Chapter One:
1.5 Years After the Daughters Caused Anarchy (Present Day)
The blue of my Old Man's eyes were the only color I ever needed to see again, I decided as I stared into their stormy pools with unobstructed abandon for the first time in 1.5 years. Calloused fingertips traced the line of my jaw, lingering on the raised scar along my cheek that ended a quarter of an inch from my right tear duct. I'm sure the sunlight threw it into harsh relief, forcing him to look directly at it. I blocked my mind from the onslaught of memories that came with the scar. There were the voices, the taunts, the crushing weight of a knee to my windpipe, and finally the quiet whisper of a knife slicing through the air. I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut. I opened them again, taking comfort in Jax's orbs. His fingers continued to trace the scar, the digits on his other hand tightening their hold on my waist. He was holding it all in, his guilt and his anger. It didn't matter that he'd been locked up when I'd been jumped. It didn't matter that there was nothing he could have done. This scar would always remind him that he wasn't there to protect me from the world's evils, even if we both knew I was as evil as they came.
"I'm not going to win any pageants any time soon, huh?" I smirked, trying to make a joke. Jax's lips were set in a hard line as I caught the fingers roaming my face with my own and let him pull me flush with his hard chest.
"You'll always be Miss America in my book, Cassia," he answered in a slow, lazy drawl. The barest hint of a smile transformed his mouth before he leaned his head down to gently lay his lips on mine. His kiss was genuine and passionate, his tongue against my own drugged me into almost believing I wasn't lying to him with every breath we shared. I'd never say it to anyone, but I was broken and breaking. The scar that bisected my lip at its corner was also my reminder that I couldn't protect myself. If I can't keep my face in tact how can I keep the Club whole? He broke the kiss way too soon, but never let me stray further away from him than absolutely necessary. "Let's go home." He said simply, leading me to his Dyna. Riding bitch wasn't my favorite, but I'd asked for a private reunion, where I could drink in Jax's essence and touch him unabashedly. I wouldn't change who I was for anything, but the 18 months in prison made me long for simpler times where Jax and I could just exist together without being two of the most dangerous bikers in the country. I closed my eyes, enjoying the peace of the world rushing past me as he rode us hard into the setting sun. I let my fingers slip under his flapping t-shirt and graze his still rock hard abdomen. Slowly, tortuously, my fingers wandered over his chest and shoulders. I wanted to map every new line and curve of his body so I could show him how much I'd missed him. His muscles contracted as my nails grazed their ridges and dips. A low growl rumbled through his throat, vibrating his body and warming mine up with the sensation.
"Keep that up, Cassia, and I'll bend you over my bike on the shoulder." He accompanied his "threat" with a smirk and wink thrown carelessly over his shoulder. I smirked back, and clenched my thighs together scooting even closer to him.
As we rode, I pushed away the last 18 months as best I could. All I ever wanted was my freedom; at first from my father, then from my ex-boyfriend, and then again from prison. Jackson Teller had saved me time and again, nearly as often as I'd saved myself. But strapping myself to his back, my powerful thighs clenching around his, I felt a sense of dread brewing in the pit of my stomach. I was finally free from my most recent physical cage, but the separation had imprisoned my mind. Even with my arms wrapped around the man I loved, I felt nothing but a crippling sense of anxiety the closer we moved to Charming.
7 Years Ago
Cassia's First Year in Dallas
Everything I owned was locked in a hotel room in downtown Dallas, overlooking the skyline. It fit in two suitcases and a backpack. I packed what I could carry, lining the cavities of each bag with anything I thought would help. Slutty club dresses tangled with my meager collection of tasers and pepper spray, combat boots lied next to stilettos. I couldn't be too sure what would come in handy, so when I fled my parents house with my inheritance transferred to a private bank and the contents of my father's safe, I took everything I could. Tonight was the night. It even started well, when my cab driver didn't ask why I wanted to go to the boxing ring on a Friday night wearing fuck me pumps and the shortest dress I owned, he just smiled lacvisicously and popped his gum. I resisted the urge to pick a fight; if my plan was successful, I'd be doing plenty of that later on. He dropped me off, attempting to get my number on the way out but I ignored him. He couldn't give me the protection I needed. Crudely covering the old sign for the boxing ring was an off-center circular logo for the Sons of Anarchy motorcycle club. Royal blue letters stood out against the old logo's fading burgundy. I brushed my fingers over my padded bra, searching for the hard ridges of the hotel key I'd hidden between my breast and the fabric. Assured it was still there, I strode on confident feet to the entrance of the ring. The bouncer tonight was smoking a cigarette and wearing a leather jacket with one patch: Prospect. Internally, I smiled, thanking the Universe for this one small favor.
