Author's Notes (More at the end):

Trigger Warning: Sexually explicit language, prostitutions, and suggestions of sexual acts. (I wonder what the next warning I mention could possibly be...)

Welcome to the longest instalment of TROD to date! And let's celebrate the fact that I successful uploaded two months in a row (that hasn't happened since chapter 3!). Did anyone order a large helping of inter-character relationship development with a side helping of more dialogue than you can shake a stick at? Then this chapter is tailor made especially for you! There's hardly a character who doesn't get their moment in the spotlight this chapter and we learn a bit more of Schuyler's personal character as well.

Without further ado, Enjoy your (for once!) regularly scheduled update...

"You're telling me you've never been to a live show?" Schuyler is walking in step between Half-Sack and Juice. She collected them from the garage and together they are heading to the chapel. "Not even once?"

Half-Sack pouts. "How the hell would I've done that? I only started making money as a mechanic."

"Surely that constitutes child cruelty. I've been going to events since I was six years old." She turns her question to Juice. A plan beginning to brew. "What about you Juicy?"

"Do open mic nights count? I used to sneak into those when I was back east."

"If there's an audience it counts," Schuyler allows. She opens the clubhouse door with enough force to allow each of them to pass through. "But I'm talking about a music festival. Live music, spending twelve hours in the heat, drowning yourself in hot beer. I can't believe you've managed to miss out on such a monumental experience."

They are the last members to arrive. Expecting to part ways, Schuyler stops at the chapels' double doors and relays her message before taking her seat. "Hey, lucky for you two, I might have a way to remedy your severe miscalculation in life. Let me get back to you in a couple of days."

The patches take their collective seats. When Half-Sack tries to close himself off from the sacred room, as he has now done countless times, his President waves him inside. The prospect looks about the room confusedly. Slowly, he lowers himself into a seat beside his sponsor. He fears one wrong move could lead the adults at the table to change their minds and banish him again.

The senior member claps his hand on Half-Sack's shoulder. "This doesn't mean shit Prospect. Yer here so we donnae have to repeat it."

Half-Sack sets a serious expression. When he sees Schuyler wink at him from across the redwood, however, his smile returns with a feeling of accomplishment.

Next to Schuyler, Juice kicks off the meeting. "So. What's the emergency?"

Its Tig who answers with a sneer. "Got a call from Unser this morning. Hale's got a new ATF boyfriend. Chief doesn't know what the Fed is here to investigate but, for my money, it's us."

Clay rebukes him. "We've taken every precaution to keep off of the state's radar. No busts, no raids, not even a speeding ticket has been charged to the tow truck in the last five years. We don't know for sure this guy is here for us."

"Hacks can hold a grudge as well as any of us can," Schuyler explains. "Edward was of the mindset that it's always better to see when the PD is active. If they're inactive, that means they're busy coming up with a scheme of their own. Could be for a job pulled last month; could also be retaliation for a gig that's aged twenty years."

Jackson agrees. "Sky's right. Hale flagged Bluebird as our gun warehouse. He's pissed off we had Unser crush the case against us, so he called in the Feds. Think it's gotta be about us."

"That'd be my guess," Bobby replies. "And if we've got eyes on us, any legitimate place we try to stash the Irish's shipment is going to be a straight line back to us."

"Can't Rosen hook us up with a temp location?" Juice questions.

Clay kills the suggestion outright. "He's busy burying the Bluebird, man. Setting up a dummy corp; it's going to take him a few weeks."

"You know, we got that call from Jury last week." Jackson reminds Clay. Then he addresses the table to explain his reasoning. "Mayans are pressing the Devil's Tribe to pay a vig. To keep running book and pussy in their backyard. Tribe is earning outlaw sized money these days and the Mayans are picking up on it. Look, maybe I do head to Indian Hills. Lend Jury some advice, maybe he offers our guns a safehouse."

"Can't let you go on that ride Jackieboy," Chibs interjects. "Too risky to go into Mayan territory with them looking to retaliate against us. You'd have to blow right past them."

Bobby pulls a cigarette from his kutte. "Mayans know the Tribe is a brother club. Part of asking for that vig is to draw us out. They knew Jury would call and they'll be patrolling the border."

"That's why we don't travel in numbers." Jackson's next declaration is a surprise. "Me and Schuyler go in. Stay off the radar. Take the guns up there the same way."

"The clinic won't call me in for a few days," Schuyler agrees. "They can't pay for all three of us, so I can make the trip with you, no problem."

Clay glances between the officers. "Are you gonna be able to get Jury on board with this?"

"Shit, my dad saved his ass in 'Nam. He owes the Tellers a chit."

"Fine. But I want Bobby to go with you. You need the adult supervision."

"I resent that sentiment," Schuyler mutters.

"I don't give a shit," Clay points at her accusingly. "The last time I let the two of you make the call, some poor bastard ended up with an axe in his melon."

Schuyler exhales through her nose in amusement. "Focus on the positive aspect of that story." She holds up two fingers then rotates her hand until she flips the bird at Clay. "You ended up with two distractions for the price of one."

"Low profile," Clay insists through a repressed smirk. "I don't want a single spic finding out we crossed into N.V." His next orders are for the other members at the table. "They pull this off, I want you and Half-Sack driving the barrels."

"Done," Tig agrees. "We're going to need something big though."

"I'll call Unser. Secure you a truck. Make it look like someone clipped it. Cancer boy wants deniability." Clay raises his gavel in preparation. "Anyone else?"

