A motorcycle traveling fast and loud passed through Teller-Morrow's towering, sliding-gate entrance. The owner of this particular pan-head is Tig Trager who seamlessly reverse parks the machine into his unofficial, but nonetheless designated space in the middle of a lineup of miscellaneous Harleys. He is the last to arrive which is not unusual. He unclasps the strap of his helmet upon his dismount to reveal a short, tangled mass of black curls and sets it on the seat.
The bikes currently on the property are owned by members of a locally based motorcycle club known as the Sons of Anarchy. The machines can be seen from the open entrance lined against a metal railing that acts as a natural divide between a bar and a mechanical car shop. Members, along with a few closely reliable friends, are known to have their hands in assisting in the management of the sibling establishments. Yet it is one Clayton Marrow who has resided as the sole owner of the respective businesses for a minimum of the last ten years.
With Tig's auditory arrival Clay Morrow and Jackson Teller emerge from the club house to meet him at the bottom of the loading dock in front of the bar. He isn't given a chance to step away from his motorcycle before he is berated. "Look. I'm late, but I was caught up in something."
"Knowing you it was probably somebody," Clay, recognizable by his military styled white hair and matching mustache, approaches with his right hand pointing a single finger towards the younger man accusingly. "The new guy is almost here. I asked you to be on time for one thing."
"I know man. Won't happen again."
"Won't be the last time I hear that. Jax, status report."
Jackson, who had approached alongside Clay, spouts off the last known whereabouts of his fellow patch members. "Happy brought some of his guys down with him from Washington. Opie just got out of Chino. He picked up some work over at the lumber mill. His Oldman is up at the cabin, but he checked in with Bobby last week, so we know he's solid. Everyone else is in the clubhouse. I've told them everything we know about the recruit "Skylar". They're prepared to give him a proper SAMCRO welcome." Jackson finished with a flick of his head causing his shaggy blond hair to shift and immediately return to his face.
"Good. I like that I can always count on my V.P."
"Man, that's unnecessary," Tig pouts. It genuinely isn't his fault that he is late. He had been busy tying up loose ends. "How do you know this dude will show up today. From all the vague shit Jax has told me the dude is a total ghost. Completely unpredictable. A loose cannon, if you will."
"I hear he's had his eye on this charter for a while. He spent six weeks with San Bernardino which has unofficially given their blessing for him to jump charters. He did a few runs with them and proved himself capable. He's a doctor with some fancy degree…," the club's Vice President re-lays information as he recalls it with a look of general admiration for the stranger. It's a delicate political process that a club goes through to accept new members. One of only a few critical decisions that must be determined by a unanimous vote. However, bringing in preexisting members from neighboring chapters makes the decision marginally easier as the member in question has already been admitted by trusted allies. The vote to transfer members between regions is normally a direct one.
"Hmm, maybe we shouldn't vote him in. I've got enough cannons running around doing whatever the hell they want as is," Clay sneered as he bumped shoulders with his Sergeant in Arms to further emphasis his point.
"You wouldn't have me any other way."
"I might change a few things," Jackson interjects. Tig reaches out past Clay effectively pulling Jackson into a headlock.
While the two are caught up in a friendly wrestling match Clay glances towards the gate. He steps around his more rambunctious counterparts only to move closer towards the exit. The low rumble of a motorcycle engine can be heard fast approaching. "Hey, assholes! Why don't you join me? Think our newest family member just rolled in."
A sleek black motorcycle banks hard around a corner to put itself onto the same road as the Teller-Morrow auto parts shop. The driver doesn't slow down as they dart through the open metal door, circle the parking lot once, and come to an abrupt halt in the center of the factory under the critical eye of the three men who represent absolute authority in the small town of Charming, California. Jackson, who had Tig's arms pinned above his head, released the older man and moved fast to stand beside Clay to greet the new comer. Tig takes a breath to compose himself, readjusts his dark sunglasses to securely hide his eyes, and sets a stern face as he follows his President and Vice President's lead.
The engine cuts off sharply. Those who are working on vehicles in the open garage paused as the bike drove up but were quick to return to their tasks. None having recognized the bike or person operating it assumed that it was a member of the residing club they had yet to meet or one from a distant charter who had arrived for a visit.
A long tapering leg clad in blue skinny jeans tucked into heavy leather combat boots sporting a one-inch heel with the laces synched tightly around the ankles kicks out a stand attached to the side of the bike. This action leading the driver to lean the machine to the left before releasing their grip on the handlebars.
Clay is hardly phased by the driver's noticeably smaller frame to the men who stand in comparison. "I trust the ride was a smooth one. I know you traveled some distance to…"
Clay's voice trails off as the figure dismounts, whipping off a solid black bucket helmet which had previously encompassed their entire head. The figure reaches up with a single hand to pull gently on a ponytail causing their flaxen yellow hair to fall to their shoulders. The driver hangs the helmet off one handle and removes earbuds from both ears at the same time only to let the fall haphazardly still faintly producing music. The individual unzips the leather jacket they wear, relieving the pressure on their ample bust in the process, to retrieve a folded document in one of its inner pockets. The figure nears the trio with confident strides to place the paperwork directly into Clay's hand.
"Clay Morrow." Each man remains firm as they try to mask their surprise at the form they were not expecting, but rather had been presented with. It is the sultry voice produced by the woman that finally leads them to speak.
"That's me. I, uh, well I gotta ask," Clay huffs a laugh. "Are you the transfer?"
"Doctor Meredith Schuyler, but you can call me Sky. Two charters, fourteen hundred miles, and seven weeks between home and my end goal. Those are the transfer papers signed off by SAMTEX. Honestly, I'm glad I found this place. You blink, and you miss the turn off into the town."
