Previously in TROD: Schuyler attended her first church with the Charming boys. We discovered that not only has she killed, but she is willing to kill again to protect those she shares the patch with, even those she has just met. As for Jackson, we learned that his son was born which led him not only to question certain moves made by the club, but to also open up to Schuyler in a really honest way. And, most importantly of all, we learned that we can curse in my take on the story! It was very important to me that I gave Schuyler the first F-bomb. Now, let's see how much trouble the club can get into in this chapter. Enjoy...
Thursday morning a different makeup of members than who had raided the Mayan compound rolls into Lodi with that very same van full of cargo that the group reclaimed just days ago. Tig is driving with both hands gripping the steering wheel and when he passes the sign that welcomes new arrivals he turns the radio off as if canceling the noise will establish a more professional mindset. Clay is beside him in the passenger seat watching as three motorcycles, acting as a buffer between the van and the rest of the world, drift in and out of the side view mirror.
Taking alleyways and backroads the van eventually stops beside three black Escalades. Metal storage units act as a corral to block the expected transaction from any business roads leading back into the center of town.
Clay steps out to meet a slim African American man wearing a purple vertical striped button-down who was being chauffeured. The rest of this man's crew follows, filing out of the SUV's to casually lean on the bonnets to encase the assumed leader in a protective shield.
Each is clearly armed, as is Clay's own crew, but the weapons are hidden on their respective persons within easy reach. Though these men do not have such formal wear like the Sons' kuttes, they are still very much considered to be in a recognizable uniform. The group is color coded. Almost every member is wearing at least one purple item, and many have ink visible to openly show which street gang they belong to. Schuyler takes in these subtle but unmistakable markers as she kills the engine of her bike. She memorizes the symbols and links them to the name "One-Niners" she was previously given to later be able to identify members. Eyes scanning the foreign organization, she dismounts to stand behind the van with Chibs and Piney waiting for the order to unload.
"Laroy," Clay says, offering a hand. His smug grin a permanent fixture on his wrinkled face. "Didn't I say I'd take care of you?"
Laroy greets Clay in turn as he forcibly pulls the taller man into a one-armed hug. A single, appropriate slap is given to each man's back followed by a downward pump of their elbows in show of mutual respect. "Looks like you pulled through just in time white boy."
"SAMCRO never misses a delivery. Question is: you got my money?"
The crews move in unison. Chibs opens the van to begin unloading the crates as a man with a severely burned face retrieves a black briefcase from Laroy's car and stands beside him for the exchange. Everything appears to be going smoothly. Clay and Laroy continue to banter as their men do their bidding. Schuyler and Chibs are moving the crates from the van to the ground to an open vehicle and guns remain holstered. Yet as time passes Laroy's men start to take notice to the blonde ponytail filing in as part of Clay's moving crew. Then whispers arise, followed by demands.
"Stupid bitch." – "Some gnash…" – "Who brought the entertainment?" – "How much she gonna run me?"
Laroy's ears perk up and his eyes travel over the MC finding Schuyler pulling out the final crate from the van. "Is there somethin' you forgot to tell me?"
Clay remains firm. "I didn't know my club members had to be approved by you."
"Just figured you'd leave the maid at home is all."
Piney, who turns red in the face, jumps down Laroy's throat. "Do you have any idea who you're talking about?"
"I think I'm talking about some white trash two-bit whore coming here thinking she's worth more than a hand job."
By now Schuyler has heard the commotion and drops her end of the chest in the dirt taking Chibs by surprise. While men from both sides stand around bickering, exchanging insults directed towards each other and her, she can't help but roll her eyes. She nonchalantly produces a pack of cigarettes from her jacket, lights it, and draws the smoke into her lungs more than happy to put on a show.
"Goddamn it, apologize Ape!"
"Piney!" Schuyler scolds, disapproving of the slur. Chibs starts beside her not having expected her to yell as Clay and Piney take steps back from Laroy to seek out Schuyler. Her voice returns to a conversational volume as she gestures with the smoke in her hand.
"Piney, Piney…" She steps between both of the older gentlemen pushing them further away from the center of the conversation with the intension of reaching Laroy. "My honors intact, but it won't be if you keep prattling…"
A thumb pulls back the hammer of a hand gun as one of Laroy's men, really a boy likely younger than Schuyler, raises the weapon level with her head. Apparently she had moved too quickly towards his boss for the young man's liking. There's hardly time to react, only Piney manages to draw his gun. Schuyler halts, relaxes her shoulders, and turns just her head towards the boy. Out of the corner of her eye she sees that Piney has raised his weapon and she snaps her fingers around her cigarette pointing to the earth behind her. He reluctantly complies, lowering the weapon, yet still keeping his finger on the trigger.
She addresses the boy directly. "Put that away sweetheart unless you plan on using it."
It's clear that the action was involuntary on the man's part. He seems surprised that Schuyler speaks to him which causes him to realize he has a gun in his hand. His eyes shift to Laroy expecting a physical clue as to how to proceed.
"Don't look at him. Look at me and make a decision."
The boy swallows hard, repositions his feet, but ultimately stashes the gun in the waist line of his jeans.
"See that was the wrong decision. If you plan on sticking around much longer you've got to get right with shooting women," Schuyler says. "You know the Italians, who move through here heading north. They're a little more lenient than your boss. They have women do their smuggling all the time. They'll be stepping on your profit soon and they will not hesitate to protect themselves. Let me tell you something else, I won't hesitate neither. That's just me being straight with you." Schuyler pauses and another man still leaning on a van whistles in her direction in agreement. "Next time think before you show your hand. And if you get far enough to pull your gun you be sure to pull that trigger."
"Shit bro," the same man calls, "you best step back. She just schooled your ass."
Schuyler takes another drag from her cigarette and flashes her hands to show she is unarmed as she resumes her path. Then she aligns herself with Laroy and lowers her hands. She does not make a motion towards her weapons, but her hands hang loosely beside her gun and knives in warning. She makes a conscious effort not to cantor and keep her posture open and relaxed when addressing the leader.
"Listen man," Schuyler takes the cigarette out from her mouth between her thumb and pointer finger. She gestures with it as she talks. "I get it. These guys behind me not telling you I'd be coming. Unprofessional. I don't like being caught off guard either. But I'm going to take responsibility for their mistake. Let me make sure shit like this doesn't happen again."
Schuyler motions between their forms. "We're still good here. And if you don't want to trade with me, that's cool. I'll pack up and nothing needs to be exchanged today. But let me tell you something else. We both know that if you pass on this you're going to have to wait at least two more weeks to pick up more gear that you need this week. And whoever else you buy it from will be selling you half the hardware for twice the cost."
"Twice the cost?" Laroy asks. He is impressed with the woman's courage to approach him and interested in where the conversation seems to be leading.
"Let me make this right. Offer an incentive to move this along and close this deal."
"What did you have in mind?"
Schuyler raises the cigarette to her lips, "2.5%?"
Instantly Laroy's composure shifts. He no longer sees white skin, or soft curves, or long eyelashes speaking to him. Instead he sees dollar signs. "I can work with that."
