Author's Notes: Instead of giving a chapter summary, I will tease this is a crucial chapter which marks a turning point in the series! If you haven't made up your mind about Schuyler as a character then this chapter will surely make up your mind for you. And, for those who have been using your critical reading skills for this story, you will get a taste of what is to come. If you haven't been paying close attention, hopefully there will be a pleasant surprise in store for you!
TW: Mentions of rape of a minor and mutilation.
They find themselves meeting up with Clay, Bobby, and Tig who are crouched at the edge of a tree line. Kuttes were left with the bikes as a necessary precaution. The club has internalized the habit of expecting the worse when walking into unknown territory. There's no reason the club should be tied to criminal allegations should the situation go awry.
The group stares at a white two-story house with a wrap-around porch. Men of similar profiles to the suspect from the carnival can be seen on either side of the property. A few have drinks in their hands, and all are immersed in idle conversation. Music is emanating from within the home, confirming the existence of additional residents, to drown out the barking of dogs coming from uncovered kennels in the backyard.
"Looks like a full house." Jackson shucks off a gun bag onto the ground.
Clay eyes the men on the front porch intently. "Guys in the front are armed. Not sure about the ones in back."
"They're carrying," Schuyler confirms. She is closest to the men beside the kennels. She knows what the dogs are used for.
"You three clear the kennels. We'll handle the lookouts. Don't discharge. We don't want anyone knowing we're coming."
The group splits down the middle. Schuyler finds herself taking point. She steps lightly amongst short trees. Chibs and Tig follow closely, much less concerned with their foot placement.
More entrances to the house are located on the back side of the building and there are three men with their backs to the trees. One is sliding silver bowls into the kennels while trying to avoid being licked and jumped on. "Keep to their backs," Schuyler advices, voice hushed. "Let me go first."
There are four kennels lined together and a pair of pit-bulls of varying ages in each. The animals are of good health considering they're confined to the outdoors. Schuyler deduces the owner is in the business of selling the dogs as opposed to fighting them outright.
Schuyler walks up carefully and quietly, yet with conviction. She makes a determination; she has a right to be on the property. And so, she does. The dogs were yapping away beforehand which was fortunate. The men don't realize when a puppy of eight months tries to gain Schuyler's attention from within its gated enclosure.
Schuyler reaches the first kennel. She's within two of the men's line of sight and stops beside the third, who has his eyes fixated straight down the long row of pens, before any of the men notice her. She sticks her hand through the circular barbs for the puppy to smell her. She bends slightly and speaks at a conversational volume. "You just want attention, don't you?"
"The hell are you doing here?"
"You the Chesters' granddaughter?"
"They're silly, aren't they?" Schuyler asks the dog. She straightens and brings her hands towards her hips. She's reaching for the gun in the waist line of her jeans. "Who's going to be a good boy for me and get into the cage?"
Appearing, Schuyler's backup pounces on their targets. Chibs crashes into the first resident's back crushing his face into the fencing. He pins the man's arms behind his back until he jiggles the gate open. He manhandles the resident inside with the dogs without intent to injure. Tig, on the other hand, confiscates the second man's gun. Tig discards it and punches the resident, bruising his left cheek. Then he yanks open a separate pen and kicks the second man to the ground. The resident rolls inside passively. Schuyler draws her own weapon and pistol whips the third man beside her, knocking him unconscious in one fell swoop.
Tig assists her in carrying the unconscious man into a third cage. The dogs jump on the men in search for attention and food but are otherwise more interested in the new faces on the other side of the fencing. He rattles the gate making sure it won't open. "Nice work."
Schuyler replies coyly, "I certainly do what I can.".
With the lookouts out of commission, the three scale the house where they meet the rest of the party at the front door. Three more residents are in a similar state of unconsciousness laying on the porch but are otherwise unharmed.
Clay throws an AK from the gun bag to Tig. Despite observing the lack of a vital element, Tig receives the weapon in midair. "There's no clip!"
"What, expect a job to go off without a hitch?"
"Fucking Juice!"
"Back door. Counting twenty."
Schuyler picks up Clay's countdown. She retraces her steps and leaves Tig at one of the back entrances. She leads Chibs to a second entrance and finishes the count with her gun steadily aimed over his shoulder. Three, two, one.
Chibs kicks in the door. It opens into an alcove. Across the way, Tig kicks in a twin door. Schuyler charges in to clear rooms of residents. Ultimately, finding none.
She hears Jackson kick in the front door several rooms ahead of her. Shouts of surprise arise from the sitting room where a majority of the residents are congregated. She follows Jackson's voice through the house.
By the time Schuyler reaches the living room the truth of the residency has been discovered. There's roughly twelve men, each of whom are over thirty, crowded into a living room decorated with doilies and plastic covered furniture. There are framed photos of cats and children on the walls contrasting sharply with the men who have shaved heads and sit about wearing blue jeans and wifebeaters. The man in the center of the cluster sticks out the most. He wears a white collar and holds a brown leather-bound book. Not one of the men draws a weapon. They merely recoil from the bombardment on the house.
Tig raises his AK vertically, lacking in ammunition, and gestures with it in a comical fashion. "Bang?"
—
On the porch, the groups gather to clear the air. It is discovered that Yates, the man Juice's intel determined could be responsible for the rape, is a recovering sex addict.
"I haven't acted out sexually in over three years. All these men will vouch for me. I'm a saved man." The club walked in on an SAA meeting.