"Hey there handsome," I cooed as I got closer. The man at the door was objectively not handsome, but I didn't begrudge him that. Being a Pageant Queen showed me that the most beautiful outsides contained unflattering interiors. The Prospect's features were pinched, his brown hair greasy, and his teeth were stained with coffee and cigarettes. His best qualities were his green eyes and his massive cock, the former had roamed my body while I choked on the latter. I ignored the line of people just like he was, and walked directly to the door.
"Cass, how are you?" He asked wearily, blowing the smoke away from my face almost lazily. I smirked at his attempt at indifference, the longing in his eyes made him a liar. It didn't help that I'd sucked him off my first night here, almost three months ago, and he was pissed that his VP had claimed me for himself the next day. Seeing him, though, brought forth a whole host of conflicting emotions I didn't have the time to unpack.
"I am NOT a croweater. He was just a means to an end. Caine is just a means to an end. I am not a croweater…" My thoughts were loud in my mind, echoing across the expanse. I let them repeat as I replied to Jimmy Jam, one of the newest Prospects for SAMDAL.
"I've been better. These shoes are killing my feet." I replied, holding my hand out. Jimmy Jam gave me his pack of cigarettes and his lighter, watching sadly as I lit one up. I stuck two in the spaghetti strap of my dress for later. "I'm guessing Caine's inside, laying into a poor hang around?" I commented, blowing the smoke daintily.
"I'll lay into you, sugar!" One of the guys in line called out, laughing. His friends clapped him on the back when I leveled my brown eyed stare at him. My lips quirked up in a smirk, and I tried to hide my revulsion at the idea of letting any man between my lips again. Jimmy Jam was an exception. He'd been a friend when we were in elementary school. I'd married him in a huge ceremony at the park during recess one afternoon. We held the record for longest running couple in the 2nd grade. Jimmy and I had lasted until Spring Break that year. Everyone had thought we'd last forever, but my dad stumbled into my bedroom for the first time on the last night of Spring Break. Looking at Jimmy had made me physically ill, so we'd quietly divorced during lunch a few days later. I figured that sucking his dick was an appropriate consolation prize for him, even if it came over a decade later and the act was transactional. I needed a way in and swallowing his load was my entry fee.
"I don't think that's a good idea, sugar," Jimmy replied for me, glaring at the guy who'd spoken. He spat out that last word like a curse with derision, and returned his gaze to me. Jimmy wasn't privy to my plan, but he did think I was too good for Ryan Caine, the vice president and co-founder of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Dallas charter. He wasn't wrong, on paper I was better than Caine, but a few pageant wins weren't standing between me and protection. "Yeah, he's inside. You could wait for me, you know." He said to me, taking in my ensemble. His eyes lingered on my stiletto heels and he shook his head.
"We've been over this, Jimmy." I answered as nicely as I could. In all honesty, he'd been lamenting our "missed connection" for the last 12 weeks and I was tired of letting him down gently. Maybe I was too harsh. He nodded, a solemn gesture, before opening the door and allowing me to slip through. Jimmy Jam was a good man who tried to save his brother by following him to the Outlaw life and ingratiating himself in Dallas's underworld. He needed a good woman by his side, someone who could be the perfect Old Lady: brave in the face of danger, ferociously loyal, and content with staying home. That would never be me. I couldn't stand the idea of becoming my mother, a kept woman in leather instead of pearls. So I crossed the threshold, entered the center of the underworld, and steeled my spine. Tonight, Caine and Avery would be forced to accept my services. I was more than a pretty face, I was more than the lust filled looks Caine sent my way, I could be something great but they had to let me.