"Like hell," Tig barks. Piney, on the other hand, laughs so hard he begins to choke.
"Consider it a 'getting to know you' present. I won't even count what you pull."
Clay counters with, "But I will," consenting to the altered price.
Laroy smirks. "We've got a deal."
Schuyler smiles wide as she rests the nicotine between her lips and raises her hand high to clasp hands loudly with Laroy. "And next time you won't be surprised when I roll up."
"I'll expect to see you from now on." Laroy motions towards his man to hand over the briefcase.
"Come on Laroy. Don't go missing me too much. I won't always bare peace offerings." Schuyler takes the bag and spins on her toes. As she walks back to the crate to finish loading Tig glares in her direction. She throws the case in his general direction which he catches with one hand.
"That was some quick thinking. So quick you didn't think to run it by me?" Clay asks.
"Take it out of my cut boss. I ain't gonna starve."
Jackson wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and throws a wrench back into his tool box. He has spent the morning working a shift at TM instead of following through with the Niners' latest shipment. After messing up the pyro, Clay benched him as a sort of minor punishment much to his – and Piney's, whose attendance at such business exchanges has become less frequent - dismay. He's tired of looking down at the same bike and, expecting the group to return, shrugs off his TM shirt to hang it on his work station against the back wall. He engages with other employees who are busy working on their own vehicles as he passes on his way to the office.
Through the window to the garage office he spots a middle-aged woman with raven hair and unnatural blonde highlights hanging just past her shoulders. Wearing knee high leather boots and a blouse with frills where it falls open, clearly unabashedly, revealing a raised scar laying vertical down the center of her chest she is leaning over a mountain of paperwork.
He opens the office door enough to stick his head inside. "Hey mom. Clock me out?"
"There's no way you worked a full shift," Gemma answers looking up from the desk.
"Close enough. I'm going to go see the kid later," he begins only to be distracted by the sound of motorcycles entering the parking lot. He looks past the garage door and sees that Bobby arrives first returning from his personal trip to Tahoe. Behind him a black van enters followed by three more motorcycles that find their places in the lineup.
Gemma places her hands on her wide hips. "Yeah I'll be there. Hey, I still want to do that dinner. Maybe tomorrow? My house at eight."
"I'm going to bring some of the guys if that's okay."
"Course. They know they're always welcome. And make sure to invite the transfer. She's managed to avoid me. I've been so busy with Abel in the hospital. I want to meet her."
Jackson laughs. "She hasn't been avoiding anyone. You'll meet her soon."
Gemma frowns yet the action doesn't seem to detract from her beauty. Instead it looks like a rather natural expression. "She could always introduce herself."
"Nah, she's just as busy as you are. I think you'll like her. She's a lot like you."
"Well at least I know not to trust her."
"Bye mom." Jackson gives a shake of his head in disbelief at his mother's ability to be overbearing despite his age and leaves her to her affairs.
"I've got the good shit!" Bobby exclaims. He is the first to enter and turns a paper bag upside down over a table where Chibs and Half-Sack are already sitting. He is quick to clear the way for the vultures to make their descent. As they file in one right after the other Half-Sack hurries behind the bar to start pulling drinks from the fridge, which members pick up from the counter as they pass. The prospect makes a point to serve the patches and let them have first pick before taking a muffin of his own.
"Food," Schuyler asks, leading the procession into the clubhouse. She examines the muffin without paper wrapping suggesting they are home made. She picks up a second muffin to give to Piney who lands on the first barstool he reaches, clearly tired from the morning's activities. She perches on her own table across from Chibs as the rest of the group disperses randomly about the bar. It seems that Clay and Tig have gotten distracted as Jackson is the last to enter for a time. "Are you feeding us Bobby?"
Piney nods his appreciation to Schuyler as he proclaims, "These muffins go great with tequila Bobby." As if to make a point, he chases his first bite with a shot of liquor he had the prospect pour him.
"Shit's addictive," Chibs says while twirling one in his hand to observe it almost fondly. "Turning me into a fat bastard."
"You could pay me in food; I'd be just as happy." Schuyler says around a bite she took from the pastry like an apple. She does not shy away from speaking with her mouth full, but rather continues to do so. "I don't think I've eaten properly since I landed. Aside from those nachos that were growing. They almost constituted a meal."
The prospect picks up his own muffin on his way to lean against the table beside Schuyler. Subconsciously, just as he would have made a joke at one of his brother's expense, the words spill out of him without having any real reason or malicious intent. "You forget to shower too?"
"You tell me." Schuyler drops the pastry on the table in favor of wrapping her right arm around Half-Sack's neck to bring him down to her level. She is unconcerned with personal space as she wrestles with the boy in an attempt to pry the muffin out of his hand. She succeeds and shoves him towards the exit, taunting him with the sweet.
"Come on, no. I haven't eaten today."
She smiles. "Should have thought about that before you mouthed off. Shouldn't you be in the garage? Go!" He looks dejected but reframes from arguing with the patch member, fearing the punishment that could be dealt, and leaves quickly with his tail tucked between his legs.
Schuyler scoots backwards to perch on the table she claimed with one foot leaving the floor at a time. She keeps the sweet she stole close to her person as she trades it in favor of her own. As she takes another bite, she returns a number of curious gazes spread sporadically throughout the bar room. She replies, "I'll throw it at him later. Bobby, I probably should have asked, but what's in these. Did you just drug me?"
"Nothing but natural sugars and organic flour. None of that processed shit," Bobby replies, pleased with his culinary skills. He sits at the table beside Chibs and opens a beer bottle. "Not that the rest of you give a damn."
"No hash in 'em?" Jackson asks as he sits on a pool table to Schuyler's left taking up the furthest seat from the misshaped circle.
"You know my rule. No bud before noon." Bobby responds by half-heartedly throwing the bottle cap in Jackson's general direction.
The Vice President opens a beer of his own to respond in kind. His throw is a little more forceful to ensure that it reaches it's target. "I don't have that rule."
"They're community muffins Jackson," Schuyler chastises. "I appreciate it Bobby."
"Morning kids!" Clay shouts when he enters the clubhouse with a black bag hanging off one shoulder and Tig hot on his heels. He drops the bag on the table next to the remaining muffins and begins to unpack the contents. "Laroy is giddy about his new assault rifles."
After the Niners left the drop point, Clay and Tig took the time to divide the money into individual envelopes for easier distribution. Schuyler agreed to take a severe pay cut. Not only because she arranged for the altered price, but also because she was not involved in their processing leading up to the guns being stolen.
"I'm all about racial harmony," Chibs remarks when receiving his payment.
"Spend it wisely. It may be a little while before we see any more 'gun green'," Clay states as he throws a blank envelope towards Schuyler who catches it midair. While everyone else rips open their envelope to count the bills inside Schuyler stuffs hers into an inner pocket of her kutte.
Jackson is quick to notice. "You're not gonna count it?"
"It's rude to count it at the dinner table," Schuyler answers in a hushed tone. "Besides, I'm sure I've been shorted on this job. You know, 'since I'm new'."