"That's the point. All the easier to keep a low profile darlin'," Jackson reflexively responds. He regrets his choice in words the moment the syllables leave his mouth.
"Jackson Teller, right? V.P. And I guess that makes you Trager," Schuyler easily identifies each of the ranking officers of the club from the descriptions she had been previously given as well as the patches on the front of their kuttes which label them with the titles.
"You can call me Tig. That is, if you stick around long enough. What are you riding?" Tig asks smugly, hoping to catch Schuyler off guard.
"This old thing." She turns to look over her shoulder towards her bike. "It's a '06 Harley Davidson VRSCD Night Rod. It's an electric start with a wet clutch, 5 speed transmission, and a liquid cooling system. Fuel capacity's a little under 4 gallons. But don't let that spiel fool you. I know what I need to know about what I'm riding. I get a new bike, I learn all about it, and forget everything I knew about the last one. I'm not going to be able to tell you much or anything about whatever y'all are traveling on."
Clay disguises an interrogation question in the form of a joke. "Well, I guess that disqualifies you from working in the garage?"
"It's not like I don't know my way around a car, but I already have my day job sorted. Dropped off my resume on my way in."
"And where exactly did you drop it off? Just in case we ever need to keep tabs on the place."
"Overton Ridge Highway Clinic on the edge of town. They just happen to be looking for a replacement veterinarian. I believe they'll be very impressed with my resume."
"You seem confident," Tig presses, shifting from one foot to the next.
"Pretty confident."
"That's a full-time gig, is it not?" Jackson is next to question.
"I cased the place ahead of time. It's the most flexible clinic around. There are two other doctors on staff. I'll work the shit shift for a month or two, no questions asked. I'll be established in next to no time then be able to demand they give me some leeway on my schedule. You just call me up whenever you need me, and I'll get out of there as soon as I can slip away."
"That's assuming we need you at all." Tig tilts his head forward as he delivers the threat then back and away from the conversation trying to appear as flippant as possible.
Schuyler looks for a moment as if she wants to reply before thinking better of challenging the SA and settles for returning Clay's gaze instead.
"How about," Jackson steps in to relieve the tension, "You head into the clubhouse."
"Yes," Clay is quick to agree. His smile revealing large blocky teeth tinted the lightest possible shade of yellow. "The place is yours, so make yourself comfortable. Free range. Except the chapel. I'm sure you can find some friendly faces milling around. Go mingle. Church will be held in a day or two and I'll call a vote to see if you make the cut."
"If I were you, I would take the next couple of days to really get to know some of us. After we finish here, I'll come in and we can have a face to face. Give you your due time to present your case to me," Jackson advises with a good-natured wink. He would have given similar advice to any transferring member and has been known to give prospects he sponsors similar speeches, but he knows how important it is for Schuyler to take initiative and make friends prior to the vote being held.
"Sure thing. Thanks for having me. I look forward to meeting you all. Even you, sourpuss," Schuyler says while walking backwards towards her bike. "Can I park in the lineup or is that off limits till church too?"
"No, have at it. Find a spot and squeeze in. Near the end should be good. Only since you're new," Jackson suggests.
Schuyler straddles her bike once more. She backs into a spot at the very end of the lineup next to a white motorcycle that she takes time to admire.
"Do you have a kutte," Clay asks. He notices the leather she is wearing doesn't have a single patch. The woman nods in his general direction. "Best to put it on. Guys in there might take more kindly to you and not start off with the wrong intentions."
Schuyler nods again, understanding the need specific to her to be cautious during the first few days of her transition. She pulls her official club vest from a bag hanging off the back of her bike. She shakes it out and holds it in her hands reading "TEXAS" in a faded black and white patch along the bottom hem. She is hoping to see it read "California" by the end of the weekend. She twists the leather around her body and slides it over both arms at once hoping she looks as seamless as she is attempting to appear in front of the ring leaders of the Mother charter. Her steps remain confident as she enters the bar.
"What the hell was that Tig?" Jackson demands as soon as Schuyler is out of ear shot.
"What, I'm the only one thinking it? Why didn't you tell us it was a damn chick? That's some pretty serious information to keep to yourself. Shit's gotta break some sort of bylaw."
"I didn't know. Our brothers never described her as anything, but reliable. They only ever used the name Schuyler. I guess I assumed."
"Well you know what they say about assuming," Clay quips, "And we all looked like asses. This wasn't no accident. Listen to me. If she's as good as the rumors and Uncle Tom, Original Nine, himself say she is then we all have to give her a chance to prove herself. That includes you, asshole."
"Hey, if I had had a heads up I would have been on my best behavior. I swear," Tig tries to defend himself in vain.
"You thinking about testing her somehow?" Jackson asks, worried by the very thought.
"No, but I want you specifically to get to know her. Sus her out. See if she's got what it takes to bare the Reaper."
"Someone thought so. She's been a patched member in her home charter for nearly a decade. Her father was also Original Nine and let her take charge while he was laid up," Jackson points out.
"So, you're telling me it was the dying wish of her old man that got her patched? We haven't seen that she can do what the other patches say she can," Tig counters harshly.
Clay shakes his head and rubs his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. "It's a club decision."
Schuyler steps through the front door getting out of the harsh midday sunlight that hangs overhead. Inside she is met with a very average looking bar with pool tables and dining tables covering the floor. The immediate difference between this bar and ones she has previously been in is made obvious to her when she spots a wall covered with framed pictures of what are presumably mugshots of over a dozen men. They hang beside a set of heavy wooden doors she knows that lead to the club "chapel". It's the spitting image of the bar she left back in Texas and smiles already feeling at home.