Clay has the decency to apologize. He dutifully shakes Yates' hand. "Looks like we got some bad information. Sorry for the misunderstanding."
Jackson shoulders the gun bag. "Forget our little mistake, we'll forget about mom's illegal mutts."
"We will?" Schuyler raises her voice. The President and Vice President give her identical faces of warning. She raises her hands in surrender. She understands there is nothing she can do without effecting the club directly.
The MC files off the porch, rather politely given the circumstances. However, they are subject to hear the well-meaning but misguided words of a priest trailing after them.
"It's not too late for you men. Sister, you know this isn't the true path to follow." He waves the book emphatically in his right hand.
Schuyler jumps passed the stairs onto the dirt path. "Barking up the wrong tree there, Padre."
"Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior can save you. Save you all! He can deliver you from all your transgressions…"
"Appreciate your zeal preacher," Clay raises his hands in demonstration. "But my transgressions…all I've got left."
"A-men," Bobby calls from the grass.
One by one each of the male members joins in a growing chant, sarcastically singing, "Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya. Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…" Chibs walks backwards up the grassy hill and pretends to conduct the song with his hands uncoordinatedly.
"You boys think you're real cute, dontcha?" Schuyler asks.
"Oh yeah." Jackson leans over to wrap an arm around Schuyler's shoulders in a tight side hug. "Especially me."
—
Clay stomps his way into the clubhouse with several members in tow. Jackson peeled off from the pack to go check on his son who is at the hospital under Gemma's supervision. Chibs met up with Half-Sack to pump out a few hours in the garage. The rest are in pursuit of Clay in his search for Juice. His plan is to give the man who failed to ready the AKs for the bust a firm talking to.
Crossing the bar room, Clay makes a request. "Bobby, I want you to go check in on the pigs. You should be the man dealing with them when they rejoin reality."
"Agreed." Bobby has proven himself to be the most competent when conversing with police in the past.
Juice is discovered lying face down on the floor of the chapel, unconscious and steadily drooling. He is surrounded by the very same white pills Tig entrusted in his care.
The owner of the narcotics kneels beside the man in question. Instead of granting his fellow patch the courtesy of checking for a pulse, like he had for the policeman, Tig concerns himself with salvaging what he can, though most are partially crushed and scattered about the floor.
"What an idiot," Tig grumbles.
"He probably thought it was speed," Bobby surmises.
Schuyler wears a face usually reserved for tired mothers. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"At least he's stationary."
Clay towers over Juice's unconscious form. A dozen punishments flash through his mind before deciding it would be better left up to professionals. "I want something very special."
"Ohhh yeah," Bobby agrees, pressing the heel of his boot into Juice's back. "I'll get my scissors."
"I'll get the diaper," Tig replies listlessly.
"We, have diapers?" Schuyler knows when a prank is brewing. She observes Tig's actions with interest whilst kneeling beside Juice. Meanwhile, the older members leave the room in discussion of an alibi for when the policemen arise.
"He's fine. Seen him come back from stronger shit," Tig unsympathetically comments. From within the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, he retrieves an adult sized diaper and a pink pacifier.
"No doubt trying to keep up with the likes of you." Schuyler checks Juice's airway and pulse. "Again, the diaper?"
Tig throws his materials on the redwood table. He also rearranges several chairs against the back wall. "Last prospect bailed two months in. Couldn't sack up. We had some fun with Kippy; made sure he wouldn't spook come the first hurdle. Think he's got a real shot. What's say you?"
"Chit-chatting now, are we?"
"Shut the hell up Tex!" Tig snaps back. Though the words are not packed with the same ferocity they once were.
"Better. And the binky?"
"Someone's always carrying a baby around. Help me out."
The pair lift Juice's limp body onto the table. Tig removes the Puerto Rican's vest and instructs Schuyler to empty his pockets. Anything remaining on his person is fair game and will be treated as collateral for the club. Collateral to be confiscate because an "employee" didn't fulfill his role in a job.
Bobby returns carrying a pair of scissors from his toolbox. They are strong enough to cut through steel wires – or, in the case of this club authorized punishment, clothes.
"Good news," Bobby announces disheartened, "5-0's still sleeping like a pair of piglets. I'll be sticking around passed closing." He is neither concerned with the cleanliness of the cuts nor with the wellbeing of his younger brother's skin as he snips through the clothing a layer at a time starting at Juice's belt.
Tig picks up the pacifier and places it against Juice's mouth. The adult man, unconcerned with keeping up his manly appearance in his drug induced slumber, opens and closes his mouth around the pacifier like a bear trap. He sucks on the calming toy blissfully unaware of the world or the cruel individuals who loom over him planning his future humiliation.
Schuyler realizes the extent of the plan. "Who's volunteering to put the diaper on him?" Tig makes a noise of confirmation. "I don't want to imagine the atrocities you committed that would lead you to know how to put a diaper on an adult."
"Not surprising. No one's asking Tig to house sit." Bobby removes Juice's shoes and socks. "Can't trust him alone. No pets, no house plants, nothing with a motor."
"He looks like he'd have to fuck a cactus to learn not to touch 'em."
Tig takes the jab in stride. "I've changed plenty of diapers. Last I checked, my kids were still alive."
"Kids?" Schuyler asks, genuinely curious how such an event came to pass.
"When was the last time you checked?" Bobby asks.