The share a laugh and it's at this time that Juice emerges from a back room of the bar with information to report. "Clay. Just got a call from my city hall snitch. Hale's got a warrant to search our warehouse."
This gains everyone's attention. Looks are exchanged until ultimately eyes turn to Clay who's surprised by the news. But it's Tig's downcast eyes and worried expression from behind Clay's shoulder that Schuyler is drawn to. "What, why are you making that face?"
"Two bodies on property under our name. That's something you should probably run by me," Schuyler states. She pops her left wrist once and leans forward with her arms crossed on the table.
The group immediately filed into the chapel for a mandated meeting – aside from Piney who excused himself on his own merits and age. After hearing the unsavory news that the local law enforcement would soon make an attempt to spy on the club coupled with Tig's own announcement of evidence that could potentially damn him in particular, Chibs rises from his seat to pace the front of the room with his face emanating frustration. Those at the table share equally in his concern.
Clay rubs a hand down his face. "Guns were more important. Now you know."
Tig sits a little straighter. "Since when is it 'our name'?"
"Since like a week ago. Try to keep up."
She sees the muscles in his shoulders and chest tighten but Chibs turns on him abruptly sparing her Tig's response. Chibs leans over him to emphasize both his presence and his question. "What were you thinking, brother?"
Tig responds smoothly, "I was thinking about getting my dick sucked twice."
"I don't care whose dick was where on the night in question," Schuyler interjects. "If I knew about the bodies I would have gladly been the first to tell you lot we needed to move them before PD caught wind."
Bobby attempts to be reasonable. "All anyone can prove is that two extra spicy carnitas swallowed your chum. They died hiding from the fire. You didn't kill anybody."
"It's not about a manslaughter wrap," Schuyler says with a gesture towards the accused. "Tig couldn't keep his hands to himself. His DNA makes our signature on the lease public knowledge."
Juice includes, "And the ATF will take up permanent residence in our collective rectums."
Clay speaks. "That warehouse sits on county property. Hale is going to have to wait days to get San Joaquin to shake loose a forensic team."
Juice refutes him. "It's a local case. County won't get involved. Hale will burrow a unit from Lodi."
Jackson has an idea. "Hey, Big Otto's sister still works for the ADA in Lodi. Call her, see if there's a forensic team heading this way." Juice promptly leaves without another word.
Clay continues. "I've got to have a talk with Unser. I'll take Tig. Maybe I can convince him to put a leash on his hyperactive deputy."
Jackson shakes his head. "Unser is just waiting for the clock to run out. That old boy is a sitting duck. We have to work around Hale. Find a way in, and soon. Strike first."
Bobby raises his hand. "Before I forget. Uncle Jimmie called. Italians want to place an order. I didn't know what to say."
"Call him back and tell him that they missed the fire sale," Clay retorts. He meets Schuyler's eyes. "Are you going to be up to this? Disposing of innocents just because they took the wrong load at the wrong time?"
Tig chuckles to himself still proud of an act he views as an accomplishment. Chibs puts a hand on him when sitting, looking much like a father reminding his son to mind his manners at the diner table.
Schuyler eyes the foam insulation on the ceiling. "Would you believe me if I said this wouldn't be the first time? We don't change much between county lines." Bobby and Clay, having been in the club the longest, nod their collective understanding. "Besides," Schuyler's eyes meet Tig's own as if in challenge, "it wouldn't be the first time I had to clean up after a dog."
Juice bursts through the door hard enough that it closes on its own by the time he reaches his seat. Everyone expecting him to bring news turn their attention on the Puerto Rican. Though the group has forgotten about the blatant insult directed towards the Sergeant, it takes every ounce of will Tig can muster to keep from physically reacting above the table. He clutches his hands around the arm rests of his chair as if the death grip is the only thing keeping him in his seat and leaping across the table. Perhaps only those directly beside him can see his knuckles turning white or a vein protruding in his neck. Yet his anger doesn't quite reach his eyes, instead reflecting a level of approval that not even he is able to place.
"I talked to Otto's sister and Lodi forensic team will be here first thing in the morning."
Clay throws his hands up exasperatedly. "And the shit keeps piling on my head. Only one thing is going to stop that Lodi team from getting to our warehouse. And that's a murder in Lodi."
Tig is almost too eager to agree. While Schuyler and Bobby have their doubts, it is Jackson who speaks out. "I don't know man. Hale's on red alert. Mayans, Nords, everyone is twitchy as hell. It's not a good time to-"
"It's never a good time! But we're talking about protecting Tig here," Clay barks. "And staying out of ATF's cross hairs. We hit the projects. Pick up a dealer, some scumbag…"
Tig believes he has a solution. "We should off a couple of Nords, Clay, is what we should do. Do that and dump the bodies in Lodi. Buys us time to get the Mexicans out of the hole. Sends a message to Darby. Kill two birds with one Crow."
"At least I'd know the bodies deserved it…" Schuyler tentatively agrees. A few words spoken. Such a simple sentiment yet it's enough to change Schuyler's mindset. Clay is right after all. This job would be first and foremost about keeping Tig out of the spotlight.
"Very clever. With the cops eyeballing the warehouse?" Chibs chides supporting his chin on his hand.
Tig tilts his head down, shrugging his shoulders when responding to the man to his right, "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter."
"I'll handle that. You set it up," Clay orders and Tig stands to leave the chapel.
Jackson begins speaking. It sounds like the plan is coming to him as he lays it out. Talking simply to keep Tig from running off. "What if I could do this without spilling blood?"
Tig pulls a face as if the notion itself is ridiculous. "Hey this isn't about me tripping some guilt shit about my kid. This is about one of us thinking straight. 'Brains Before Bullets', right?"
Clay gestures for Tig to sit. "Let's hear it."
"All we need for murder is bodies and a crime scene."
"Jackieboy," Chibs interrupts, "now ye've lost me."
"Skeeter," Jackson explains. "He's always got more gambling debt than he can handle. I'll make it worth his while."
Bobby pulls a face. Somewhere between discomfort and approval of the younger man's quick thinking. "The cemetery guy?"
Chibs approves. "Cash for cadavers. Like it."
"I give Lodi a front-page murder. We don't stir up another shit storm to bite us in the ass."
"What about educating Darby?" Tig demands rubbing irritably at his beard.
"I'll figure that out. Important thing is to keep your DNA out of the Petri dish. Protect the club."
Schuyler, without intending to pick a side, votes with Jackson. "That's a way better plan."
"Path of least resistance is always better," Clay eventually agrees. "We'll do it your way V.P." And with a plan set in motion, fully organized by the Vice President, the meeting is dismissed. As everyone disperses to attend to their individual tasks Clay confronts Jackson privately. "Don't make me regret this."
-
Outside, Schuyler is talking with Chibs and Juice waiting for Jackson to emerge. When Chibs catches sight of Jackson's approach he turns towards the garages. "Hold on. I've got to invite Sack." He whistles towards the open garage to Half-Sack who is busy at work. "Prospect! You're in!"