She continues forward until she is parallel with the end corner of the bar in the heart of the club. There she sees a group of four men sitting on either side of the counter dressed in varying degrees of leather and visible ink talking quietly amongst themselves. A young Puerto Rican man with a finely shaved mohawk and tribal tattoos on either side of his head is standing behind the bar. He seems to be the most similar to Schuyler in terms of age and happens to be the first to notice her arrival. "Hey, are you lost?"
The question proposed wasn't intended to be malicious but asked out of pure curiosity. Schuyler makes a point to turn her entire body until the top-rocker is visible to the men at the bar. "Teller-Morrow, right? Pretty sure I'm in the right place."
"Holy shit," the same man mutters to the rest of the group, "Guys it's her. She's the transfer. Holy shit. I didn't know…"
"That's how I like it. My reputation precedes me and my gender. Leads to so many fun faces like the ones looking at me right now."
"Why don't you pull up a stool and have a seat with us?" Another man who is obviously the largest in terms of weight with long graying hair suggests while patting a seat next to him in the middle of the small group. A 'Secretary' flash is sewed onto the upper right side of his vest. This being a visual signal to Schuyler that he is the final ranking official that she needs to identify. "Get to know us a little. I hear you are joining us all the way from Texas."
"Hope my accent didn't give it away. I'll stand for now, but thanks." Schuyler waves a hand as she dismisses the stool acknowledging that it had been left vacant to create a socially acceptable distance between the man who had offered it and the youngest male of the group with short blond hair. She has no intention of filling that space between the two strangers. Her arms remain at her sides and she is careful to keep her stance open. "Born and raised, unfortunately. Try not to hold it against me."
"My name Is Bobby Elvis. This here is Chibs. The smart one over there is Juice," The man who introduced himself as Bobby points around the bar counter clockwise introducing each of the men in turn.
The man with the skull tattoos named Juice offers a friendly wave, "Hey, how's it going?"
"And this here is Prospect."
"Name's Kip, but my friends call me Half-Sack. I just started prospecting."
"Isn't Kip already a nickname?" Schuyler asks. "How do you get from that to Half-Sack?"
"Oh, right. I served time in the armed forces," Half-Sack begins to explain as he slides off the stool and his hands reach towards his belt.
"Ah, Sack, she doesn' need a visual presentation," the man who had yet to verbally express himself finally speaks up. Schuyler is genuinely jarred when she registers a prominent and unmistakable European accent come from the originally quite man. Upon further inspection, she's equally surprised to find two pronounced scars just a millimeter shy of being perfectly identical following the curves of the man's cheeks. The indentions are positioned in such a way as to both highlight the man's cheeks and draw attention to his mouth outlined by a thin goatee all at once. She finds herself wanting to ask the man questions to hear his voice once more and see how exactly the scars move while he speaks, but rather realizes she is staring and quickly rolls her eyes to come back to herself. Hoping she hadn't been to forward, she pretends to be especially interested in the veteran's story and focuses on the prospect who had begun speaking quickly once more.
"Right, anyway. I served some time and got my left nut blown off in an Iraqi mine field. Hurt like hell for the longest time, but it healed quicker than you might expect. It's more impressive than it sounds," The young blond finishes explaining as he once again perches on the stool.
"Sounds intense. Medical discharge?" Schuyler questions.
"No, I just finished my enlistment in a low maintenance sector and decided not to resign. I survived the remainder of my time, but I didn't want to risk 'righty' with a second deployment."
"I think that's fair."
"Didn't quite get your name yet miss," the man called Chibs points out. This comment once again brings the conversation back to the subject of the sole female in the room. Schuyler knew to expect constant attention and careful tiptoeing treatment around her until the members became accustomed to her presence. It would be exactly like how she was treated the first few days she was in San Bernardino, but even with this knowledge she is still no more excited to be receiving such unflattering attention.
"Schuyler. Feel free to call me Sky," saying her own name out loud causes Schuyler to become hyper-self aware and she didn't know if it was appropriate to include the fact that she is a doctor which led her to leave that information out. "Nice to meet everyone."
"Hey, is it true you can throw knives. Like, really well," Juice suddenly asks, making no attempt to hide his enthusiasm. Schuyler knows he expects a performance to follow.
"Little forward, don't you think? You see, anyone can throw a knife with any sort of force," she states evenly as she very nonchalantly reaches down to the holster holding 3 knives exactly 6.5 inches in length strapped securely to her mid-thigh to remove one from its constraints. "It takes a person of true talent and precision to accurately throw a throwing knife."
As Schuyler explains this, she releases a sleek black knife, seemingly without appearing to aim, from her slender hand sending it flying smoothly through the air, over Half-Sack's left shoulder, to land securely in the center of a dart board hanging over the end of the bar.
"Oh, that is seriously dope," Juice said in awe as Schuyler walks to the wall to retrieve the knife. She holds the knife aloft in her right hand weaving it through her fingers in one direction and then the opposite before replacing it in its sheath in a single fluid motion. "What are you drinking? I'll get it for ya."
"Jack and coke. Neat. Thanks."
"Alright," Juice moves further down the bar to prepare the drink as Schuyler returns to her originally chosen floor space between Bobby and the prospect.
"Now you've done it. He's interested in you," Bobby comments in a hushed tone and, as much as Schuyler wants to believe that Bobby is only making a joke at her expense, she knows that the theory is most likely true.
"Yeah, well, he's a little young for me. But, uh, what about the Sergeant? Is he really a hard ass or is it just a front?" Schuyler inquires, smoothly redirecting the conversation in her favor. She had spent nearly seven weeks with SANDINO and gained their approval in record time. But she is on the clock with SAMCRO. She needs to learn as much about this new group as she possibly can if she is going to have a chance of earning their approval.