"What month was Christmas?" Tig squints one eye as he pretends to do math in his head. "Two girls."
"Two?" Schuyler asks, as though one was already an overestimation.
"Dawn and Fawn."
"Was mama named Swan?" Schuyler gasps playfully, "Was she a fan of Louis Vuitton?"
"Mama was named over-barring snatch." Tig trades places at the table with Bobby to cover Juice with the diaper.
Schuyler finds a way to contribute when she spots a folded cardboard box behind the filing cabinets. Inside the cabinet, she searches for something to write with and a tool to attach her message with. She swipes up Bobby's scissors and cuts the box down to size. A perfect square she can use to make a sign.
She writes uniformly in sharpie, 'Outgrew my Crib, Adopt Me'.
"Not bad," Tig comments while reading over her shoulder. He tilts his head to the side and grabs the marker from her. "Try this." He flips the sign over and writes, 'SLIGHTLY RETARDED CHILD/PLEASE ADOPT ME' in sloppy capital letters.
Schuyler catches herself laughing at the simplicity of the joke only to correct herself and Tig. "You know you're not supposed to say that."
Bobby hums his agreement. "You're not supposed to say a lot of the things we find ourselves saying around here. Find glue? A gun would work best. Really want the lesson to sink in."
"No glue. I found this." Schuyler flicks the rest of the cardboard box off the table to reveal a heavy-duty staple gun.
Tig is pleased. "Now you're talkin'."
"I'm only comfortable using it because staples are used in medical settings."
Bobby asks, skeptically, "How many staples have you drove into cats?"
"Are you crazy? I'd never use staples on an animal." She puts staples into each of the four corners of the sign straight through into Juice's chest. His body naturally responds but, due to the narcotics, the convulsions are slow, and the jerks limited to one.
Schuyler waits a beat and rubs her hand underneath the sign. "See, no blood. But there will be when he rips them out. You want him to experience pain after he's awake. To prevent this sort of behavior from recurring, of course."
"Bobby, help me load him in the van. He can simmer there until we find somewhere to drop him off."
"I'm thinking outside the police station," Schuyler recommends. "Let Hale find him tomorrow." While the men carry Juice out the door, bumping him into an agreed upon number of obstacles to cement the punishment, Schuyler's prepaid chimes. Her phone reveals to her how late in the day it is. "Hello?"
It's Jackson who is at the hospital. "Sky? Are you at TM?"
"Yeah. Most of the guys are, too."
"Grab who's free. Gemma got the intel for us. Oswald's daughter remembers everything. It's the clown from the dunk booth."
"No shit. Karma's an angry bitch." Schuyler doesn't try to hide her enthusiasm mixed with a renewed sense of rage. A day spent searching for the repulsive man when the answer was right under their noses. She'd gone as far as facing off with the man earlier in the day. She has complete confidence the carnie will not survive another encounter with her club – or with her. "Do you want to meet us there?"
She can hear her eagerness matched in Jackson's voice over the phone. "You're closer. Better not start without me."
—
Six motorcycles and a black van form a barricade against the carnival's entrance. The bikes idle. Their riders turn the clutches intermittently for a time to ensure they will be welcomed at the gate. Then the troop, with Jackson at the forefront, marches inside.
Sure enough, in the center of the brightly lit carnival marked by a tall Ferris wheel sits a circle of ride operators. They had been drinking steadily and passing smokes between themselves before the makeshift militia arrived. Drawn by the motorcycles, the carnies counter the club's approach. They are unaware of the hellfire about to rain down upon them.
Jackson taunts his opponents, drawing them out to meet him on equal footing. "Hear you guys are harboring a fugitive."
The clown who faced off with Jackson earlier in the day responds in the same flat tone. "What are you gonna do about it?"
"Citizens' arrest."
The two groups clash. A mixture of motor oil and face paint. The scene is a picture of controlled chaos. It's almost too convenient there being a carnie for each Son. The men naturally pair off and fists fly.
Clay and Chibs deploy a similar tactic, each acting deliberately. They take no pleasure from the brawl. They are purely completing an assigned task as part of their career requirements. Jackson, however, is punching blindly. He gets on top of a man and takes out his aggressions over the last week, laying them into the stranger's face. Bobby's movements are similar. Unaware of who the true culprit is, he views anyone hiding the man as responsible in the child's rape. What he lacks in physical prowess, he makes up for by using his size to overpower those who stand between him and his target.
It's difficult to gage who is enjoying themselves more between Tig and Half-Sack. The former, though much older, enters the fray with as much enthusiasm as the later. Tig dodges a blow and gleefully receives another to the jaw. Red trickles from a corner of his mouth. He wipes it with the back of his hand and is overcome by bloodlust. He gains the upper hand and, with his victim driven to his knees, Tig wraps him in a head lock. Driven by his most base instinct, he bites into the side of the stranger's neck and rips the flesh there like a wolf tearing tender meat from its' prey. Half-Sack, it would seem, is simply having a good time. He can hardly believe he has been allowed to be part of a real fight. He's more tired than he expected to be. Otherwise, this is exactly like the bar fights he's seen play out on television. To him, taking part in a show of strength is a sign of the club's acceptance of him.
Schuyler reframes from joining the fray. Though not for a lack of desire on her part. She methodically dons her black leather riding gloves as she overlooks the scene unfolding. Adrenaline envelops every nook and cranny of her body through a form of contact high as she not so patiently waits for a man to stick out. The rapist. The lowlife responsible for harming an innocent child. The one who, in her view, deserves to be beaten down.
