouth on hers. His palms. The words he'd whispered in her ear. The taste of him and the scent.

She crossed her arms over her belly and cupped her elbows in either hand. "I love you, Harry," she whispered. "Come back to me."

She stood in the garage listening until the sound of his bike faded before she finally turned away. She dropped a dust cloth over the Flathead and patted a jutting bit of it. "Don't worry, buddy," she said, not feeling at all self-conscious about talking to a pulled-apart antique motorcycle. "He will. They always do."

Hoping she was right, Olivia cast one last look over her shoulder before she trudged into the empty, silent house.

waugh waugh!

This chapter is a bit shorter than they have been, but honestly I just wanted to get it out to you guys.

For the purists: early on I accidentally had Kohn's name as JEFF not JOSH, and had him as FBI rather than ATF. I thought about going back and changing it, but I figured what the fuck. It's an au, right? So there ya go.