Half-Sack quickly trades his TM employee shirt for his kutte distinguishable from patched members by sporting a single patch reading 'PROSPECT' along the bottom hem.
Jackson throws a set of car keys to Juice who catches them against his chest. "You're driving."
Juice jogs to the driver's seat sinking low into a purposefully generic car that Schuyler can only assume has false plates for the club to use undetected. The prospect is next to reach the car and he naturally opens the passenger side door. Schuyler reaches the prospect as he opens it and shoves his chest hard directing him to the back seat. He rubs his hand across his chest where her hands were to show that the push that made him stumble backwards was felt. "Bitch seat," Schuyler barks and she gracefully falls into the passenger seat slamming the door shut. Though she buckles her seat belt she is just as quick to kick her feet up onto the dashboard and force Juice's arm off of the center armrest claiming the space for herself.
Chibs is laughing when he walks up to the vehicle and glances in at her through the window. The prospect opens the back door and Chibs agrees, "She's right. Bitch seat," before shoving the prospect into the car by his head. There he sits between Jackson and Chibs with his feet propped up to his chest on the hump in the floor because the two older members physically demand the leg room.
When the doors are closed, Juice drives out of TM's parking lot and Schuyler decides to gage him in conversation as she has grown accustom to doing over the last few days. Though it isn't in a fashion that he has grown to expect.
"¿Cuál es su opinión sobre el 'prospect'?" Schuyler asks casually in fluid Spanish. Turning her head towards Juice as if waiting for an answer she can just see Half-Sack perk up at the mention of 'prospect' out of the corner of her eye. She's pleased that though she was not speaking directly to him, and that she spoke in a language he most likely does not understand, after just a few short weeks he has adopted the habit of filtering out everything he hears to respond to a singular word that can be used to call him to action. He is even willing to answer any member, not just his sponsor, just as he is meant to do.
Juice responds simply. "Was that Spanish?"
This time when Schuyler looks to Juice she is genuinely looking at him in disbelief. "¿No hablas español? ¿Ninguno? ¿Por qué?"
Juice responds in earnest. "I grew up in Queens."
"That's no excuse. How are we supposed to trade heartfelt secrets?" Schuyler's voice drips sarcasm. "More importantly, how are we supposed to talk shit about everyone else?"
"I never had a reason to learn it."
Schuyler turns to look out the window mumbling under her breath, "Pocho."
Juice is quick to reply, "What was that?" clearly able to recognize an insult when he hears one.
"Any stations around here worth listening to?" Schuyler suddenly asks the car at large. She starts spinning a dial on the radio speeding through foreign channels looking for a station name or a title of a song that reflects a particular genre she is searching for.
The prospect, still pissed about having to ride in a seat that is meant to be degrading, thinks aloud, "Not country."
Letting the remark about her accent slip she instead stops on a station that looks promising and turns up the volume until she is straining to speak over the voice that is mid-lyric. "Ye' of little faith."
"…mend myself before it gets me…" a male artist sings from the speakers on a generic rock station.
"Cool song," Juice states approvingly. "I've heard it a few times, but I haven't really gotten into the band."
Schuyler releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding and reaches up to begin fiddling with the rearview mirror. Juice doesn't react as she positions it to were she can make eye contact with Jackson in the back seat without sitting up herself. She looks genuinely offended by Juice's comment and looks to Jackson for answers as to why Juice seems to have neglected so many areas of his life that she evidently deems to be important.
Jackson hides his amusement as he responds blankly. "I ain't his keeper."
Schuyler jams the mirror back to where Juice can mostly use it. "I've got a lot of work to do."
Juice repositions the mirror. "All that and you're not gonna sing for us?"
Schuyler stares out the window for the rest of the drive. She cranks up the radio even further to avoid continuing a conversation, but not without grumbling, "I don't know any of you fuckers like that."
When Juice puts the car in park, it's in a small lot on the edge of town. The sign on the front of the building reads, 'Crematorium' and the waiting room past the front entrance looks well lit. Everyone spills out of the car and ignores the well-lit entrance. Jackson leads the group to the back of the building and pushes on a set of doubles doors that read, 'employees only' inviting himself inside. A man who most likely purchases his clothes in 'Big-N-Tall' sections of department stores is bustling about the steel and concrete room in a leather apron mumbling to himself as he works.
Jackson walks down the steps into the room followed shortly by Half-Sack. The prospect looks uneasy being in a room with one fully functioning oven and several freezers for human corpses lining the main wall. "You really cremate bodies here?"
Chibs makes a threat from the doorway as he is the last to enter and closes the doors to the outside world. "Yeah, we do."
Schuyler chooses to lean on a freezer door while Jackson approaches the man to engage with him. Skeeter drops what he's doing to examine the intrusion when he spots Schuyler and a shy smile that doesn't match his composure forms as he makes a move to shake her hand. "Oh, hi. I'm Skeeter. Nice to meet you."
Schuyler offers a tight smile. "Look, but don't touch, 'Genetic Repo Man'."
Skeeter is happy just to be acknowledged. "Oh yes ma'am. What can I do you for?"
Jackson leads the negotiations with a handsome grin. "We need a favor Skeeter."
"I'm not sure how much help I can be right now. Got a supervisor crawling up my ass from the last one."
"Relax. We're not here to make a deposit."
Chibs joins the rest of the group on the floor to stand over Half-Sack who found a chair against the wall away from the equipment. Chibs pushes the boy's head to look at Skeeter and points making sure he is paying attention. "Actually, it's a withdrawal."
Jackson speaks plainly. "We need two bodies. Fresh."
"Are you serious? For what?"
"Well I could tell you. But then I'd have to stuff you in the furnace."
Skeeter starts a nervous laugh. "Two dead ones? That's crazy shit man."
Jackson produces an envelope, pressing it into Skeeter's chest. "I'm sure you took a beating at the Golden Gate this weekend."
Skeeter passes the folder back forcibly. "No man. I stopped the ponies. I stopped it all. Gambler's Anonymous. Thr-three months now."
"You're kidding? You don't want the money?"
"I'm working a program, you know. Something you might be able to get for me?"
Schuyler rolls her eyes. "What's that?"
"Emily Dunkin."
Jackson immediately defers to Chibs "Emily Dunkin. She's one of our Friday night whores. She loves a good punch up the knickers."
Schuyler averts her eyes, clearing her throat to avoid laughing, as she thinks that the particular choice of words matched Chibs' accent a little too well. To her relief, she goes ignored.
Skeeter becomes very interested. "No kidding. I've been trying to push up on that for a long time."
"You want to hook up with a Croweater, I'll make it happen."
"Really? Well shit. You've got a deal." Skeeter crosses the small room in two strides to pick up a clipboard on a work bench. "I'm not cremating anything 'til the end of the week."
Chibs raises a hand. "We need two by tonight."
"I'm prepping a closed coffin."
"White guy," Jackson asks, receiving an affirmative. "I'll take it. We need a Mexican guy too."
Skeeter turns the page. "Buried one this morning. Cheap seat. Should still be fresh."