A new body emerges from the tangled mass of carnival rides. A man sprints passed Schuyler to tackle Jackson to the ground. This man is not the culprit but gives Schuyler a clue as to where the criminal may be hiding.
Clay picks his head up in the middle of the onslaught. He sees two more carnies join the fray. Searching for an end to the carnage, he shouts an order before sparing off with a fresh opponent. "Schuyler, Chibs, find him."
Chibs hears the order and lands one last blow to his victim, dropping the stray man in the dirt. He locates Schuyler who points outwards away from the commotion.
A few yards from the center, a train of trailer homes is segregated from the rest of the grounds by orange traffic cones and an old rope. Schuyler and Chibs walk down the line on parallel sides. They come across one with an unlocked screen door and a light on inside.
Schuyler shoots her hand out to prevent Chibs from entering. She indicates to him to wait outside. He tries to protest. He isn't given a chance to before she opens the door and walks up the inclined steps.
The trailer consists of a bed, a sink and mini fridge meant to stand in for a kitchen, and a closed sliding door blocking the toilet from the rest of the area. When Schuyler steps inside, the rickety door is opened with some force, being broken on its hinges, and a manly smell wafts into the room.
The red-faced carnie, wearing too-big jeans halfway around his thighs which he yanks up by a belt, stumbles out of the closet-sized bathroom. His body uncoordinatedly bumps into the door frame and he knocks one of many empty glass beer bottles into the sink to steady himself. The bottles have been recently emptied over a short period of time.
"Hey honey." The words take time to penetrate his alcohol riddled mind. "Didn't I tell you I'd be seeing you again."
He starts sluggishly at the voice and doesn't recognize her at first. He slouches forward to get a better view on account of his vision blurring at the corners of his eyes. "The fuck are you doing here, gnash?!"
Schuyler's voice is soothing. "I've been looking for you. Hoping we might have some fun together."
He remembers her. "The biker whore. Finally came – to your senses. Better come, cum in before, you change your mind – ha, ha." His speech is slow, and hiccups act as his punctuation. He reaches for a bottle. Though it is empty he brings it to his cracked lips.
"Do you want to play with me, honey?" Schuyler's actions are calculated. She crosses her body with her arm. Fingers trail over her waistline, lifting her shirt a mere inch. It isn't enough to reveal skin, but the suggestion of what lies beneath gains the man's attention. Her hand continues to trail down her hip lulling him into a trance. She stealthily frees a knife. "Let's play."
The tip of the weapon connects with the bottle. Glass shatters in the carnie's hand and falls into the sink. He curses in pain, clutching at his wrist. Blood pulses from his split palm.
Schuyler darts towards him. Distracted, she is able to knee him in the crotch, causing him to face her. Her elbow connects with the man's face in an upswing, dislocating his nose. She uses her full weight to shove him against the sink. The wind is knocked from him.
Chibs ducks his head inside in time to witness Schuyler's assault on the perpetrator. While Schuyler frees a zip tie from her vest, he asks, rather dazzled, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah." Schuyler forfeits the zip tie. She searches for something to tie the clown's meaty hands together.
"That's not going to work." The carnie struggles against the countertop. He's both trying to sober, and escape Schuyler's strangle hold. She heaves him up to slam his chest against the counter a second time. "Use this."
Chibs produces a piece of rope Schuyler assumes he acquired outside.
"Your turn." She invites Chibs to tie the perpetrator's hands.
Chibs steps up to take over her grasp and tries to ignore their proximity. "Found something you canna do."
"I was getting my CPR badge the day they taught us knot tying."
"Shite." Chibs hog ties the rapist. There's enough slack to act as a leash which Schuyler is sure to use while Chibs grabs the carnie by the right shoulder and arm.
Together, they fill in for executioners, escorting the man back to where the fight is ensuing.
Schuyler whistles. "Clay, we got him!"
Clay gives orders to retreat. Tig spits blood, a mixture of carnie and his own, into the air. He appears to be marking his territory and looks much like a rabid dog. Half-Sack, being the youngest, has reached his second wind and gives one last kick to the stomach of the man he had been tussling with. Then he hollers like he came off one of the rides nearby. Jackson has to be dragged off one of the carnies by Bobby for him to realize the fight is meant to be over. There are half a dozen men on the ground holding their ribs and faces or staggering to their feet in pain. He throws his arms over his head and yells victoriously. The street fight was as much an alternative to therapy as it was an act of retaliation.
At the vehicles, Tig catches up with Schuyler and Chibs. The eldest finishes fastening a red bandana around the clown's head to act as a gag and shoves him inside the van. The rapist lands hard kicking and straining on the floor beside Juice who is as still as death.
"Who's idea was the nappy?" Chibs asks.
"Mine," Tig brags. He saddles up to peer in-between them at the carnie's face. "The damn heckler? Figures. Grade A asshole."
Schuyler, leaning on an open van door, makes a strange face. Like she is trying to keep from laughing. She catches Tig's eye but hers remain firmly on his blood-stained lips. "You have –." She points a finger between their two mouths in demonstration. "— just there. Bit of, human flesh, just there."
Tig snarls, flashing his dyed teeth. "Wanna taste?"
Schuyler reels back exaggeratedly as if the suggestion were absurd. "I have no idea where that's been."