"Tig," Juice, oblivious to the previous comment that was made about him, returns with Schuyler's drink in hand and slides it to her across the counter, "He's weird, but you warm up to him. Or maybe he warms up to you. I'm not sure which."
"He give you a hard time?" Bobby asks with a knowing look.
"Nothing I can't handle. Going back to the 'faces' I mentioned. He was just caught off guard. I'm sure he isn't used to that feeling," Schuyler explains.
Chibs once again speaks up, "Tiggy is a character for sure. He can be an asshole, but he's a good egg and carries that badge with authority and pride."
"That's reassuring. Truly, it is. Sergeant is a demanding role and not everyone can handle it."
"Tig was born for it. He's a freak," Half-Sack throws in with a laugh and everyone in the circle, including Schuyler who is used to initiating prospects in her own chapter, turn to give him a stern look. He immediately knows a mistake has been made and tries to correct it. "But like, in a good way. You know, like a compliment."
"Shut up Half-Sack or you'll be out there on your knees shining my bike. Again," Chibs states. The sentence comes out harsh due to his accent, but his eyes shine in a way that conveys he is making a joke.
Schuyler has a 50-50 chance of guessing the older gentleman's nationality correctly by accent alone. "Scottish right? Like, proper."
"If by proper, ye mean born in the Motherland, then yeah. I'm properly Scottish," the man with short and messy brown hair replies sarcastically. Schuyler can't prevent her eyes from flicking down to watch Chibs' scars shift as he answers her. The indentions only made more prominent when he leaned into some choice syllables to further exaggerate his accent.
"The hell are you doing over here on this side of the pond with us simple folk? If you don't mind me asking," Schuyler makes a point to meet his brown eyes as he answers her next question with an equally sarcastic reply.
"Ye hear that lads? She must think I'm royalty. About damn time if ye ask me!"
That remark brought a laugh out of the group. Schuyler graciously laughs along letting the comment wash over her. Jokes at her expense are to be expected after all. Not only in this type of association, but with her being a transfer she'd be patched into the charter immediately as opposed to prospecting first. Each man had to get his licks in on Schuyler while he still could. As the laughter dies off, Schuyler makes an attempt to continue the conversation by remarking, "I guess I just mean I don't think much of the folks back home. Not the ones outside my club anyway."
"Well there's yer answer. I'm running. Just like you," Chibs confesses, very honestly, as he leans his full weight on leather clad forearms against the bar and his demeanor becomes very serious.
"I can certainly respect that," Schuyler replies with a nod of her head that she hopes conveys understanding and respect. The Scotsman pulls himself back off the counter and picks up a glass beer bottle that had been sitting beside him a foot away. He knocks back what is left of the brown liquid and chunks the empty container into a trashcan somewhere underneath the bar.
Schuyler interprets the action as a visual cue to pick up her own glass and start drinking. Treating the exchange as a test she maintains eye contact to avoid appearing intimidated. Only after retrieving the glass that is intended for her from the bar does she avert her eyes. Everyone in the group takes a silent moment to sip on their drinks. It is during this silence that Tig barrels into the bar demanding a drink of his own. "Prospect, get up!"
"Beer, Tiggy," Juice asks without waiting for a response from the older member as he moves around Chibs to travel to the other side of the bar where the fridge is positioned.
Tig sits where the prospect once was effectively pushing the younger man a stool further down the bar. "Any reason you're standing," he asks the woman who had still refused to sit on a stool.
"Asserting my dominance. Don't I look intimidating?"
Clay walks into the bar just as the door closes from the dramatic entrance. He travels through the clubhouse and closes himself into the chapel without offering a word or glance to anyone around him. Jackson appears a single step behind him and approaches the group with purpose. "Schuyler. Got a minute?"
Schuyler steps even further away from the group of men and waits to see which direction Jackson will move in before attempting to follow. Jackson walks straight through the ravine she creates only to wander down a hallway leading further into the clubhouse. Schuyler follows suit.
"Beautiful thing isn't it," Juice asks, watching the pair disappear into one of the hidden rooms in the back. "Two blondes walking away?"
"Hey," Bobby states firmly. "That just might be your future sister you're talking about. Have a little respect."
—
Jackson holds a door open for Schuyler to pass through ahead of himself. Schuyler elects to lean on the nearest piece of upright furniture and faces the room at large prepared to answer an assortment of questions no matter how objectionable to ease any concerns the Vice President may have of her.
Jackson, comfortable in his surroundings because he has spent the last several months living in this very apartment room, sinks heavily on the corner of the bed. He taps an area of the mattress a short distance from where he sits as an offering. Schuyler willingly sits this time, though she rests six inches further from where Jackson had suggested.
Schuyler leans her back against the headboard and decides it is better for her to break the silence. "Are we having a slumber party?"
"Something like that," Jackson begins. He turns his body to rest his left leg on the mattress ahead of himself. He faces Schuyler head on unsure exactly where he wants the conversation to begin or conclude. "You've built quite the reputation for yourself. You impressed SoCal. I think every charter from here to Belfast knows your name. But how many members outside of your charter have met you? How many of them know your face?"
"How many know I have such a nice rack?" Schuyler offers.
Jackson can't help the laugh that escapes him, surprised by the woman's frankness. "Sorry. Was I staring?"
"Only an appropriate amount considering you didn't know your new 'brother' would have one," Schuyler replies good naturally. "My father knew that it was a risk to his authority by patching me in without running the idea through other charters first."
"Then why take the risk? Why not take it to a bigger table?"
"Because he was being selfish. He didn't want to challenge any bylaws. He knew it would be impossible to change the club's more outdated opinions of women over night. He just wanted an exception to be made for me."