"Yeah, McKeavy reached out," Chibs informs. "He's gonnae be on the coast longer than he expected. Says we've got five weeks to settle our debt. Keep flush with the IRA."

"Let's focus on transport." Clay dismisses the meeting. "Get the product to Indian Hills. Then we'll worry about a buyer."

Outside Jackson becomes sidetracked from mounting his bike by the arrival of his mother. Gemma rolls onto the lot planning to dwindle her hours away sorting through paper work. Jackson indicates for Schuyler to join him and the duo approaches Gemma together. "Hey mom. Where you been?"

"Oh, same place I've been for the last three weeks. Raising your boy while you've been busy raising hell." Gemma steps out of the car with a hand on her hip. Her expensive purse caught between these two points. Silver hoops slip up and down her arm showing the motion she uses to slam the car door shut.

"Gonna need you to keep checking in on him." Jackson squints through the sun into his mother's regularly suspicious face. "Let me know how he's doing. I'm heading out for a couple of days."

"Where are you going?"

"Visit uncle Jury."

"Nevada?" Gemma asks, concerned. "By yourself?"

"With Bobby. And Sky."

The sole purpose of Gemma removing her sunglasses is to keep her view from being obstructed while examining Schuyler with a critical eye. "Does Clay know about this escapade?"

Jackson laughs. Gemma's gaze doesn't waver. "Relax mom. It's gonna be fine. Won't be gone long."

Schuyler smiles brightly projecting confidence. "I haven't lost anyone yet. No one's going to be hurt on my watch."

"You don't have to convince me." Gemma purses her lips. "We both know what happens in the untimely event you lose someone."

Since getting to know the folks in Charming, Schuyler has done a fair job of balancing when and how to apply pressure in order to be accepted into her new surroundings. For this reason, and for the first time since she arrived, she casts down her eyes in a subtle show of submission. "We know all too well."

Jackson kisses his mother on the cheek, and she turns her back on him to attend to her day.

Schuyler watches the lioness lift her needle-like heels in Schuyler's direction. Her head is held high against the morning sunlight in contempt. Her hips swing naturally, neither for the entertainment of eyes nor with the intent to reserve decency. "She was wishing me good luck, right?"

Jackson pats Schuyler on the back. "She has total faith in you."

Traveling approximately eighty-two mph around any one curve on the interstate Jackson is leading Schuyler and Bobby towards Indian Hills. Their desired destination is a bar managed by the local motorcycle club named the Devil's Tribe and it is the first pitstop across the border into Nevada.

The trio is cruising seamlessly enjoying the sunny ride. That is, until they turn a corner and come face to face with the rival crew they were specifically tasked to avoid. At a distance, they can see they are outnumbered three to one and, because they are traveling on a two-way road that overlooks a steep cliff, there is no chance of exiting or even swerving out of the approaching Mayans' path.

Jackson gradually decreases his speed in preparation for the two companies to pass each other. The trio falls into a tight pyramid formation. The bikes are precariously close; near enough to one another that their riders could poke each other's tires. If anyone were to accelerate too suddenly they would all be at risk of wiping out.

Bobby shouts over the rumble of the machines. "So much for low profile."

With a quarter of a mile between them, the Mayans spot the trespassers who neglected to request a travel pass through their territory. A biker breaks formation to drive opposite the Sons in the same lane. A Hispanic man poises his pistol between his ape hanger handle bars. Then he swerves sharply into the proper lane at the last possible second without firing.

Jackson doesn't flinch at the intimidation tactic. He maintains his speed as the rival motorcyclists fly by and is the first to notice when three of the Mayans leave their guild to chase down his own group. He signals to Bobby. He drops his right arm and displays a hand sign against his right thigh. Bobby parrots the sign to Schuyler on his left leg, and she knows the play.

When the group hits a straight in the road they part to either side of the lane and break almost instantly. The Mayans, who had been traveling at high speeds to catch up to them, race through the lane the SOA created and continue up the road. The trio pull their weapons and fire rounds, purposefully missing the bikes and their riders. They are warning shots. The Mayans disappear behind a small rise in the road.

Jackson waves the group onwards. A few miles from the border they come upon a gas station. Still ten minutes from the protection of their brother charter's compound, the trio is forced to cease and reconnect with their home base.
They park their bikes near the front door. Jackson dismounts and asks Bobby to throw him a prepay. With it is in his hand, Jackson goes behind the shabby building to stand out of sight.

Schuyler considers going inside to buy a pack of cigarettes. Bobby catches her attention instead. "Let's take a walk."

They start on a path opposite of Jackson's. They plan to trace the perimeter of the parking lot and catch up with him around the other side. "How's it going Bobby?"

"Just checking in. You seem to be settling in well."

Schuyler rolls her shoulders periodically to stretch her muscles from the drive. "Place I'm hunkered down in isn't much, but there's a bed. Routine work at the clinic is a good base line to return to between these random misadventures."

"Weeks' worth of radio silence broken by an impromptu road trip. That sounds about right." Bobby produces a joint from an inner pocket and lights it. "I haven't gotten a chance to mention it, but you've been a big help around here. Clay may not show it much, but you've impressed him, ever since that night at the carnival."

Schuyler smirks. "Thanks man. I'm glad I can help out."

"Had some of the guys shaking in their boots. Damn near scared the piss out of Sack." Bobby turns on a dime. "You've been helping Jax out a lot, too, haven't you?"