Half-Sack's concern grows. His face flushes. "Wait, you mean we got to dig it up?"
"Shit Prospect," Schuyler corrects him. "Who said anything about 'we'?"
"Hey Jax," Schuyler asks from her place in the passenger's seat. Her feet are on the floor, but she's still slouching to avoid being seen through the windshield. The group minus the prospect who they left at the grave site are sitting in the car parked at a public park. Two hundred feet ahead Darby is sitting with his back to them speaking with a large Hispanic man wearing a kutte similar to the Sons' with a different club patch on the back. He is the President of the Mayans MC California chapter. "Should I attempt to listen in? If I stay on this side of Darby, Alvarez still doesn't know my face."
"We stick to the plan. If this works we don't need to know what they're talking about." Chibs follows Jackson out the car to hot wire Darby's Suburban. It being the vehicle chosen to use in the crime scene. The vehicle starts in less than five minutes and Juice follows the black car back to the crematorium.
Returning in record time, the group surrounds the hole in the ground that hadn't existed hours prior. From above, Schuyler can hear Half-Sack complaining to himself. "That's, that's great. Not only do you stink, but you're a fat bastard too."
Chibs drops to lie flat in the grass to peer over the edge into the hole. He shouts, causing Half-Sack to jump, "Ahhh, beware the zombie bikers!"
Everyone else gathers around the grave. "Jesus Christ! You scared the piss out of me."
Juice sits on the edge and jumps down into the hole. He grabs the prospect by the shoulder. "Who's your friend?"
"Hate this shit." Half-Sack looks around to the faces staring down at him. "This is really bad Karma."
Schuyler laughs. "Don't tell me this is offending your delicate sensibilities."
Juice is observing the body that surely weighs in at over three hundred pounds. "How are we going to get him out?"
"I think we're gonnae need a tow truck," Chibs jokes. Though he sounds discouraged knowing he'll be doing most of the lifting. He jumps inside and proceeds to remove the rosary from the corpse's arm to leave in the box and starts calculating how best to lift it.
Jackson joins him falling more gracefully than the two previous. "What are you waiting for Sky?"
"Not me," Schuyler waves her hand dismissively. She sits on the edge letting her feet kick loose dirt from the wall into the hole. "Not unless you want to lift me out too. Remember, I'm short. Don't worry though. I'll be your emotional support."
After thirty minutes of struggle, Schuyler's insistent laughter, and dropping the body twice between the hole and the van, the men eventually stuff the body into the back of Darby's Suburban along with the second provided directly from Skeeter's freezer and cover them with a black tarp. Schuyler takes pity and assists Half-Sack in refilling the hole trading the shovel between them every two dozen scoops.
When the hole is full it is as though the grave site was never disturbed.
The group divide themselves between the two cars. Schuyler reclines in the backseat of the Suburban as she is the least bothered by the smell. Ahead of her Chibs sits beside Jackson in the passenger seat. He helps himself to a beer that Darby left unopened in a cup holder and he lights a cigarette with his free hand. Juice is driving the TM car behind them with Half-Sack in better spirits in the front seat away from the corpses.
"Jesus these guys stink," Jackson complains.
Chibs responds. "We'll leave Darby some good Mexican stench."
From a few blocks away two brightly colored and loud automobiles are racing each other at top speed on the two-lane road. Each is trying to pass the other. Swerving sharply to avoid on coming traffic.
When they catch up to Juice they pass him without the use of their turn signal. They pass Jackson too. The second car is so quick to turn into the proper lane it cuts Jackson off. Nearly clipping him.
Jackson slams the brakes to keep from running into the smaller sports car. He curses as he yanks the steering wheel abruptly to keep from hitting the side wall.
"Stupid asshole!" Chibs exclaims furiously, "Made me spill my beer!"
Schuyler is casual when checking on the car behind them. The low rider in pursuit is unaffected by the reckless driving of the sports cars. Speeding up the empty road the racers disappear from sight.
They manage to travel half of the trip to Lodi uninterrupted. Then a police car rises over a hill and passes the vehicles with the false license plates. Red and blue lights flash on. The cop makes an illegal turn in the road and begins his pursuit. Juice is the first to see the patrol car and parks on the shoulder. The police car passes him to pull Jackson over a few car lengths down the road.
"Do you think it's because I wasn't wearing my seatbelt?" Schuyler jokes.
"Head light is out," Jackson reveals as he rolls down his window.
"Shit. Course it is. Stupid redneck," Schuyler complains as she sits up to lean between the front seats. Chibs raises an eyebrow at her. "Yeah, I know. Face forward."
Ignoring her, he pulls his gun from his vest and turns to Jackson who stares at him incredulously. "Lodi's got a sky team. We'll never get away. Not in this piece of shit."
"Put it away," Schuyler states firmly. Chibs begrudgingly complies just as the police officer enters Jackson's window. "Looks like Juice is doing something smart. Afternoon officer."
The policeman begins his spiel. However, Jackson doesn't offer his license.
Juice reeves the engine. Closing the gap he rams the vehicle into the back end of the patrol car. Then he abandons the car along with Half-Sack. Both jog backwards down the side of the road taunting the badge. "Here piggy, piggy."
The officer falters momentarily. Unholstering his gun to train it on Juice only to lower his arms as he half heartedly starts chasing the men down the street.
As soon as the officer leaves Jackson and Chibs bolt from the Suburban. Jackson is quick with his knife to slash a front tire. Chibs rips the radio from the dashboard ensuring no backup can be reached. Schuyler, meanwhile, jumps over the backseat into the trunk. She lands heavily on top of the corpses without giving any forethought to spiritual ramifications she may face by doing so. She is quick to open the hatchback. Kicking it out with her feet. "Move!"
Back in his seat, Jackson makes a U-turn to pick up the men acting as a distraction. He is driving at a speed that is easily matched by then on foot.
"Run Prospect, run," Chibs yells to his sponsi.
"Get in you blithering imbeciles," Schuyler shouts as she dives over the seat. In her place Half-Sack lands on the black tarp. He reaches out his hand helping Juice inside along with him. The Suburban is in an uproar. Swearing and shouting and flashing middle fingers out the windows at the cop who is standing in the middle of the street defeated.
"Bye copper, bye!"
Several hours later the group has managed not only to ditch the policeman but also steal back the low rider that was compounded. Night falls by the time the group finds a secluded carwash in Lodi to stage the crime scene.
Schuyler is reclining on the hood of the TM car while watching the men with gloves position the corpses in a less than convincing configuration for a double murder, hit and run. The purpose of the scene is not to be convincing, but rather confusing to the officials who will investigate it.
"Hey Sky," Juice engages with her as he and the prospect drop the Caucasian corpse in front of the SUV. Jackson proceeds to direct Chibs in driving the car over the corpse's head which gives into the tire with a discernible 'crack'. "Do you think it's gay if I shave my shit?"
"Are you kidding? It's the twenty-first century. Girls appreciate if you do."
"Man, I told you," he motions to the prospect who move to sit in the passenger seat. "I've been doing it for years."
"Still think it's gay," the prospect mumbles.