Jackson ponders the information. "Did he see any backlash?"
"Not for the first 16 years or so. Right before it came time for me to start prospecting a few of the men voiced their doubts. Ten years later, they were asking me to lead after my old man turned to ash. How's that for irony?"
"How did you keep it a secret for so long? How old are you, twenty-five? Seems word would have gotten out, eventually. If not from inside the club then elsewhere."
"Twenty-eight actually. How many grown men do you know would admit to having their ass handed to them by a chick?" Schuyler asks unable to hide the smug grin that creeps onto her face.
"That how it went down?"
"And I've got witnesses to prove it. If I showed up to enough drops our associates just became accustomed to my presence. It's when I stated talking that problems arose. But I've got a real winning personality," Schuyler explains with a knowing look. "Any enemies we made were easily persuaded to keep from spreading rumors. I'm not sure how closely you keep track of members locations, but if you go back and look at records you'll find that people transfer out of SAMTEX but never transfer in. My father's passing was the first instance when outsiders were invited to Valor. Even then, I invited Original Nine only. You think you're hidden up here in Charming? We're off the grid."
"And that was all for you? The great secret of SAMTEX?" Jackson questions intently. He expects there is more to the story that has yet to be revealed.
Schuyler knows that it is best to prevent joining the club with any secrets left to be discovered. "There were a few people who knew. I've never meet them. I've only ever heard the names. But I know they were real close to my dad. Piermont Winston. And your father, JT."
Jackson's face drops, confused. "My dad? He's been gone for years, but Piney is still in this charter."
"Edward used to tell me stories of when they were in Vietnam. How he wouldn't have made it back to my mom without their help. He was never shy in admitting that they were the two people he trusted above all others. And that's why he told them the night I was born."
"JT sanctioned your patching."
"My father would have never made the decision without his counsel. He knew going behind the Mother charter's back would have been treason and he wasn't willing to risk his club or his friendships. The way it was told to me is he annoyed your father for a couple of weeks until he was forced to agree."
"Agree to what?"
Schuyler looks about her surroundings as if the answer is made obvious by her very presence. "JT gave me a chance. I wouldn't be sitting here if he hadn't allowed my father to raise me immersed in the charter. I knew how to fire a gun before I knew how sex worked. I knew how to balance on a motorcycle before I ever put a car into gear. My friends were the boys I prospected with. I was groomed for this club from the very day I was born."
"Then why not tell everyone after you patched in? There was no risk," Jackson is trying to rationalize why his father would keep such a big secret and such a big part of his life from the rest of his club.
"Well, I guess it was part of the deal. JT agreed that it would be a decision made by SAMTEX to patch me or cast me aside. When the time came…I guess my dad just didn't want to rock the boat. It was a decision made in the wake of JT's passing when big changes were happening club wide. And even though his name still carries a great deal of weight he wouldn't have been there to support Edward's ruling. Why ruin a good thing?" Schuyler pauses to gauge whether the man sitting across from her is following her stream of consciousness. "You say Piermont is still around?"
"Yeah." Jackson is still processing the information in his own time. "He's not here tonight but should be around for church."
"Then you know he supported our fathers' decision to keep me in the dark. I think they assumed the rest of the club wouldn't be prepared to answer the challenge my joining brought to the table with an outcome that either my father or I liked." Schuyler makes a conscious decision to lead with total honesty. Without the trust of the V.P she has no chance of gaining the other members' votes and joining their ranks. "I think the real reason my father never let the secret out is because he feared losing me. He didn't want me to be an outcast from the only family I've ever known. He always thought that the club was the only thing keeping me close. He had rather of seen his only child barreling down the highway with a Reaper on her back than to bring it to a larger table," Schuyler grows more quiet the longer she speaks hoping that the man who she has just met will understand her plight.
Jackson can sympathize with the woman he sits across from. Though JT passed away fifteen years previous, Jackson still remembers him fondly and tries his best to honor his father's memory by living in the club he had built from scratch. After some quiet contemplation he dips his head low to indicate his recognition of the need to make a parent proud. "I think," Jackson says, breaking the silence, "if you tell the guys down the hall that exact same story none of them are going to have a problem honoring your father's wishes. Considering all he did to establish history for the Reaper."
"Thank you for hearing me. I'm sure you'll hear my case several more times, but I'm glad I could tell you directly," Schuyler stands and offers her hand to Jackson. He, too, stands from the bed and positions himself to be toeing with the shorter blonde. He takes her hand in a firm grip that she tries to meet with equal intensity.
"I look forward to getting to know you and I hope you find what you're looking for with SAMCRO," Jackson states, verbalizing that she indeed has earned his vote to join his chapter. He gestures towards the door for the two of them to leave the same way they had entered. "Nice grip. Needs some work though."
The two newly acquainted companions return to the main room of the clubhouse intent on rejoining the conversation which had gravitated towards a new discussion since the duo had departed. The group has since grown, now including Clay who is sitting in comfortable silence at a table on the floor overlooking the group's light banter. He is joined by a man who must certainly be the eldest of the group if his thinning hairline and the oxygen tubes in his nostrils are anything to go by. The chatter didn't falter, but merely continued at its leisurely pace and the only man to notice Jackson and Schuyler's return is the new addition to the group that Schuyler has yet to meet.
The man looks as though he has been not-so-patiently waiting. The look of awe that falls upon his wrinkled face is only comparable to that as if he had seen an angel. He unsteadily gets to his feet, clutching a black bag tightly to his side that connects to the oxygen line he is breathing, and shuffles forward in an attempt to meet the woman he seeks to speak with. His movements soon gather the attention of the rest of the members causing all communication to cease.