"What," Chibs throws into the triangular shape they form, "the blood or Tig's mouth?"
"Either." Schuyler slams the door shut. "Come on. We've gotta go." She leaves their laughter behind her knowing her grin could be construed as flirtatious or encouraging.
Oblivious, she misses the genuinely entertained expressions either man grants her. More notably however, she misses the look they exchange upon catching one another staring at her while she walks away. A peculiar look causing them to grow quiet.
Then they make hasty movements towards their bikes, equally cautious in their actions going forward.
—
Clay leads the pack a mile into Macon woods. He estimates this is roughly the location where the rape took place – in his town, under his watch, merely twenty-four hours ago.
The bikes park beside the van. When the engines are killed the woods are plunged into silence. The only noise to be heard is from a flock of crows passing over head and boots grinding fallen leaves into dark soil. The headlights on the van were left on. Their beams cast a commanding glow over the group's path to lead them into a semi-circle clearing amidst a clustering of thin trees.
Chibs and Tig wrestle the rapist from the van and march him into the clearing. They stand together, each holding an arm in place, and their faces are emotionless masks regardless of how much the carnie trembles and whines. The three stand in the improvised spotlight looking identical to how they would in a police interrogation room; despite the fact this man has lost the privilege to be read his rights or attend a fair trial. The carnie is temporarily blinded by the damning lights he is made to face and is as much ensnared by his captors' glares as he is bound by his bonds.
The ground increases in altitude beyond where the perpetrator is held. Schuyler and Half-Sack position themselves to loom at uneven distances up the slanted hill. Half-Sack postures, unsure of what to do with his hands. He periodically switches them between his pockets and holding them behind his back. He tries his best to appear intimidating amongst his more experienced siblings. Schuyler, on the other hand, has her thumbs resting comfortably atop her chest. She's higher up the hill than Half-Sack and is on guard, ready to act if the carnie tries to escape.
Clay, standing strong between the van and the clown, makes an off-handed remark in reference to the river of blood cascading down the perpetrator's haphazardly buttoned shirt. "Someone got sloppy."
"My bad Hoss." Under different circumstances, Schuyler would be proud of her accomplishment. However, she was meant to deliver this man unharmed. Her opinions of him got the better of her. "Won't happen again."
A second car approaches, and Schuyler admires the Benz for a second time in the same day. Oswald leaves his keys in the ignition and half walks, half jogs with his upper body jostling about as he approaches the scene.
"There's the sick fuck who raped your little girl," Clay says hollowly. Oswald doesn't hear him.
The once polished man no longer looks polished. He's missing an expensive watch and a tie which he could normally be expected to wear. His sleeves are rolled up passed his elbows and sweat is beading on his brow. He is unable to compose his breathing as his emotions rise to the surface.
From his slacks, which have lost the crisp crease of an iron, he pulls a silver tool. He stops an arms' length from the captured criminal and threatens him. "Do you know what this is?"
The carnie struggles harder. Pleading through the clothe in his mouth with the man who looks out a place. The man who is his last chance for forgiveness.
"Cattle guys call it an Elise-maker. It's used to cut the balls off of bulls." The knife Oswald holds has a deep curve and has recently been sharpened.
"You want to go around behaving like an animal?" Schuyler speaks maliciously. "You'll be treated as an animal."
"Strip him."
Chibs and Tig unceremoniously remove the rapist's clothes. Most of the material pools at his ankles. Yet, his shirt is left open on his shoulders when they reel back violently upon seeing more than a dozen red markings, which were obviously made by human fingernails, on the repulsive man's pudgy torso.
"Jesus," Elliot shouts, and the carnie cries matching the mourning father's volume.
Bobby pivoted away from the revealed wounds while Jackson's scowl deepens further. Schuyler doesn't have to be facing the man to know what is on his skin and physically feels relief from the youngest standing where he cannot see the evidence of the deed either.
Clay is the most difficult to read. He gets on Oswald's level. "This is how you help your daughter now."
Oswald's breathing is labored. He inches forward and levels the tool in his hand with the criminal's exposed genitalia. He looks into the eyes of the man who violated his daughter but, when faced with the choice, all he is able to see is a man who is pleading for his life.
Clay's voice is sympathetic yet forceful. "What do you want to do here Elliot? We had a deal."
Oswald drops the tool. "I'm sorry." It lands in the dirt before he realizes he has made a decision. "I can't. I'm sorry…I'm sorry, I, I —."
"Don't be." Schuyler nods to Oswald. "It means you're a better man than he is."
Oswald staggers backwards at the woman's words. His eyes grow damp. He sprints towards his car unable to leave quickly enough.
Clay pulls out a glove from his jeans. He uses it to retrieve Oswald's tool careful to keep it unaltered. He offers the handle in Schuyler's direction. "Better make it count."
"Clay," the words seem to be heard over a great distance, "this is over."
Schuyler rolls her neck to steady herself as she glides down the hill.
"Schuyler, don't! You don't have to be the one to do it."
She acknowledges Jackson's pleas once the tool is in her grasp. She meets his eyes from across the clearing. He's no longer scowling. His face is honest, asking her to cease.
"Guess this means I'm not the better man."
She spins the knife on the palm of her hand. Her vision narrows to see the criminal. "Hey honey. I bet this isn't how you imagined we'd be spending the evening together."