"I don't follow."

Bobby offers Schuyler a hit and she declines expecting an explanation to follow. "Ever since his boy was born his head has been up in the clouds. Only time he seems to come down from 'em is to talk to you."

"Are you serious right now?"

"He's been second guessing Clay at every turn. The club's picking up on it."

"I think you've been imagining these things."

Bobby stops walking. "Are you saying Jax hasn't been confiding in you? Because if that's the truth, that means he hasn't been talking to any one, and we both know that shit's even more dangerous."

Schuyler weighs her words. When she speaks, her goal is to soothe the concerns of her brother. "Confide is a strong word Bobby. He's just been talking, and my ears have been in the room."

Bobby is visibly unconvinced. "I have a feeling it looks that way because I'm a new face. I'm willing to bet I'm the first new one he's seen in a while. Maybe even a couple of years?" Bobby nods silently to encourage her. "He doesn't care what I think. He doesn't have to save face with me. So, what if that means he bounces some ideas off me. He's doing it because he doesn't have to worry about scaring his brothers."

"Whatever you wanna call it, he's looking to you." Bobby sets off again. "I meant it when I said you haven't given me a reason not to trust you. Since you landed, I've grown to respect you. I want to know I can still trust you to look out for him. You should be helping him get right with this. Don't be filling his head when he ain't got no more room. And don't let him drag you down in the process of him working through his shit. Just, be there for him."

"I'm here for everyone, Bobby. I'm here."

The pair completes their circuit in silence. They discover Jackson pacing while squeezing the burner in a clenched fist. "Any word from Clay?"

Jackson's face is grim. "Clay's heading up here. Bringing most of the guys with him. Says this is mandatory. He wants to Patch-Over the Tribe."

Bobby asks a logistical question. "He having the Vegas boys head down, too?"

"Yep," Jackson shakes his head in frustration. "Says we need a bigger presence."

"Hold up," Schuyler interjects. "Did the Tribe know this was a possibility?"

"Nope. We've got to get there first. Least I can do for Jury is have him hear it from me."

They walk back to their machines and see a truck has since parked beside them. A man Jackson's age with auburn hair is juggling an infant in his arms. At the same time, he is trying his best to usher his young son inside the gas station. The dilemma is the toddler is more drawn to the shiny motorcycles. The cheerful boy examines them before stretching high to place his hand on the headlight of Schuyler's Harley.

"Hey buddy!" The man's voice is frantic. "We do not touch things that do not belong to us."

"It's alright," Schuyler insists. The man is relieved when it is a woman who claims the bike. Then he realizes she is being pursued by two men clad and his eyes widen in horror. "Is it alright with you if I set him on it for a minute?"
The stranger is astonished by Schuyler's offer and finds himself nodding to avoid offending any of the people who approach. Jackson and Bobby saddle up beside their bikes to watch on fondly.

Schuyler squats down to introduce herself. "Hey there. What's your name?"

"Otis."

"We call him Ottey."

"Otis! Do you like my motorcycle?"

The boy in a blue t-shirt and Velcro sneakers nods enthusiastically. She lifts the toddler in an exaggerated fashion to sit him on the seat. Standing behind him keeping a hand on his back Schuyler encourages him to reach towards the bars. He is momentarily hypnotized by her keys until he remembers he's on a bike larger than any toy he's ever been presented with.

"I'm really sorry about this," the man rocks the bundle in his arms. "I'm sure you nice folks have places to be getting to." He eyes Schuyler's vest with vigilance.

"Since when does one need a reason to be on the road," Bobby engages the stressed father. The toddler begins to make noises to imitate the machine.

"You know he only chose yours because it was the one closest to him," Jackson says. He picks his half-helmet up off his own handlebars and places it on the boy's cinnamon-dusted head of hair.

Schuyler snarks back. "Don't listen to him. He's just jealous because mine's the better model."

"Really," asks the father politely. "How come?"

"Mine's faster."

"Very cool." Though the father's tone is rueful he's happy to see his son enjoying the bike. "Knowing my luck, he's going to want one of his own after this."

"Then I've done my civic duty for the day."

The boy squeals loudly. "Vroom, vroom."

A compact square building made of cinderblock resides a few miles over the border. The outside is mostly bare and there are no major signs or features of any kind to distinguish it from any other lone building on the side of the barren desert road. Except for, a massive Devil's Tribe banner plastered on the presumed front and more than a dozen motorcycles that are parked in the fenced in lot. Most of the machines are customized to bare the MC's signature logo. And a metal barn is sitting on the same land adjacent to the main building that looms high over bulk of the property. The establishment is purposefully bland. Designed to be forgettable yet intimidating. Captivating to the intended clientele and a deterrent for those meant to keep an appropriate distance.

"Hey," Bobby engages with Schuyler as they traipse up to the thin, wide steps leading to the door. "That was really cool what you did for that kid. You were good with him. Better than most would have been."

Schuyler wonders who Bobby is referring to: the toddler or the father. "I'm only good with the ones I can give back."

The double door wooden entrance, painted a teal green that is peeling off, is pushed open and the Devil Tribe's first and second in command exit in tandem.

"Jackson Teller!" A lean man with white hair shouts.

"Uncle Jury!" Jackson shouts back. Their hug is as rough as their exteriors.

"It's been sometime."

"You remember Bobby."

"MC royalty." The President embraces Bobby heartily. "How can I forget?"