I found Caine in the ring, his hands taped and bloody. I sent him a smirk and a little wave as I walked past, looking for the bar. In the three months it took to infiltrate SAMDAL and wrap Caine around my finger, I'd seen over a hundred fights. Fight Night was every night, especially when the club's home base was a former boxing ring. The ring itself took up most of the square footage in the exact center of the building. To the left was a door marked "Employees Only" where they held Church. To the right were the steps that led to the lofted dorms where most of the guys crashed. Behind the ring was the bar, fully illegal but also fully stocked with everything under the sun. Club members and Old Ladies drank for free. I was an "in between", not quite a crow eater and not yet an Old Lady. Caine had added my name to his tab, but sometimes the Prospects manning the bar didn't get the memo. I had a couple dollars to my name since I didn't want to touch my fathers money unless necessary, and it was imperative that Caine and Avery accepted my offer tonight so I could change that. I needed money and a chance.
"Bourbon neat, three fingers." I told the Prospect behind the bar. He nodded, staring at my face like he wanted to say something. He also wasn't moving, which was a problem for me. "Spit it out, dude, you're making me uncomfortable." I continued, waving my arm in his direction, signaling him to get going.
"You're Cassia Belle Andrews." He said, grabbing the bourbon from the lowest shelf.
"Top shelf, Prospect. I'm on Caine's tab." I corrected him. "And yeah, what's it to you?"
"Nothing, it's just Caine talks about you all the time. Maybe you could put in a good word for me?" He sounded so hopeful. It was the first time I'd seen him, so I decided to be sweet.
"To get respect around here, you've gotta fight for it." To emphasize my point, the bell dinged and Brooklyn, the club's Sergeant at Arms, announced Caine the winner. "Don't ask a man's side piece for help. Just prove your loyalty." I took the freshly poured drink and flounced away. Avery, the club's president, was watching me with a wry look as I sidled up to Caine. A crow eater was trying to get his attention, practically flashing him in the process, but as soon as he heard the clack of my expensive shoes, he turned to me.
"There she is! The sexiest broad in Texas!" He cried, smacking my ass. His pupils were completely blown out, and I knew he was high. The cocaine in this batch must be top notch, because he was even jumping on the balls of his feet. He slapped my ass nice and hard, and I forced a giggle to escape my lips.
"You were so good out there, baby!" I cried with false enthusiasm. I repeated my mantra of the night when Caine buried his face in my cleavage, licking, biting, and sucking the tops of my breasts in front of everyone. I am not a crow eater. This is a means to an end. I took a hefty gulp of the liquor in my glass, which pushed my soft flesh further into Caine's face. Before I could really tell what was happening, he was pulling a baggie of white powder from his pocket and lining my left tit with the cocaine. He snorted it, licking up the excess. He put a dab on his finger and held it to me in offering.
"Caine." Avery snapped, coming to stand next to us. I stepped away from the sweaty fighter and let him rub the drugs over his gums. "Cass wanted to talk to us about something, remember?"
"If anyone's hurting you, baby, say the word and we'll rain hell down on em." Caine replied seriously, barely getting a breath out with the words. I rubbed his arm, where his Marine Corps tattoo sat.
"I know you would, Caine." I purred, noting the tent in his basketball shorts as I touched him and said his name. I'd been denying him sex for three months. I told him it was because I stood for something, but in reality I was terrified of anyone touching me. As always, Jimmy Jam was my exception. It would've eased my conscience to use Jimmy Jam as my bait, but he was only a Prospect. To convince a 1% motorcycle gang to use a pretty black woman as their for hire assassin, I needed the trust and loyalty of someone higher up.
"Let's take this to the table, babe." Caine replied, sounding fairly sober for someone high on coke, adrenaline, and pussy. I nodded and followed the leaders of SAMDAL into their sacred sanctuary. When I left, I'd either use the knife tucked in my purse to prove myself or end my misery.