She weighs the weapon in her right hand – her surgical hand – then in her left where it will remain. She watches the scoundrel. Watches how the rapist's eyes follow the sharp object as she moves it from shoulder to crotch height. "It's unfair really. What with me being the last thing you see before you die. It's more mercy than a man like you deserves."
An inhumane scream is ripped from the carnie's chest cavity. The signal of the first incision. Sweat pours off his body in tides. His eyes bulge from their sockets as if there's an immense amount of pressure building that can only be released through his head.
Schuyler is vaguely aware of someone or something holding the flailing man at bay. After the initial outburst, she is able to block out the wails. She hons her craft. Her thumb pushes the blade easily in the direction it longs to go in until the amputation is complete.
The carnie's intact member and testicles find their completion among the dry leaves. Schuyler raises her blood smeared glove up to the barely conscious man's face to show him the tool. It drips in his own blood. Schuyler goes from holding the knife steadfast to pinching the end of the handle between two fingers. She slowly swings the blade in front of fast drooping eyelids.
"You're not going to get a cleaner incision from anyone else."
"Shit. Holy shit!" Half-Sack's hushed curses catch Schuyler's attention and help ground her in place. She sees him shield his eyes and jog towards the safety of the van upon the reveal of what can legally be considered her weapon.
"Let him bleed out," she speaks clearly. Though the man has gone into shock and is half dead already. Schuyler drops the blade allowing it to land where it will. It lands inside the testicular sack. She takes a step backwards and places a foot on the dismembered penis. In one swift movement she reaches for the tool, rips it sideways through the flesh, and rises with the blade spinning on the palm of her left hand. The carnie's body, now a corpse, is dropped by its supports at her feet.
"I assume you'll be wanting this." Schuyler drops the tool in the open plastic bag Clay was holding out in preparation.
"It's safe to say, you've earned your wings," Clay says. She salutes him mockingly. "Bury him in the woods. Mark the grave. Pick those up and gift-wrap 'em. Post mark them to Oswald for a week out."
With the tool in Clay's possession, the group begins to move in tandem.
Schuyler leaves the clearing but halts when she feels Jackson's troubled eyes watching her. "It didn't have to go down this way."
"We both know that isn't true." Her eyes are remorseful in return. Not for her actions, but for having acted against him.
"Whaddaya mean?" Clay asks. It's a genuine question. "This was the plan."
"This was your plan." Jackson squares off with his President. "Whether Oswald had the stomach or not. Taking this gig was about blackmail."
Clay stuffs the weapon with Oswald's lone fingerprints safely inside his vest. "'Insurance' was a fortunate byproduct of my feeling charitable. The goal was always to make sure Oswald was sticking to the path that benefits this town. Benefits everyone. He doesn't see that yet. We're going to help him see."
"Maybe keep the politics of it to yourself," Schuyler interjects. "Pretend like it was about doing a positive deed. I stand by what I did and how I did it. But now you get to tell me what exactly it is we're holding over Oswald."
"Almost every major business industry in Charming." Jackson's scowl dominates his features once more.
Clay gives a crooked grin. "That may be true. But let's start with housing insurance. His lumber yards. Keep these businesses in house where they belong."
"Goddamn it Clay. When I said I wanted to take the club in a new direction, this is not what I meant." Jackson draws closer in an attempt to minimize the amount of ears listening. "If you want my help leading this club, then you gotta keep me in the loop. If you can't do that we don't have trust. And if we don't trust each other, SAMCRO's got a real problem."
Clay sighs heavily. His speech is condescending at best. "If Oswald sells off his acres of land, housing developments will follow. Population rises, that means more cruisers. More state and federal eyes. Pretty soon we'll have a Starbucks and a McDonalds polluting Main and Charming goes mainstream. SAMCRO will get left behind or worst yet squashed by the most dangerous gang of all. Old. White. Money."
Jackson sighs forcibly, pissed he wasn't informed of the full extent of the plan. It's Schuyler's turn to frown. "Now you both know."
As Clay stomps off, Jackson turns to confide in Schuyler. "This should have gone down different. Oswald should have never gotten involved."
"Can't change the past. We did the right thing for that family. Maybe for others out there. It's the execution that needed a rewrite."
"The club can't keep going on like this. The shit he keeps dragging us into." Jackson's voice grows lower than when he had been speaking to Clay. Schuyler steps closer to hear him out. "It's been going on for a minute. Before the factory got blown up. Before you landed here. I'm trying to get Clay to see it, but he isn't hearing me."
"The type of change you're talking about isn't going to take place overnight Jax. Maybe you gave him leeway on this decision, and he'll hear your side of it next time?"
"Or maybe he's had more leeway than he can handle. And I'm already too late to make changes."
Schuyler rolls her eyes. She's never been one to back down from a challenge. She has a special fondness for change because she was raised to believe adaption is the key to survival. "I doubt it. Now that I've earned my seat at the table, maybe two blond heads put together is better than one."
From behind the van, a command disrupts the private conversation. "Hey Tex. You're holding us up."
"You sure did a hell of a job securing your spot. Clay believes your worth, but…You and Tig work things out yet?"
Schuyler gazes towards the direction of the call. "Not sure yet. But you'll be the first to know. Will you go to see the kid tonight?"
"Gotta relieve Gemma. You should stop by. Everyone else has seen him."
Schuyler jokingly chides him. "You goin' invite me to Thanksgiving while you're at it?"
"Screw you. Forget I said anything."