"Hey Piney," Jackson greets the elder as he joins Clay at the table. "Didn't think we'd be seeing you 'til church."
"Well that was almost true. Until I was told the name of the transfer from Bobby last week. You couldn't keep me from being here to welcome Eddie's only child into my club." Piney answers with a gravelly voice that matches the portable oxygen he carries. His words are sincere as he comes to a halt just inches in front of Schuyler. "Look at you. You have his smile."
Schuyler studies the man up and down trying to place his face. The way he is speaking suggests that he knows her unlike any other member. She is quick to conclude that she has never met the man personally but offers a smile upon recognition of the 'First 9' patch on his vest that is so similar to the one that her father wore on his own. "Do I know you, friend?"
The old man smiles sadly. "But your voice is all Sammy. No, I don't guess you would. My name is Piney Winston. I'm a member of the Original Nine. When we were dispatched John, Edward, and I, we built this club from the ground up. And when all the plans fell into place, he moved back to Texas to be with your mother. SAMTEX was the first attempt to create a branching charter and there was only one-man JT trusted to lead so far from ground zero. Sammy, her home was Texas, and Eddie's home was with her. But he never forgot SAMCRO. We kept in touch until the very year he passed. I still call Sammy every couple of weeks, but I haven't seen either of them since John passed."
Schuyler's own smile wavers. "Mom still has the pictures from dad's service days. I grew up with stories of you and John. My parents were real broken up about his passing. Condolences."
Piney laughs. It's a miserable sound that escapes him. "John was a very long time ago…Eddie, was not. I'm sorry I couldn't make the wake, but I told your mother I was no longer up to such a long ride. There's so few of us left…I was a lot younger in those photos you would have seen."
"I reckon he was thinner too," Half-Sack comments in what he probably meant to be a whisper, but it was not. Chibs reaches across the bar to smack the back of the much younger man's head to silence him as the emotional meeting continues.
"Yes," Piney acknowledges, "Younger and thinner. It's your time to lead."
"Woah, woah, woah," Tig interrupts the quiet moment between the two mourning individuals after such a hefty claim is made. "Let me get this straight? You knew the whole time."
Piney responds, his eyes unwavering yet wet as he speaks directly to Schuyler, "I remember the call I received the night you were born. Neither of your parents wanted to know the sex until you arrived. Eddie cried in relief over the phone to me that he would have the privilege to raise a level-headed girl instead of a rambunctious boy like John and I raised."
A smile returns to her young face. "There's a reason he didn't try again for a boy. I was enough for him to handle."
"I bet you were! Come on. I want to hear about Valor. Who's running things now that you're gone?"
All the attention in the room is put on Schuyler as she follows Piney to the table. She takes a seat beside Jackson across from the two eldest men of the group and spreads her knees wide while relaxing into the wooden chair.
"SAMTEX is being overseen by former V.P Ethan Dyer while the V.P patch went to his son." Schuyler made sure to make eye contact with every man in the room while speaking. "Jesse, my age. Hoping he'll stick around for a good long while and there won't be need for another election too soon. His number one priority is to keep the club current. I know him well and endorsed him for the position. It turns out he was the best choice. I stuck around long enough to see things put into order. Then I took off. Been wearing the same kutte, but in truth I've been living Nomad. Don't know if you heard Piney, but I spent something like two months with SoCal getting to know those folks before landing here. Hoping this is where I'll be staying, at least for a while."
"I have a question," Bobby asks suddenly. "Did you ever hold office?"
"I was up for Secretary a few years back. But ultimately, we decided we were pushing our luck as it was. The compromise we came to was that I would never be an officer."
"And you've made peace with that, have you?" Clay asks gruffly. He avoids Piney's gaze when asking the question, knowing the old man already has his heart set on seeing his military friend's child in the charter beside his own son. He instead settles for meeting Tig's scrutinizing gaze, making it evident that he still doesn't trust the unfamiliar body occupying the clubhouse.
"Much to my mother's dismay. She always hoped that I would take over from my old man. She still has a picture of me sitting in the president's chair that my father took when I was, oh, 10. Me, I never really wanted the responsibility. Not that I couldn't handled it; It was just never the priority. It was hard enough to earn a kutte. I didn't think much about what could come after. Maybe I've become complacent. Maybe I've just accepted the role I was born to play. I belong in this club. My rank doesn't have any sway over that fact."
Clay remains resolved as he absorbs the information. He faces Schuyler across the table from himself. "That's very mature. Not everyone gets to be the boss, but everyone has a job. Knowing the job and doing it holds this club together."
"Sammy wanted you to be President?" Piney asks tentatively.
Schuyler sighs. The only way she would be accepted is if she told the absolute truth. "I realized not long before my father passed, while he wanted me to be a member, he still wanted me to find my own way. That's why he pushed for college. I chose a major that was vastly removed from the life. While I know my father loved the family he created in Texas there was always a part of him that wanted to come back here. He intended to take me on a road trip that would lead us here and start me off on the right foot with you all. Then he got sick and it never happened. He didn't have to say it. Edward Schuyler wanted me here."
—
Clay calls for church to take place two days later. The current club members drop their phones one by one into an empty cigar box on the nearest pool table while each making their way through the wooden doors to take their respective seats around the redwood table that bares a reaper carved into its center. Clay is seated at the head of the table with his right hand resting against the surface next to a gavel. With everyone seated, and the doors closed, he picks the wooden tool up off its stand and slams it down hard creating a fierce noise signaling the start of the meeting.
Tig is to his right confident in his SA chair across the table from Jackson who fills the V.P seat. Bobby takes up quite a bit of room at the designated Secretary chair with a folder filled with paperwork in an assorted variety preparing to take notes. The remaining members are sat where they naturally landed in their seats. The group forms a relatively small table with a seat even being left unoccupied.