"You're both wrong," Jackson states. He's standing over the overweight corpse ready to lift it with Chibs into the driver seat. "It's gay if you shave it. 's not gay if you trim your junk."
"Whatever you gotta tell yourself…"
"Never had any complaints," Chibs chimes in. He counts down from three and lifts the corpse from the ground to the seat. The weight of one of its flailing arms presses the horn on the steering wheel as Half-Sack assists in dragging it into a sitting position. "Common Shammo."
"Sack," Schuyler starts as she rolls off the hood and retrieves multiple bags of blood from the back seat of the TM car. "If I'm expected to shave, you should at least consider shaving. Then maybe one day a really special girl will want to dribble your last ball."
It's Schuyler who notices when Chibs audibly clears his throat in response to her lewd comment. He closes the car door, avoiding her watchful gaze, as he steps in front of the vehicle to survey the scene at large. She is just as quick to advert her eyes. Avoiding drawing attention to the older man as she passes Half-Sack his own bag of blood. "Here. Ice the tub of lard."
The two cover both corpses in the red liquid. Multiple blood types, neither of which belong to the two bodies, can be expected to keep any forensic team busy for at least a few hours until it is realized there is no crime to be solved.
When the bags are empty they fall in line ahead of the car. Jackson is the first to raise his piece to the windshield. "Let's do it."
Schuyler practices her precise aim, firing into spaces where she knows the men beside her wouldn't think to shoot. The rest hold their firearms with a signal hand and empty their clips sporadically into the front of the car.
"What a beautiful thing!" Chibs exclaims, ceasing firing.
"You plant the gun," Jackson directs. "I'll leave the message."
The message which Jackson writes in blood on an intact window reads, 'M + N = BLOOD'. Leaving county to come to their own conclusions, the message is meant for the MC's competitors.
The drive from Lodi to Charming is significantly uneventful. That is, until Jackson slows the car to a halt in the middle of the road outside a small gas station about five miles from town. "Do you see what I see?"
"Aye." Parked in the small lot is one of the racing cars. The driver's seat is empty.
"That's the douchebag that cut us off."
Jackson parks next to a pump. The prospect keeps Juice company as he fills the tank. Jackson walks into the convenient store with a confident swagger in his step with his friends in tow.
"It's been a very long night brother," Chibs begins to lecture his younger sibling.
"Come on. Won't take long," Jackson grins back.
"Where's your sense of adventure, Chibs?" Schuyler asks, stepping through the door Jackson holds open for her.
The store is cramped with four rows of junk food. A single attendant is standing guard over the register inside a glass box pushed to one wall. Aside from Jackson's intended target there's only one other costumer in the store.
Schuyler approaches the short woman at the end of the aisle furthest from the one the racer is occupying. She whispers over the woman's shoulder, "Hey. Get out of here," and proceeds to lean on the end of the row facing the racing driver's back. When the woman sees Schuyler's vest she promptly leaves. She ducks past the men as well clearly frightened by their mean looks and tough outer personas.
Chibs mirrors Schuyler's stance on the opposite end of the aisle. He waves Jackson on his way. He grimaces while keeping guard to deter civilians from entering.
Jackson stomps down the center rows. He approaches the man pouring a soft drink out of the machine on the back wall. "Hey. Pass me one of those Hostess 'dumbshits'."
The man turns cluelessly. Jackson punches him square in the jaw knocking him to his knees. The soda is thrown across the room soaking the counter and the floor. Jackson lifts him by his shirt and punches him again. When the man doesn't get up from the floor on his own Jackson settles for kicking twice in the chest. "Don't cut me off again asshole."
"Hey! What are you doing?" The cashier shouts from his protective casing in broken English. "My store. What are you doing in my store?"
The man shuffles out of the box into the aisles to better see the fight taking place. He is only kept from approaching by Schuyler who is quick to raise a knife to the man's neck in warning. "Easy Hoss…" The attendant who is scared of both the woman with the black knife and the man who he believes is looting his cash register and is left in limbo occupying the empty space between the two afraid to move or lose sight of either.
Chibs is quick to confront him but is distracted by a security camera inside the box. Chibs pushes past the clerk to begin searching for the evidence of Jackson's display to destroy.
"Feel better?" Schuyler asks Jackson as he walks up to her leaving his victim to whither in pain. They both blatantly ignore the cashier screaming at them to leave the building. From within the box, the sound of Chibs smashing the VHS tape on the countertop can be heard.
"Hell yeah," Jackson smiles. He brushes his hair out of his eyes revealing the blood on his knuckles he is unconcerned with. More than likely due to it belonging primarily to the other man. Over Jackson's shoulder Schuyler watches as the racer climbs to his feet. In the same motion he raises a gun that was previously hidden up with him straight at Jackson's head.
"Why don't you come at me now asshole?!"
Schuyler has just enough time to force Jackson's head down as she herself ducks out of the way. Luckily the racer is a crap shot, primarily due to the pain inflicted by Jackson, and the bullet misses the blondes entirely lodging into the protective glass casing of the box.
Jackson rounds on the speed racer knocking the gun clear out of his hands. The two get caught in a struggle slamming each other between aisles trying to put each other on the floor.
Chibs steps out from between the protective glass case in search for Jackson. He doesn't interfere immediately but waits to see if his help is required. By doing so he leaves room for the clerk to retrieve a weapon he keeps stashed under the counter. However, the attendant does not return with a wooden bat but rather an axe and he charges past Schuyler with the intent to break up the fight one way or another.
The racer gets the upper hand on Jackson slamming his head on a shelf putting him flat on his back. The man picks his gun up off of the floor and trains it on Jackson who looks up with his hands raised in front of his face.
"Stupid prick," the racer growls as he cocks the handgun. He doesn't get the chance to pull the trigger.
"Enough," Schuyler insists. Drawing her own gun, she raises level with the racer above the aisle forcing him to pause.
The clerk reaches the scene and there is no sign of hesitation. He is running on pure adrenaline. When it is not evident that the fight is broken up by the waving of an axe, the man is left with only one other option. He swings it.
The axe comes down swiftly. It is buried into the racer's head. The gun drops to the floor with a clatter. And the clerk, left confused as though the action were unintentional, staggers away in horror distancing himself from the man's body which falls sideways against a row of shelves bringing bags of chips and assorted candies down with it.
Schuyler steps into the row and makes make eye contact with Chibs across the aisle in absolute astonishment that the situation could run so far out of hand. Then they see that Jackson is still on the floor between them. His face is covered in blood that is not his own. Through the glass doors Schuyler looks up to see Juice and Half-Sack have finished putting gas in the car and are standing shell-shocked at the entrance having seen the axe bring the body down.
"Holy shit," Jackson exclaims, and he looks jarred. The front doors open but the men outside make no move to enter. The clerk who should have been no less than an innocent bystander is panting as the adrenaline wears off. He is on the verge of tears. Schuyler sees each of the men's responses and decides it is up to her to act quickly.