4.5 Years Later
Cassia's First Year in SAMCRO
Fallout tastes like ash on the tongue. The survivors of Pompeii must have an idea how I feel, sitting at my own kitchen table. The top rocker was heavy on my back, and my shoulders slumped with the weight. You're supposed to feel free when your dreams come true. You're supposed to soar on gossamer wings and feel invincible. You're supposed to flit above the wreckage, reveling in the self righteousness that comes with accomplishment. But I was firmly planted on the ground. The earth sunk beneath the feet of my steel toed motorcycle boots. The lava had burned the pedestal upon which I'd gracefully placed my goals. I'd caught the flimsy string of hope as it tumbled from its perch, tied it tight around my wrist and cradled it to my bosom even now as we planned more destruction. The ash curled and coated around my tongue. I was barely hearing the words my brothers were shouting. I couldn't taste anything but the bitter tang of consequence.
"You can't kill him." I said, my voice floating on a whisper. Jax looked toward me, but since my lips had stopped moving and my eyes were staring unseeing, he looked back at the future of SAMCRO. I loved him. I loved his blue eyes, the color of the sky. I loved his tenacity, nothing and no one would come between him and revenge. I loved how quickly he'd enacted a coup. I loved his ruthlessness, how he'd kill his step-father for the good of the club. It didn't matter that his mother would be heartbroken, Jax saw things in black and white. Clay was a threat, he'd tried to have us killed, and it was time that he relinquished his reign. It was Jax's turn at the reins.
What grows from poisoned soil? A poisoned fruit. The words my father had told me every night he'd violated my bed rang in my mind as I tried to swallow around the ash. He meant that I could never be pure again, that in the eyes of God and any decent man I was ruined and I'd forever be his puppet. But I looked at the cruel words with a new perspective.
"You can't kill him." I said again, this time louder. Opie, Chibs, Bobby, Jax, and I were sitting around the kitchen table in my studio apartment. They had been arguing around the table for the last hour. They, as they had been doing for the better part of the hour, continued to ignore me. I stood, straightened my cut, and walked over to my freezer. I pulled out the Appleton Estate Reserve Jamaican rum that I only drank on special occasions, and poured myself a glass. Methodically, I added ice and Coke. I sipped the drink, walking back over to the table where Jax finally kept his blue eyed gaze on me and the room fell silent.
"Cass, it's only 9:00am." Jax said, pointing to the clock as if I needed that fact hammered home. I continued to drink.
"You know what the most important part of preparing a rum and coke is?" I asked aloud. My new brothers didn't answer. "Most people think that it's the ratio of Coke to rum. It's not. It's the quality of the ingredients. See, I wouldn't take shots of this rum because of its bitterness. But, if you mix it with Coke the natural sweetness is able to come alive, making the rum better." I continued, setting the now empty glass in the center of the table. The guys were rapt with attention. I took my seat, on Jax's left, and propped my chair on its back legs. "You cannot kill Clay Morrow. You do that, and you become just like him. None of y'all have killed a member before." I inadvertently touched the Unholy Ones patch that sat on my left breast pocket. "It changes a part of you. You become someone else. It's like Voldemort's Horcruxes, you part with a small piece of your soul when you kill a Son." Jax reached for my hand. "I'm telling y'all that if we begin a new era of SAMCRO based on the poison of killing a former brother, no matter the pure evil that man has become, we will fail. The quality of our ingredients will suffer and I love y'all crazy Redwood Originals too much to let that happen." I finished.
"We can't kill him." Bobby replied, finally agreeing. "But we have to get rid of him. He can't plot you and Jax's murder without any consequences." He continued, referring to the ambush Clay had set up for me and Jax while we visited the Denver charter a few months ago. We had barely made it out alive, but it had served as a great way to prove to the rest of the Club that Clay's leadership needed to end. But, as with all major power shifts, proper planning needed to be done. Which is why Jax had called this meeting of the minds we trusted the most. The men had been calling for blood from the moment they stepped through the door. Even Bobby's banana bread couldn't bring them out of their collective murderous mood.
"So, we excommunicate him? Black out his ink. Strip him of his patch. How do we make sure he's miserable?" Opie asked, looking at me speculatively, undoubtedly remembering the traitor Kyle Hobart who had basically sentenced Opie to 5 years in prison before my time.
"He has to promise to move out of Charming. He takes his pride and licks his wounds literally anywhere else. Tell him that if we catch wind of him organizing, being active on the gun running scene, we kill him." I suggested, returning Opie's gaze. He nodded in response, just as Jax banged his fist on the table.
"That's what we do." He responded with an air of finality.