The prospect, who is not yet a full patch member, is left to keep Schuyler company outside of the chapel as the meeting is held and, inevitably, the vote for Schuyler's fate is tallied.
Clay leans back heavily in his chair and looks around the table once before he begins conducting business. "Let's start with something simple. Treasury. What's the damage this month?"
Bobby is quick to shove on his reading glasses and reply, "All bills paid. Bar's stocked. Preorder placed, actually. The uh, "Run-fund" is covered for the next two months. Not bad overall. Tig's the only man who owes me dues."
Tig raises his arm over his head in acknowledgement then scratches at his brow with his thumb. "A little short. Catch you next week."
"Good. Let's not forget," Clay states. "Niners are expecting to receive some new hardware this week. Drop happens Thursday. I'm going to need everyone there to make sure the trade is handled quick and painless."
"Maybe Schuyler would be willing to help us out with that shipment," Piney rasps from the mirrored end of the table.
"Maybe Oldman," Clay squares himself against the table and places his palms out in front of himself. "There's no more avoiding it. There's a patch from a sibling charter looking to take up roots here in Charming. Everyone's had an opportunity to meet her. Anyone have any concerns or words of encouragement they would like to bring to the table? If so, speak freely."
Everyone silently reflects on their experiences with the transfer over the last few days. Each man has his own opinions of the woman waiting in the next room over and none of them are considerably negative. Fewer are outstandingly positive. All but one hold their doubts about voting in the stranger.
Tig is the first to offer a con thinking himself to be the voice of reason in this situation. "Are we going to tell the other charters? I think we should even if she's out. My main roadblock with this is that she was kept a secret. The club has a right to know who's walking around in the kutte."
Juice finds himself disagreeing. "Let's leave that up to another vote. One issue at a time brother."
"Schuyler should be in on that vote," Piney pushes. "That decision affects her more than the most."
Chibs' speaks, shoving an index finger hard into the surface in front of him. "Whose to say her identity is the only thing she's hiding. I need to trust those sitting at this table."
Jackson responds quickly. "During our sit-down Schuyler told me why her identity was kept a secret. She had her reasons, but she was able to look me in the eye and I believed that truth. She's not hiding anymore."
Bobby is able to offer a pro. "The way I see it Schuyler's made a point to involve herself since she got here. She hasn't done anything to prove her skills we keep hearing about, but we haven't exactly given her a chance to do so. She's answered our questions and hasn't given me a reason not to trust her."
Piney gathers his strength to stand using the table for balance. "Schuyler didn't get here by accident. She had the approval of 3 Original Nine members long before she began prospecting. JT and I knew to trust Edward's judgement. He wouldn't have patched her if she wasn't worthy of the Reaper. The fact of the matter is a lot of people in Texas are alive and a far better off with her in this club. She brought a lot of change and did her part in her charter. Now she's here to make that very same difference in Charming. SAMCRO would be lucky to host her and any one of you would have to be brain-dead to vote against her."
"Anyone else," Clay asks looking around the table to allow Piney the time to find his seat. When he receives no response he continues, "Let's go ahead and vote on this. I'll start. Yay."
Jackson is next. His answer clear. "Yay."
Bobby follows his commanding officers' lead without any forethought. "Yay."
"I'm a 'yay'," Juice states, excited by the concept of a new member his own age joining.
"Hell yes!" Piney exclaims. Then he turns to bore holes with his gaze into the two voters who remain.
Chibs looks to his left as if addressing Tig directly as he still senses his brother's uncertainty, "I don't see why not. Aye."
Tig's eyes remain on the wooden Reaper in the table that seems to meet his gaze. The silence stretches on as he feels the eyes in the room search him out. The group waits patiently for Tig to deliver the final vote. The feeling of tension rises in the room as the decision is left to him and he ultimately decides to vote with his brothers. "Yep."
Clay smiles knowingly, "Motion passes. Bring her in!" he demands as he slams the gavel down signaling the end of the meeting.
The table audibly expresses their enthusiasm. Piney thanks his friends for helping him to pass the motion. He moves as quickly as he can to the top draw of a filing cabinet in the back of the room. He pulls from it a brand new black and white stitched patch reading 'California' in large letters that he clutches tightly to his chest in two hands as he returns to his chair. Tig feels Clay's hand clamp down hard on his shoulder as his President encourages him to stand. Tig is the one to open the chapel door and bark a command to the newest edition of SAMCRO. "Get in here."
Schuyler looks up from her beer, nods to the prospect to excuse herself from the conversation they had been having and stands from the bar stool to walk confidently through the door Tig props open. She walks to the back of the room to face Clay and the table at large.
"A verdict has been reached. Is there anything you'd like to say?"
"I hope its good news. Otherwise, I traveled an awful long way for a round trip."
"You do realize what your joining this charter will mean?" Clay says. He is instilling the gravity of the situation into all members at the table. "The kind of heat it could bring to Charming?"
Jackson adds somberly, "It won't be easy. I'm can't promise that any one of our buyers will be as welcoming as we are."
"Do you assume I had it easy back home? Trust me. It was hell to earn that vote. We went weeks without revenue from our more lucrative sources when I first started prospecting. Fortunately, I'm a big girl and have dealt with my fair share of unhappy clients. It's easier for me to face the world in this vest than to do it alone."
Clay resigns to sigh heavily as he stands from his seat. "Well in that case. If you're willing to face opposition…"
Piney presents Schuyler with the badge. "You're in."