Bobby accepts Jury's greeting and extends his well wishes to his second. "Needles, how are you?"

"I want you guys to meet Schuyler."

Jury steps up to Schuyler with a scowl that is put on. Needles abstains from having an opinion until his President formulates one of his own. "Her dad was close to my old man and headed a chapter down in Texas."

"Any friend of the Tellers is a friend of mine." He offers Schuyler his hand and she shakes it back in recognition of his authority. "You need anything, just let me know. I'll be proud to host you. Why don't y'all come in? Get you set up with some drinks. And we'll have a sit down."

They follow Jury into his place of business. Like Teller-Morrow, Jury has resided as a sole owner for many years. But there are more differences than similarities between the two clubs' sources of income.

For starters, Jury owns a brothel. Instead of dining tables there are clusters of furniture, couches, loveseats, and recliners, littering the primary room. There are less pool tables and more freestanding stools to allow for easy movement about the floor. Several women are maintaining the bar in one corner and a neon sign hangs over a darkened doorway on the back wall. Beneath the sign is a narrow corridor that leads to the back of the house where there are no sources of light and numerous private apartment rooms are hidden. The front of the house isn't lit much brighter, and speakers are hanging from the ceiling producing deep, inciting melodies.

"Smells like a Fraternity house in here," Schuyler comments. The air is rancid with booze, cheap cologne, and high testosterone that can only be diminished through making a series of questionable decisions.

The other major difference between this bar and the Sons of Anarchy's clubhouse is that the Tribe's meeting table takes up a corner of the bar room. Since the Indian Hill's MC isn't classified as an outlaw organization there is no need for their church table to be concealed behind heavy doors and noise canceling foam.

Along with the women working the bar, wearing cheap jewelry that barely catches a reflection and too much makeup, there are several more strutting across the main floor. These women are the escorts and they are tending to the crew's every desire. One of these women, a petite brunette in a short denim skirt catches sight of the newcomers and, never one to slack on her duties, decides to introduce herself.

"Welcome to Indian Hills."

"Cherry," Jury catches the woman by the elbow. "These are our guests. Make them comfortable." Jury whispers privately into the young woman's ear. She receives his message and locks her eyes onto Schuyler.

Needles guides Bobby away so the higher-ranking officers can discuss their business. "Any of the girl's you'd like to be better acquainted with, friend?"

"Yeah, a few." Bobby follows Needles to one of the pool tables in pursuit of a bikini-clad temptress.

"Cherry's my best girl." Schuyler redirects her attention to the matter at hand. Which happens to be Jury attempting to pass off one of his workers onto her. "She'll make sure you're treated right while you're here. Jax, let's get that drink."

Schuyler watches her Vice President swagger off to the bar with the allied club's official. The worker approaches Schuyler seemingly on her own.

"I bet I can guess how you earned such a sweet nickname."

Cherry laughs in a way that can almost be convincing. "Why sit around guessing when you can have firsthand experience? It's on the house." She speaks with a cute southern accent and her tone is naturally flirty.

Schuyler smiles sadly upon realizing the order Jury gave the woman. "Thanks, little darlin', but I'll have to pass."

Cherry pouts playfully. "If I'm not up to your liking, I know a couple more gals who would be just as eager to please."

"I don't get off on feeling like I'm someone else's chore. Besides, I know I'm not the first pick of the bunch for you ladies."

"Well how else is a girl supposed to gain experience if someone doesn't go and take a chance on her?"

Schuyler kicks out her left leg; she leans her weight onto the mirrored hip setting her arm comfortably against it. "Now I can tell the difference between a lack of experience and a lack of interest. And we both know it's the men around here that need tending to."

Cherry's learned smile morphs into a curious expression. "That we do. If you're not goin' to take me up on my most generous offer, then may I speak plainly, Ma'am?"

"If you promise to never ask my permission for anything again. Shoot."

"You're different from the usual hang-arounds. And you're sure as shit not like those men you walked in here with." Cherry's teased curls shift on her shoulders. She saunters around Schuyler's form admiring the slightly older woman's kutte close up. She is creating a profile. "I didn't expect to see something as wild as a dame in a vest. 'Specially not one coming from little old Charming."

"I'm from Texas. A place even more backwards." Schuyler is no stranger to having eyes on her. "Upside is those boys down South easily confused and even more easily manipulated by a pretty face."

"Shit." Cherry bursts with laughter only to stamp it out. "How many dicks did you have to take then to earn that handsome leather?"

"None. I'm sure that makes it all the harder for you to understand."

"Nah. Just different is all." Cherry stops in front of Schuyler. "We're traveling our own paths. You got an Oldman waiting for you at home?"

"Something else that's different between us. That's not my endgame. Do you not have any bigger dreams than settling down?"

"'Settlin' down'?" Cherry squints at Schuyler sideways. Her teeth a not-so-straight line of white. "How'd you do that? Make it sound so romantic while still making it sound like some sort a curse."

"Would you rather I call it like it is? Settling."

"I've been here for going on three years. I showed up with next to nothing and the club took me in. We take care of each other, I mean, it's a family." Cherry nods towards Jackson and Jury sitting at the bar with beers in hand.
"Surely you can understand that."

Schuyler observes the crowd. For every couple carelessly grinding on a couch, there are civilians playing pool, brothers sharing blunts, and women idly chatting about everything and nothing at all. She recalls the going away party SAMTEX threw her merely two months ago. "As dysfunctional as it may be."