"It's cool bro. I'll stop by one of these days after a shift. Give the kid my best."
Jackson is the last to leave along with a majority of the bikes. Schuyler, having created the body needing to be buried, was elected to stay behind. She finds Tig and Half-Sack standing beside the open van.
"That's dangerous shit they were spouting off." Tig glares at Jackson's taillights having heard a mere fraction of the conversation.
Schuyler nods her agreement unaware they have different culprits in mind. "Tell you what. I've got these handled."
"Are ya sure?" Tig holds out his hand as an offer to help.
"Let's get this over with. Maybe we'll get a few hours of sleep if we do."
Schuyler grabs the shovels from the back of the van. Its Tig who, with the help of the prospect, drags the corpse another quarter of a mile into the woods. He picks a patch of dirt and Schuyler knows to take his word on where to dig the plot. She hands each man his own shovel and they dig well into the night.
They do not speak until the marker is over the grave. Walking back to the vehicles covered in dirt and leaves, they discuss briefly where to drop off Juice. The thrill of a prank having been replaced by business means this task has become yet another chore. Ultimately, they decide to leave him behind a row of bushes in front of the local police station.
Once Juice is placed where one of his feet will be visible, and Schuyler takes a picture for evidence of the punishment, Half-Sack climbs into the van and the two Patches mount their bikes. Turning on their headlights, no longer concerned with being seen, is their way of clocking out of the workday. The trio rides together for several minutes, but eventually they are made to part ways.
Tig changes gears with a flick of his wrist and travels under the posted speed limits, drifting through barren streets. Though he's feeling something akin to exhaustion he takes time to enjoy the solo ride. Alone on his bike with the road and his thoughts gives him valuable time to think.
He passes TM where he ditches the prospect. He travels what appears to be his usual route towards his less than stealer apartment complex except when he approaches the first four way stop he takes a left instead of a right. This is not by accident. He is simply heading somewhere besides his own bed tonight. His plan is to stay somewhere he feels arguably more comfortable.
He arrives at a normal, if not dull, ranch-style house with the curtains drawn closed at every window. He ramps up the wraparound driveway, which lacks a car, that veers around to a carport nestled on the right-hand side.
Though the wall facing the sidewalk is solid, Tig parks his bike in an empty space behind a work bench to strategically (or paranoiacally) obstruct his bike from the view of anyone who would take a passing glance inside. The space is the exact width of his motorcycle and has been reserved for a bike. Tig's bike, to be exact. All the space lacks is a placard with his name on it.
Tig steps up to the side entrance of the blacked-out house. It's a building he knows well enough having spent almost as many nights here as he has spent in his own apartment. In fact, he has a key. He slides the key into place; activating the tumblers to unlock the door.
He slips stealthily inside and tries to close the door silently. He traverses the hallway and ends up in the living room. He meanders to the front of the house where he considers leaving his belongings on the entry table.
He is instead surprised by a pair of hands reaching for him out of the darkness. Calloused palms press into his chest shoving him against the front door. He opens his mouth to protest but is efficiently silenced by a pair of chapped lips covering his own. The hands on Tig's chest move to cradle his face and are more gentle than the bruising kiss, emphasized by the scratch of shortly trimmed facial hair.
Muscles Tig didn't realize were tense relax for the first time in nine days. He matches the kiss in kind, exhaling sharply through his nose. His short, discolored fingernails dig into the other man's biceps unwilling to let go.
"Hello lovely." An accent starkly different from Tig's own fills his ears. Another kiss is planted chastely. Then Tig is left alone in the entryway.
The kitchen light flicks on a room over. Tig catches a glimpse of Chibs in a wifebeater and checkered pants. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"
"Ambush. Heard you pull up."
"Did I wake you?" Tig shucks off his vest. His first step to shedding his layers of belongings. He releases his wallet by its chain placing it on the entry table. His gun and knife in its holster follow. He loosens the leather wrist cuffs and rings from his fingers creating a pile he feels he can leave unattended. He bends a knee to remove his shoes. He sets them beside the door.
"I was awake," Chibs replies, collecting plastic water bottles from the fridge. His bare feet pad softly across hardwood to Tig's side. "You need to hydrate." He hears a scoff yet receives no protest. He waits for Tig to remove the spiral shell necklace from his chest and hands him a bottle. He steps over the threshold dividing the alcove from the rest of the house and comes to a rest on the worn leather sofa.
"Sorry it's late."
"That's why ye have a key. Been a while." Chibs is hard pressed to recall the last time Tig stayed away for so many nights in a row. "Beginning to think it was something I did. Only come to think of it…" Tig falls gracelessly next to Chibs clutching the plastic in two hands. Their knees closest to one another naturally gravitate together in search of contact. "…you havena been 'round since —."
"— she patched."
"— Schuyler patched. The night ye went to the gun factory. Tha' was because o' her?"
"Needed the distraction. Her showing up didn't make sense. Still doesn't," Tig says. He chose tonight – of all nights, having helped Schuyler bury a body in the woods – to bring up the elephant in the room. But his solo ride wasn't long enough for him to decide how he was going to rip off the Band-Aid.
"She's riveting, isn't she?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Tonight," Chibs begins for them both. He neglects to share the reason he was awake is because he has been recounting the time he spent with Schuyler. He's picturing, not for the first time, how she stood in front of the rapist with such certainty in her actions. Such purpose in the violence she inflicted on the bastard who certainly had it coming. Not once, but twice. "What she did. So sure, of herself. More admirable than if even you had done it."