"Alright. Play time is over." She produces a black leather riding glove from her vest using it to pick the gun up off the floor which she trades for her own. She aims the stranger's gun above Chibs' head and shoots two rounds into the wall behind him where the racer had been facing when fighting Jackson. With her free hand she helps Jackson off the floor. She lines the side of her foot against his own, kicking him in a way to gain his attention, but when he realizes she is standing over him he takes her offered hand and pushes back against her foot to stand. She turns only to point the gun at the clerk and begins to give orders.
"All of you get in the car. Now." She leads the clerk around the store and walks him back into his intended enclosure. "This is why you don't leave the counter. Remember, it was in self-defense." She places the gun on the counter and closes the clerk up inside.
"You okay Jackieboy," she hears Chibs ask behind her.
She turns to see Chibs dusting the V.P off. Jackson is still a little rattled as he gives one last look to the street racer laying in a pool of his own blood. "I'm alright."
"Oh, you were helpful," Schuyler mocks Chibs over her shoulder.
Juice shakes his head. "So much for not spilling any more blood…"
Schuyler squints daggers at the man through the glass. Her voice is authoritarian in nature as she leaves him with her simple instructions. "Forget. Our. Faces."
The clerk, having understood the order, meekly nods his head and hunches over the counter, sobbing silently.
She experienced an interesting shift. The first true test of her reliability and willingness to follow a less than convenient or consistent work schedule based around the needs of others. After finishing a long day, made longer buy an accident that even she couldn't explain, Schuyler arrived at the clinic at five till four in the morning. She was let in by the nighttime kennel technician. She was met several minutes later by the nurse she had been paired with for the particular shift. The young man about her age running solely on Red bull was eager and willing at such an early hour to take orders from Schuyler without question. She put on a brave face and was as responsive as ever to cliental, but by the end of the day she clearly exhausted.
Unfortunately, the early start time did not mean an early end her day. She worked a ten-hour shift with a single break on less than four hours of sleep. By the time she left her locker in her casual clothes it was close to 3:00 PM. Still, the club didn't expect to see her around for a few more hours and she decided to be productive. Jackson had invited her to a dinner at his mother's house taking place this evening. Schuyler decided that bringing food to the party would serve as a good first impression and so grocery shopping became her first destination.
Schuyler hoped that by moving to California she would assimilate into a moderately more modern town, but that is simply not the case. It Is evident that Charming is a small town will a population not much bigger than the one she left in Valor. Being that she is product loyal, she has no need for a Starbucks. However, the severe lack of a Walmart or similar discount realtor stores is quite an inconvenience. She makes a mental note that she will need to search for a more commercial store in the surrounding areas for the long term as she dismounts her bike on main street. Though she's confident that the closest is more than fifteen miles away.
A small-time grocery store is squeezed between a barber shop and a nail salon. She assumes each, like the rest of the pocket-sized stores on either side of the strip, is locally owned and has been for quite some time. She plans to avoid the supposed produce section believing frozen foods to be the safer option. Cars are parked in front of the glass windows beside her bike, but the store looks fairly empty. The building itself holds less than ten aisles and it looks like it can hold just about as many patrons comfortably before feeling crowded.
As she enters, she passes two women on the street. Each is carrying a number of plastic bags from the establishment Schuyler is entering and they are caught up in conversation too busy to pay her any attention. The rest of the street is in a similar state. There are as many empty as filled parking spaces in front of each establishment and a few people occupying either side of the sidewalk. But the strip is far from what Schuyler would ever consider busy.
She enters with an idea of what she will purchase and grabs a basket at the door. She walks through the store planning to peruse the rows from back to front. When she reaches the back wall, she leans down to pick up a loaf of bread with a brand that she recognizes on the bottom most shelf and freezes upon hearing a voice close behind her.
"I almost mistook you for my son." Schuyler spins around to face one of the women that she passed on the sidewalk who had followed her back inside. Clad in a leather jacket with several sparkling bracelets on either wrist the woman with an interesting scar and the edges of what Schuyler recognizes to be a crow tattoo visible on her chest is standing strong in the middle of the aisle unconcerned with taking up space. She has her arms crossed and offers Schuyler a tight-lipped smile. "Then I realized those are not his hips."
"No, they are not," Schuyler replies easily as she ghosts her hand up her own thigh to rest it high on the hip in question. "It's the hair though, right?"
"I've been telling him he needs a haircut for weeks."
"Must be nice. I'm not 'allowed' to cut mine much shorter than this. But I always seem to find a way to do what I want." Schuyler drops the cheap red basket with the loaf of bread on the floor and steps forward into the woman's personal space. The mention of Jackson, who Schuyler shares a similar appearance with, tells her that the woman in front of her is Gemma Teller-Morrow. Her President's Oldlady and her Vice President's mother. That is all the information she needs to know that this woman not only deserves respect, but likely demands it as well. Schuyler offers her hand. "Ma'am, it's nice to meet you."
Gemma accepts the offer while making a face as if she smells something her nose doesn't like. "Not necessary. Call me Gemma."
"Really," Schuyler asks. "I prefer it. I'm Doctor Schuyler, but please, call me Sky. Sorry we haven't met before now."
"Not another doctor." Gemma rolls her eyes. She's visibly irritated, so Schuyler knows not to press her on the individual she evidently has in mind. Gemma's hands gravitate to her hips only about two sizes smaller than Schuyler's own.
"Veterinarian actually," Schuyler begins to explain. "Perfect get away from my usual scene."
"That's quite a bit different from club business, isn't it?" Gemma, like Clay, views the question as an opportunity to gauge Schuyler's value.
"You would be surprised by how similar the two can be. Usually the main difference is the amount of hair on the creatures I have to pick up after."
"But not always." Gemma manages to loosen the hold of her smile a bit. A corner quirking up to one side. It is not meant to be a sign of acceptance but rather a show of good faith. "Well in any case. I knew you couldn't be my son when you stepped foot in here. Thirty years old and he would never do his own shopping." Though Gemma is making small talk it is clear that she is observing Schuyler's movements. Her eyes are calculating; her posture guarded.
"I'm sure it's blasphemous doing it in my vest, but it's meant to keep strangers from walking up and starting conversations." Schuyler makes a show that she can be just as observant. "The woman outside. Do you make a habit of picking up the tab for strangers?"
"Opie's wife. But she hasn't been around much since he went inside."
"I heard. Inside five years. It's hard when that happens. For everyone."
"It is," Gemma agrees and her demeanor shifts. "It's my job to help out where I can. If we stop helping each other we lose everything we've built. Speaking of, I'm hoping that my son remembered to invite you to dinner at my house tonight."
"That's why I'm here. Sack mentioned something about not eating meat. If I know anything about the people hanging around my club I know that not even the chefs would think twice to include a vegetarian option. Thought my contribution could be something green. If nothing else I can get a kick out of seeing those guys discover a new color of food."
"That's awfully considerate of you," Gemma muses. She finds the woman more than two decades younger than herself to be amusing though she is still trying to gauge if the doctor has an angle beyond simply making friends.
"As long as he doesn't know I'm the one that brings it we should be good." There is a lull in the conversation. Schuyler looks down to her basket. "Well, this isn't my first errand today."