"You heard Jury. I'm the best girl he's got. And someday, real soon, one of these guys is gonna realize what a fine Oldlady I'll make. I'll have paid my dues. Then I'll belong to that guy and that guy only. How's that settling for something lesser?"

Schuyler hums politely. "There's only two reasons a girl ends up in your position. She's so clueless she doesn't know what she's getting herself into or she's running from something she can never hope to out run. Which one are you, little darlin'?"

"Is both an option?"

"Wouldn't surprise me any."

"I doubt there's much that surprises you. Guess it's fair to say I've drank the Kool-Aid." Cherry tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fiddling with it momentarily. Yet, she never shies away from meeting Schuyler straight on. "Anyway, what does it matter? I'm here now."

"The thing that landed you here may be the one thing that can pull you out. Whatever it was that brought you here is what made you strong enough for this line of work. Best to keep that in mind. No matter how painful it may be."

"Wow. So that's how you got where you're at. You're a heck of a lot smarter than any of them I've met, and I've met plenty."

At the bar, Jackson walks away from Jury looking even more dejected than when he arrived. "You're smarter than most of the woman I've seen working in places like these. I know it's easy to forget. Don't. No matter what they ask of you. It's how you'll survive." As he nears her, Jackson motions for Schuyler to follow him out the building. She winks to Cherry when saying her goodbye. "And eventually settle. Catch me later on tonight. We'll have a beer. If you don't have your hands full."

"You in there making friends," Jackson asks her over his shoulder.

Schuyler sticks her hand out in request for a drink when she catches up to him. He naturally passes her his beer. "Something like that. She's a good girl. I don't usually have that to say about the workers." She takes a swig and passes the bottle back. They come to rest on a picnic table set up just outside the entrance. "Did you and Jury get into it?"

"Didn't see it coming. Offered us a safehouse, no questions asked. Somehow that makes me feel even worse about slamming the patch on him, no warning." Jackson sets the bottle between them on the picnic table and pulls out a package of cigarettes to set beside it.

"Clay says it's the best move for both clubs, right? We get somewhere to store and assemble. The Tribe gets SOA status and protection from the Mayans."

The two take turns pulling smokes from the box.

"I'm not sure the old man is gonna be able to hang a reaper on his back. Indian Hills may have started outlaw but shit, now, they're bookkeepers and bouncers. Most of them ain't SOA material. Clay is making a mistake with this move."

"Maybe. How many do you think will stick around after the vote?"

"Tribe attracts a crowd, but I expect half will split when they hear the news. It won't be enough to defend against the Mayans when they come to collect. I want to be here for Jury when that happens."

"You know Clay is goin' to have an opinion on that."

"Yeah. I'll try it your way first. See if he hears me out."

A large group of motorcycles rolls into the compound with the setting sun. Not only those commuting from Charming arrive, but several men from the Washington charter are riding with them. In addition, they caught up with a dozen more men on the road who were on their way from Las Vegas. The unified ensemble creates a ferocious thunder storm against the smoldering asphalt. Patch-Overs are known to be high energy, extended parties and attract impressive crowds. Three charters will be representing the overarching network to indoctrinate the new branch into the folds.

Clay carefully removes his helmet and rubs his hands which are aching from the journey. "Jury ready to hear from us?"

Jackson nods stoically while grinding his cigarette into the picnic table. "Offered us a safehouse on route 95. His guys though, they don't know what's coming."

"The ones cut out for it will stick around." Clay looks to Chibs and Juice who walk up beside him. They nod remotely. The majority of the club seems to be in agreement with the decision. "Others will fall off. Best way to thin out a herd."

Jackson is smart enough to reframe from starting an argument before the vote is cast. He changes the subject promptly. "Where are we at with transport?"

"I had Happy stay behind with Tig. They'll be here come first light."

Schuyler looks around Clay curiously. "I thought the prospect was hauling barrels?"

Clay contorts his face confusedly. "What prospect?" He pivots, stomping up the flat steps to begin church proceedings. Half-Sack is left where Clay was standing.

"Ouch," Schuyler teases. "How'd you manage to screw up this time jackass?"

"Don't ask," Half-Sack half pleads.

"I'll tell ya." Juice catches the youngest by the shoulders spinning an embarrassing yarn at the prospect's expense. The members shadow their President into the brothel for the vote to be held.

An hour later, the vote is in. As Jackson predicted, nearly half of Jury's original crew stamp out of the compound. They toss their worn Devil's Tribe kuttes to the ground and grind their dirty boots into them in the wake of their ranting and raving. Those who remain, including the MC's first and second positions, consented to swear off their decades long ties and don a new name. With the title, they are inheriting more than a generations' worth of history, reputation, and hardship.

Jackson assists Jury in trading his original Presidents' vest with an official Sons of Anarchy kutte complete with badges.

"Indian Hills, Nevada charter. Sons of Anarchy." Clay christens the property by ripping a Devil's Tribe banner off a wall that had been hanging over the meeting table. In its place he uses a can of spray paint to write SOA in blue on the charcoal wall. "From this moment on, we are brothers. Congratulations."

Jackson pulls Jury into a manly embrace. He hits him hard on the back several times before letting go and allowing Clay the space to do the same. When the two Presidents embrace in mutual respect the clubhouse explodes in a furious uproar.

"Patch-Over Party!"