"That's high praise coming from you."
"Would you rather I said she was pretty?"
"You're telling me that's how you see her?"
"That's what you want to talk about. Isn't it Tiggy?" Chibs places his hand over Tig's knee. "She's fierce. She's impressed the hell out of you, and it pisses you off."
Tig stares at Chibs' hand. "'Didn't hesitate, just grabbed a shovel. She never hesitates."
"You've never been one for modesty."
"She's all I've been thinking about!" He discards the bottle in favor of contorting his body to face Chibs with his legs folded on the sofa. "Do you remember when we first started out? Why I wanted to keep this open?"
"There were a few reasons." Chibs rests his arm along the back of the couch to keep his body posture open, inviting.
"Remember when I asked you about what it would be like to bring in someone else?"
Chibs' jaw tightens, recalling the second, more recent conversation. It was a much more difficult discussion to have. When the two started their proceedings, they set few rules between them understanding too many would serve to drive them apart. While their ongoing relationship has always been open, the most important rule they established to maintain the peace is they do not participate in group sex while the other is involved. On the few occasions they brought others into their bed they were made equally jealous. Not to mention such a daring trial poses a great risk to their public image. And, quite possibly, their very lives.
Many factors led to the ultimate creation of their less than traditional relationship. Nearly every component stemmed from an ingrained concern for protection – both one another's and their own. The biggest driving force, which has also been the biggest strain on their relationship, was the decision for their relationship to remain a secret. This can be difficult to do while living in such a small town. Yet, it is the small town with its small worldview which required them to consider their safety in the first place. Many of their solutions for ensuring their relationship remains in house, like the act of keeping their relationship open, stray from the Catholic's previously taught notions of how to conduct an intimate relationship.
Of course, considering he was taught the notion of him sleeping with a man is a sin, Chibs gave up following the rules of religious decency long ago.
What Tig is proposing however, is much more personal. And poses greater risks.
"She's not some Crow Eater or pair of legs at a truck stop," Tig continues. Chibs can see the amount of forethought Tig has put into his pitch. "She's strong. She's smarter than most. I don't know if I want to break her nose or rip her clothes off every time she challenges me."
"I like that she gets a rise out of you."
Tig raises his hand to trace the ink on Chibs' inner wrist. His next words are meant to be reassuring, but in truth he doesn't fully believe them himself when he speaks them. "It's not compared to what you do to me."
"Do you like her?"
Tig clamps his hand around Chibs' wrist.
"Do you want to try hooking up with someone ye've only jus' met?"
"I know how it sounds, alright. It's hard to explain." Even when teetering on the defensive Tig maintains a physical connection. "I'm into her. Just don't know if she's into me. I know she's got a thing for you…"
"Think so?"
"I've seen the way she looks at you." Tig doesn't sound angry or bitter. And the look on his face suggests he is made a little more than curious by the concept. "I know you've been looking at her. It's the same way you look at me when you think no one else is."
Chibs smiles in a way that is the closest his physicality will allow him to be bashful. "That look is going to have us both blacking out the ink. I'm intrigued by her, but that's not going to be enough for me. That's not what I agreed to."
"'s not what I want."
Chibs' eyes are incredibly soft. "And I want to give you what you want. Tiggy, I need to know if you think she can satisfy you in ways that I canna?"
"It's not like that Chibby." Tig starts to pull away.
"I know. I'm asking you if she can satisfy you, emotionally, in ways that I cannot? Do you want a relationship with her?"
Tig drops his head, defeated. The meat of the issue revealed. "It's been so long since I've been with a woman that way…and I think I need to be. Not at the cost of you, but…I want to try. I need to know."
"Aye lovely. I can see tha'. But we should wait and see what it is she wants," Chibs states with finality. He stands from the couch to hold out his hand for Tig to take.
Tig complies and they stand a short distance apart breathing each other's air. They are nearly the same height, but it's Chibs' extra few years of age, and with them additional life experiences, which allow Tig to feel safe in his presence.
Chibs speaks evenly wanting to do everything he can to put Tig at ease. "The last thing I want is for you to get hurt by some lassie who doesn't deserve ye. Don't charge head first into this. We'll figure this out, the way we always have." Chibs leans in close for a kiss. It's neither demanding nor forceful. He is not stealing a kiss, but rather giving one. He is reminding Tig he is present.
Tig rattles out a breath with so much force his exhaustion finally consumes him. He isn't particularly sure he can walk to the bedroom on his own. He steps into Chibs' arms to press their foreheads together and accepts every word Chibs offers as the absolute truth.
"Let's go to bed. We can discuss it tomorrow."
Author's Notes: From this point moving forward, Schuyler will be off 'probation' and a fully integrated member of the charter. Her lot in life can only increase from here.
Tensions are rising between the Number 1 and the Number 2 that Schuyler seems to be the first to be picking up on. What changes do Jackson and Schuyler have in mind to work towards in the future? Are they the same, or are they different? Do other members share their views?
And, finally, we've breached the underlining tensions that have been blooming between Schuyler, Tig, and Chibs in this (hopefully) pleasant reveal! We now know Chibs and Tig have had some sort of ongoing relationship, but we do not know for how long or to what extent that relationship entails. How will their seemingly mutual interests in the new patch member effect their proceedings or will they have the nerve to address her at all? Find out in the next instalment of TROD!