"The club keeps us all busy," Gemma suggests.
"That it is does. First chance I've had to see the town." Schuyler doesn't take the bait. She keeps her answers broad unsure of exactly how much Gemma knows about her family's extracurricular activities. "Figured I'd run errands while I'm at it."
"Club have anything going on tonight? Just so I know how late to expect you."
Schuyler knows it's a test to see if she is willing to divulge information willingly. Even to Oldladies. "Probably just going to have a beer at the clubhouse," Schuyler smiles easily, "You know, the usual. Then we'll head over to your place."
"One big happy family." Gemma seems pleased with Schuyler's cooperation. "I'll see you tonight. Make sure they arrive in one piece."
"I'll certainly do my best."
Schuyler was actually the first to arrive which is a first. Instead of going to the clubhouse like she had suggested she would to Gemma members where meeting at the crematorium to dispose of the bodies, and the evidence, linking the club to the warehouse. She spent an hour in the back-parking lot engaging with Skeeter every couple of minutes who seemed to be making excuses to leave him dungeon to do so. Bikes arrived slowly one at a time until eventually a black van carrying the bodies of the two Mexicans that Tig and Bobby had retrieved from the gun factory.
The two burly men pulled folded black tarps from the back and each walked one into the cemetery building shoving them none too delicately into the furnace.
The group gathers around the open oven door. They watch as the low flames lap at the already charred corpses and pause unsure how to proceed.
Still the most skittish of the bunch the prospect offers to break the ice. "Should we say a prayer or something?"
Juice standing beside him cannot help but to crack a joke. "Anyone know any Bible passages for lost semen?"
"Please say yes!" Schuyler exclaims from the back row. Unable to keep her composure during what she views as a ridiculous display she heads up the stairs towards the exit as Jackson punches Juice in the back for being disrespectful.
Tig, who is the cause of the women's bodies needing to be burned in such an impersonal way, is standing closest to the furnace as he bows his head and says a short prayer. "Amen." Reassuring himself with the prayer he presses a button invigorating the fire and closes the oven door solemnly.
The group arrives in a single motorcade parking their bikes in the driveway and along the street. Several other vehicles are parked in the yard and across the street as well signaling the club are the last guests to arrive.
Schuyler dismounts beside Jackson who sees her pull a clear container out of her bike bag in a manner that suggests she is trying to conceal it. "What's in there?" His answer is a raised finger to her lips.
Inside the warmly lit house is full and teaming with life. Several women are bustling about the kitchen passing a joint between them as they prepare the food. One of them has a small child clutching the hem of her shirt refusing to leave her side.
The women's relation with the club isn't evident. None of them attempt to greet the motorcycle members beyond offering a familiar smile or wave. They do not approach Schuyler. After reflexively raising their kept eyebrows towards a new female body they see the club vest on her back and are quick to change facial expressions to one showing kindness and respect. None of them are wives or Oldladies. Most likely they are long time friends of the club in need of a good meal and just as good of company.
The one face Schuyler recognizes in the kitchen is Gemma who, just as Schuyler had anticipated, has complete control. She is directing the menu and the items that need to be prepared first. She places a bowl in another woman's hand and sends her into the dining room to place it on the banquet table.
Schuyler slips the container of coleslaw on the counter and Gemma nods her appreciation before sending Schuyler into the dining room with the rest of the group not allowing her the chance to offer assistance.
In the dining room there are no less than ten chairs pushed against the wooden table. Individuals are milling about the dining room and den, but when Clay takes a seat at the head of the table, everyone else follows suit.
The table slowly fills with bowls and trays of home cooked food and the servers eventually sit down signaling everyone to begin eating. Those who are too late to grab a seat at the primary table fill a smaller table put up in the living room for the meal.
Conversation is pleasant and constant. When Gemma takes a seat beside her husband she greets Clay with a sweet kiss reserved only for him.
Schuyler sits on the furthest edge of the table, but that doesn't keep her from joining the discussion. She even manages to hold conversations with Jackson and Gemma with several heads between them.
At some point, Tig looks down at Half-Sack's plate and notices a severe lack of meat. He picks up a plate of ribs and waves it under his nose tauntingly causing the boy to grimace.
Schuyler who is sitting on the other side of the prospect steps in. She is careful when pushing Tig's forceful arm away by touching the lip of the plate. "Leave the poor boy alone. He'll out live all of us if he stays away from this artery clogging heart attack on a plate." She passes Half-Sack the very container she bought and prepared today. The prospect takes it gratefully. He is none the wiser.
As talk wears down during the night everyone has a hand in picking up the table. The women return to the kitchen assisting Gemma in cleaning the dishes and several men are thoughtful enough to take full trash bags out as they leave. The house empties steadily and the air cools as more space is made.
Each person leaves feeling full from the food and content from the conversations. Closer to their chosen family then when they entered.
Schuyler makes sure to thank Gemma for hosting her as she was taught to do. Then she leaves quietly, never one to over stay her welcome.
Outside she runs into Juice as he talks to Half-Sack who she had seen leave several minutes prior. Juice waves to the prospect as the boy speeds away on his bike.
From across the street Schuyler calls to Juice. "Hey Juicy! Nos vemos."
"What does that mean?" He lifts his hands in defeat.
She picks her helmet up off a handlebar. She flicks the visor down after shouting her farewell. "It's your first language lesson. Figure it out!"
Author's Notes:
"Nos Vemos" means "see you" in Spanish. While this may seem like a little throw away moment, I guarantee it has plot relevance. And maybe I just like these two character's current and future friendship!
What a nice family dinner. It seems like everything is capable of working out in the end. Of course, if this were always the case, we wouldn't have a story. Remember we are still in the introductions phase. The beginning of the first season. There is still plenty left to uncover.
For now, I'd like to leave you, the reader, with a few questions to ponder. General polls:
1. Do you prefer to see chapter summaries for the new chapter, chapter reviews for the last chapter (since its a few weeks in between each), neither (and perhaps instead teasers for the next chapter), or some combination? I want to make the reading process for you as easy to follow and enjoyable as possible!
2. Are you enjoying the lengths of the chapters so far? Are they too long or do you like longer chapters? Would you prefer to see smaller chapters (and maybe more frequent updates as a result, but this isn't a guarantee) or are you enjoying the format that mimics the original episodes?
Just so I have a clearer idea as how to continue with posting the story.
Now I'd like to offer some more fun questions to ponder:
1. What's been your favorite scene thus far and why?
2. What's your favorite relationship up to this point? (brother - sister and who; father - daughter between Schuyler and Piney; others that are just starting out that we have yet to fully discover?) I have mine and would love to hear yours!
I'm offering these questions now because certain relationships may evolve quickly or your answer may drastically be changed in the next few chapters...
With the technical stuff out of the way, I really hope you're enjoying the story thus far! I sure am enjoying writing it. Don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts in the form of a comment (answering the questions would be an easy way to leave a comment! Let's hang out between updates!).
I'll see you for the next instalment of TROD!