The compound reopens its doors. The crowd thins out spreading from the table to the bar to outside across the lot all the way to the barn. The crowd is replenished from outsiders being allowed to reenter. Word got out to neighboring towns about the 'can't miss' Patch-Over bash. The itinerary for the evening consists of drinking, smoking, playing billiards, and, for those who know how to play their cards right, disappearing down the blacked-out corridor under the neon sign.

"Schuyler." Schuyler turns to find Cherry stalking towards her amidst the bustling crowd. "I'm nothing but hospitable to you and you can't return the favor."

"Yeah, sorry." Schuyler disguises an excuse in the form of a compliment. "Didn't need the girls causing a fuss before the decision was finalized. Besides, I figured you're the best suited to adapt to the changing times."

"Guess it won't be all that different, will it?" With a simple question, Cherry shows her age, looking to the older woman for advice.

"Are we still speaking plainly?" Cherry nods, already wise to the truth. "It's going to get a lot harder. You'll get more traffic around here and need to ready for it. Look after these girls as best you can when trouble comes knocking."

"I did ask to hear it." Cherry rolls her eyes. She swipes the same strand of hair behind her ear. "Wait to bring down the mood. We're supposed to be celebrating! Let's talk about something else. Tell me about him."
Cherry nonchalantly points her knee into the crowd. Half-Sack is leaning with his shoulder on the wall and not so covertly sneaking glances at Cherry. "Who, the prospect?"

"He's cute. What's his name?"

"Why," Schuyler asks. She has a teasing smirk on her face. "Is Half-Sack being sweet on you?"

"More like running scared every time I get close. But he's been shadowing me since he showed up." Cherry turns to throw the prospect a flirty smile. Schuyler practically sees his heart stop. "Thinkin' about making the first move for him."

"See. That's what interest looks like." Schuyler steps close to shoulder Cherry in Half-Sack's direction. "Careful how you spin yourself though. In my experience, it's the ones who start out as Crow Eaters that end up divorcing the fastest."

"The fastest?" Cherry asks, perplexed.

"Very few marriages survive. Regardless of how they begin."

"Gee, thanks so much for the encouragement."

"My comment is meant to deter little darlin'. But if you really have your heart set on the prospect, I suggest you make that move. Because no matter how much he thinks he likes the look of you his dick is going to enter the first hole offered to him."

"Now that's encouraging!"

Around two in the morning the atmosphere changes. The bar divides into two types of people. The quitters, who pass out on the nearest piece of furniture from exhaustion or alcohol or both. The advantage of being a snoozer is that they'll likely be the first awake and the first to leave at dawn. Then there are the night owls who train their entire adult lives for the opportunity to attend the likes of a Patch-Over. These people are on their second round of partners and their fifth or sixth round of drink. The theory is they may party for a longer amount of time, but they'll also have the worst hangovers when they emerge from their comas come noon the next day.

Jackson's crew are among the second category. He emerges from an apartment room empty handed, having undoubtedly left a woman behind to sleep in the bed they had shared. He settles on a loveseat a short distance from Schuyler in the center of their group. He props his heavy feet on the cheap coffee table. He hooks his elbow over the lip of the small couch hitting the wall behind him. He reinvigorates the conversation being held by those who are currently unoccupied. He teases the tale of his latest triumph.

"I'm racking up my numbers tonight." His brothers are enthralled. Bobby has his feet up in a recliner to Schuyler's left with a cigar and a drink occupying his hands. Chibs had returned from his own conquest not long before Jackson had and sat diagonally from Schuyler on his own couch. He had been scanning the front of the house for a new target only for his attention to be redrawn into the circle by the discussion.

Schuyler is quick to shut Jackson down. "It's not a 'victory' if she's paid to engage with you, brother."

"Money wasn't coming from my pocket." Laughter is heard from all sides. "Besides, I haven't seen you score tonight, sister. And there's no shortage of targets."

"I prefer the challenge of the sport. I'm not settling for prepared meat," she remarks scornfully.

It's unsurprising that men like Jackson have already been scoring. But women, even the escorts, usually have to get a few drinks in them before they willingly seek out a man like Bobby without prompting. As the compound collectively catches its second wind, Bobby spots two wildly attractive women whispering between themselves with exuberance and looking, he believes, in his direction. "Finally."

He straightens his vest on his shoulders and moves to leave his chair before Schuyler shatters his dreams. "You better check your privilege Bobby." Schuyler meets these women's eyes. They are Jury's girls. Newly recasted Crow Eaters. They are each in colorfully ripped and creatively exposing dresses to accentuate their ample curves. She gives them a confident wink. "Wouldn't want to go losing the best seat in the house, would you?"

They turn towards each other and giggle some more. By the time they decide how best to approach the rarest of breeds they see before them, Jury calls the escorts to action from across the bar room. One of the girls waves a sly farewell and Schuyler nods to them both in understanding. They slink off the join their next client who was chosen for them.

Schuyler's exchange with the women peaks Juice's interest. He is sitting a fair deal away from her on Jackson's right atop a barstool. But that doesn't keep him from shouting over the speakers. Damn anyone outside their circle who hears it. "Are we playing on the same team?" He wears a crooked hanging smile at the thought.

Schuyler doesn't mind. "I play for both teams. But not much since college." Despite her better judgement telling her she shouldn't encourage them; she finds herself making a less than sophisticated joke for their amusement. "Chicks are crazy."

She earns a hearty laugh from the circle. Juice nearly topples off his perch. Bobby raises his drink to her words. "Cheers to that!"