Schuyler beams as she receives the badge from the older patch member. The room erupts with boistrus applause as is custom and everyone bolts out of their seats to surround the transfer who has just made history by becoming the first female member of the Northern California charter. She quickly admires it only to stuff it into an inner jacket pocket intent on sewing it onto her vest as soon as possible.
"This is cool," Juice is the first to say. "Weird, but cool. I've never had a sister before."
"Prospect," Clay hollers into the bar room, "We need drinks."
"Welcome to the club sweetheart," Piney compliments Schuyler as he leans down to give her a hug that lingers for several long moments. She's taken aback at first as her face clearly indicates, but her smile returns as she hugs the man back just as tightly. During this time, Tig watches from behind his chair distant from the group and examines Schuyler's behavior.
As the two separate he decides it is his turn to congratulate the woman. "You really made it huh?"
"Looks that way don't it? Must be my girlish charm. You should know Sergeant. We wouldn't still be talkin' if you hadn't voted for me to stay," Schuyler brags, taking in a breath trying to make herself appear bigger to the man who is sizing her up.
Tig's eyes take in Schuyler's entire form none too discretely and he replies, "Girlish isn't the word I'd use," only for his attention to be called to the bar and he walks away briskly as if nothing he said had been suggestive in the least.
Schuyler shakes her head, flattered more than anything, and continues to move about the room to accept warm wishes from the remaining members.
—
The next morning Schuyler wakes up in the cheapest house she found to rent. With a total of four rooms, the walls are bare, and the building is essentially empty except for basic utilities, a twin sized bed, and a few hastily marked cardboard boxes dispersed throughout. She has yet to unpack any of them as every moment she has spent in Charming has been at the clubhouse. Up to this point she has been living out of a single suitcase. There isn't even food in the poor excuse for a kitchen. She is hard pressed to recall the last time she ate more than the stale peanuts at TM's bar.
Schuyler dedicated over an hour to replacing her "Texas" badge with the new "California" patch along the bottom hem of her club vest. Today she will be trading that very kutte for medical scrubs. Though she had returned home in the early morning hours, she stirs long before she set her alarm to ring. With hours to kill she dresses in her scrub bottoms for their comfort and mobility. Then she busies herself with organizing what little she brought with her from Texas.
While unpacking, she concerns herself with what to expect on her first day in a new clinic. Since graduation, she has utilized her degree to sew up more bullet wounds in the back of pickup trucks than in any sort of surgical setting. The weeks when she would pick up a shift or two as a relief veterinarian had been few and far in between. She worked out of several clinics around her hometown and while she never became close with anyone on staff, everyone always conveyed enjoyment when working in her company compared to other relief vets in the area. However, this will be Schuyler's first full time position and she will need to make a concerted effort to bond with the staff if they are going to keep her on the time clock.
Schuyler's train of thought is interrupted when her prepaid phone-not her personal iPhone-vibrates on her nightstand. A text flashes on its small screen containing a single address and nothing more. Schuyler is momentarily torn between being late to the first day of her day job and being absent the first time she is summoned by what will ultimately be her full-time job. She resolves to change from her scrub bottoms into black skinny jeans and packs her scrubs in a bag. Never one to compromise, Schuyler is determined to make both. While arriving on her motorcycle isn't necessarily ideal for the practice, she can change into her uniform at the clinic. Driving her Harley to work, in fact, can be used to subtly drop the hint that while she will always live up to her promise to the hospital, she has responsibilities to attend to outside of office hours.
Schuyler rides twenty minutes out of her way and ten minutes out of town until she comes upon a small clearing. She parks her bike facing towards the only exit. A single dirt road leading back into town. She removes her helmet to survey the scene.
Four motorcycles are parked amid half a dozen response vehicles including a single firetruck. The reason for the firetruck is made clear by the sheer amount of destruction that scatters the plot of land. It appears as though a large building once stood in the center of the clearing. What remains is a pile of burned ruble, broken glass, and charred wooden planks. Most notably are the bits of metal and, in some cases, still fully intact firearms that scatter the land and surrounding tree line.
All four ranking officials stand in a circle around a man in a uniform who Schuyler assumes to be the local law enforcement. The group are speaking in hushed tones about what had caused the fire and money is not so discreetly changed between hands. Schuyler leans back on her bike, not yet willing to make her affiliation with the club known to outsiders, and looks on as the officer leads the men further into the wreckage. He stops to open what once was used as a freezer. She can clearly see all the men gazing down upon something that is hidden in the large ice chest. More words and cash are exchanged, the lid is swiftly closed, and the group disperses.
Clay locates Schuyler amid the commotion and decides to catch her up on what the destruction of the building will mean to the future of the MC's business.
As he walks, he pulls a gun from behind his back, using it to gain Jackson's attention. "Two in the back of the head. Quick and painless."
"It ain't easy being king."
"You remember that." Clay halts in front of Schuyler. "Glad you could join us. Sorry you couldn't see the factory when it was up and running."
Schuyler glances behind him causally to what is left of the club's primary source of income. She doesn't have to ask to know that this building was once the location where the club stored their illegal artillery for later distribution. "I'm sure it was a sight to behold. Looks like I came at just the right time. Do tell me there's a secondary location."
"Not yet," Jackson informs her. "And turns out our more valuable 'product' has turned up missing."
"But you're going to help us get it back," Clay concludes as he steps up to the woman to clap a hand on her shoulder. The action is gentle, but no less than how he would engage with one of his brothers.
Schuyler bows her head, but her blue eyes brighten making her appear even younger. "Great. Start me off with a problem to fix. I'm pretty good at that."
Author's Notes: And so Schuyler is tentatively patched. She's met the crew and some members are ecstatic while others are less than thrilled. But are her problems just beginning? Find out next time, in TROD!