Sitting in the center of the primary room Schuyler is in the best position to people watch. She has observed roughly 300 bodies pass her by over the course of the celebratory night. A fair percentage has indeed consisted of club members from the various charters who will take any excuse offered to them to throw a rambunctious party. It is second nature for her to filter them from her vision to where she can practically see through them. A smaller percentage has included the escorts or the less professionally regarded hang-arounds who routinely disappear and reappear from the private entertainment suites never with the same partner twice. She, too, ignores these frequenters.

Over half of the guests have been locals or travelers who are merely passing through. Each of these strangers has entered looking to consume enough liquor to give an elephant alcohol poisoning or perhaps have a dance or two. All of whom are hoping for the chance to hook up with a tough but mysteriously attractive biker or one of their equal parts attractive and overenthusiastic fans. These are the guests Schuyler silently observes. She draws no unwanted attention to herself and from a safe distance does not appear to be looking at the guests with the same intentions as her brothers. Her eyes, however, are like that of a hawk. Quietly hungering for its next meal.

A man well into his forties with silver streaks in his hair, who physically appears too well kempt to be walking into a bar in the middle of the night, is one of these random visitors. He has no affiliation and has likely only heard rumors of this establishment from friends of friends and those who are lower than him on the corporate food chain. He wanders in with no set plan in mind for his actions. He takes the time to spin off a wedding band on his left hand careful to deposit it in a pocket of his American cut suit. His eyes scan the layout of the more than casually organized scene until he works up the nerve to find a seat at the bar counter.

But this is not before his eyes find Schuyler's own blue pair, which had already captured him in their gaze, from across the crowded room. Even with five yards between them Schuyler sees his breath get lost somewhere in his chest and the thought that maybe he should introduce himself composes on and quickly dissipates from his clean-shaven face. When he arrives at the bar he orders a bourbon and rotates it slowly between his loosely clasped hands. Occasionally he glances up from a bowl of peanuts to seek out Schuyler.

"Speaking of which…" Schuyler snaps her fingers in an attempt to get the prospects' attention. The boy is sitting on the arm rest of Chibs' couch opposite the older man. He has sat there since Clay disappeared into the back of the house with Cherry. This was not long after Cherry introduced herself to the prospect and the two got acquainted. Clay took the beautiful woman out of Half-Sack's arms in the middle of a slow dance. Since then, Half-Sack has moped around the whole night but continuously sought after another woman to help him forget the one he is not allowed to have.

Now a young woman with a dark complexion and equally dark hair is straddling his hips and Half-Sack has no intention of letting her go. He frees his mouth from her soft skin long enough to dismiss the demeaning gesture. "Piss off!"

"Prospect," Schuyler raises her voice over the music to reprimand his speaking out of term. Half-Sack knows she is serious.

Even as he pushes the worker from his lap, he protests pitifully. He stands up to face her, raising his hands clasped together up with him. "Come on Sky! I was so close with that one."

Schuyler stands to remove her vest. She lets her gaze linger towards the bar as she walks around the coffee table to pass the junior member her most valued possession. A sign of trust as much as it is an assignment to a task. "We can take turns. I'll go first because I have seniority."

"The hell are you handing me this for?" Half-Sack clutches the material in a single hand. He looks not unlike how a husband might look when unwillingly holding his wife's purse.

"The poor boy's already skittish as is and I'm plenty opposing without it. Don't worry, I won't be long."

"Boy?!" Juice follows Schuyler's gaze hoping to see her looking at another woman only to be disappointed by the man he sees is panting over her. "The one gawking at your ass. He's old enough to be my grandfather!"

"Hardly!" Schuyler rounds on her younger sibling, annoyed, in the same motion that she shoves Half-Sack back onto his armrest to ensure he will not wander off. "I'm working out my daddy issues."

Schuyler steps through the seated group. She is walking with a particular swing in her hips that none of her brothers has ever previously noticed or considered before. Schuyler runs her fingers through her short hair once during her approach. She is wearing tight black skinny jeans and an equally slim fitting dark blue shirt with sleeves that reach her wrists. Her ribs connect with the edge of the bar when she comes to a stop in front of the out of place man. Said man is at a loss as to why a twenty something year old would ever bother to look at him twice.

"Are you going to buy me a drink?"

The man starts with a stutter. "Sure, suRE!" His voice rises as he speaks to compete with the bustling of bodies, clinking of glasses, and a guitarist who hits a solo over the loudspeakers. "What are you –," The man clears his throat, "what are you having?"

"Whatever it is you happen to be having sugar." Schuyler wonders if the man has tattoos and definitively deems that he does not.

A drink is offered to Schuyler by a bar keep. It goes ignored.

"This your first time in Indian Hills, stranger?" Schuyler bats her eye methodically.

"Am I making it so obvious? I'm from the city. I'll only be here for one night."

"Me too. Funny how things work out." Schuyler says this as a promise to the man that he will never see her again and that whatever transpires between them will never last beyond sunrise.

He visibly relaxes the longer they speak and even sips lightly on his drink. "Are you, with them?" He glances warily over her shoulder.

Schuyler knows the eyes of her club are attentively on her back. "Why, are they staring? They're harmless. Well, most of them are mostly harmless. Maybe, if you'd rather, we could take this away from prying eyes."

"I think I'd like that," the man responds hesitantly. "I passed a motel a few miles back –."

"Unfortunately, I have to ride back with them. Rules, politics, the sort." Schuyler's voice is authoritative yet calming. "How about, instead, you step down that there hallway and I might just follow you back."

The man partially smiles. "It's not a guarantee you'll be there when I turn around, is it?"

"Let's see what you look like walking away first." Her smile is flirtatious.

The man, who Schuyler hadn't bothered to trade names with, gives one last look over her shoulder. His eyes are wide as he finishes the remainder of his drink. Then he gets up from the stool, turns his back to Schuyler, and walks down the blacked-out corridor, hoping against hope she would follow him.

Schuyler is pleased. The man is willing to take her directions. She allows him to get a head start, if only to collect his thoughts, knocks back her own drink in a single shot, and saunters down the long hall after the stranger.

Jackson, back in the circle, is impressed with his sister's diligence. "Wow. That was quick."

"That was awesome," Juice, who had been watching his friend in action – not unlike how he would have observed one of his brothers for tips he himself could implement – was in awe. "He was like a doe in the headlights."

Half-Sack grumbles bitterly. "Surprised she didn't order more booze to tap that corporate shill."

Chibs, who had remained passive, intensely fixates on the man's age. He can't help but wonder if the woman made a habit of sleeping with men who were noticeably older than herself. The thought stays with him as long as he is alone. It leaves him as soon as a brunette picks his hand up off the armrest and leads him to a private apartment of his own.

Schuyler returns to the group with her hair pulled back in a conspicuous ponytail less than twenty minutes later. She traces the same path to the couch that she had used to leave. She briefly notices Chibs has left the circle and finds herself disappointed. The realization of this leads her to pointedly note Bobby has fallen asleep in his chair. She expects many more patrons are soon be following in his lead.

Jackson is the first to notice her. "Where's your sex hair?"

"I wouldn't give you fucks the satisfaction." She takes back her vest from Half-Sack.

His only words to her are, "Guess he didn't last long."

"Told you he looked old," Juice comments crudely.

"Neither of you know the meaning of the word." Schuyler slides the leather over her arms. "Besides, I made a promise to Prospect and I'm willing to keep it. Give it here."

"What, really?" Half-Sack questions, already shucking off his kutte to hand over.

"Just a couple gal pals holding each other's purses. Go on before she finds someone with more balls." Schuyler folds the article of clothing in half to cover her arms. He runs off to catch up with the Latin woman he had sent away. Schuyler has every intention of reclining against the couch and relaxing back into the conversation. Until, she spots the man, whom she had left in the suite, creep out from the corridor.

The man makes a break for the exit . She lets him reach the center of the floor and line up parallel with herself. Then she yells to him over the music, saying, "You be sure to tell wifey I said, 'Hey'."

The man freezes as if he doesn't know how to continue. He feels a thousand eyes on him from anyone who is still conscious in the front of the house, and laughter rises like an impenetrable fortress from the earth to entrap him. He bolts out the teal doors. It's safe to assume he will not become a regular at the brothel, as was Schuyler's intention.

Not long after, and the atmosphere of the club alters for a second time. Someone behind the bar managed to turn the radio down to an even lower murmur sometime after four. No one has ordered drinks in quite some time and the billiard tables are no longer in use. It is safe to assume each of the suites is full and not a single couch is left unoccupied. No one is left standing as everyone has succumbed to sleep. Some have even passed out on the floor or are lounging across the crew's sacred table.

Alone in the once full circle, Schuyler sees Half-Sack has fallen asleep on a pool table. His clothes are askew in strategic places and the Latin woman is unconscious atop him. Schuyler finds herself smiling despite the obscenity of the scene. Both Jackson and Juice have since disappeared with a girl or two each on their arms and there is no sign of their immediate return. Schuyler no longer has an obligation to remain inside the brothel.

She plans to sneak out the door. Avoiding heads and fingers like landmines on her way and prop herself on her bike with her smartphone until the sun comes up. Then movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention.

Chibs staggers out from the corridor. A little more tired and intoxicated then when she last saw him. He fumbles a joint from his kutte, as he managed to successfully replace every article of clothing onto his person after the encounter with his latest conquest, and he returns to the cluster of furniture.

He plans to sit in his originally chosen seat and let his exhaustion consume him. Then he spots Schuyler in the circle. Alone and painfully awake. She is more aware of her own surroundings than he knows himself to be. For a moment he is conflicted, unsure whether he should offer her space or his company.

"Surprised to see you're still standing."

"Do ye mind?" Schuyler indicates for him to take the place beside her on the loveseat. When he sits, she suddenly finds the piece of furniture oddly cramped though not in an entirely negative way.

Schuyler watches him smoke and comes to the conclusion that it has been some time since they had last spoken. She's been awake for going on twenty-four hours, but for the life of her she can't figure out why or why the discovery should trouble her. "This your first Patch-Over?"

"Nope." Chibs' takes a drag.

"Me neither." And now she realizes why. "Think I'll finally go see Jax's kid this week."

"Already a handsome bairn." Chibs avoids Schuyler's eyes. He is unclear, in his compromised state, how to engage with the younger woman appropriately.

"He doesn't take after his father at all." A good laugh is enough to break the tension. They relax into the sofa a little more.

Schuyler turns to face Chibs. She hikes her knee onto the couch to make the distance between them feel a bit smaller. She notices something different about his appearance. More specifically, he has added a piece to his attire. A brown beaded rosary. Schuyler can't recall ever seeing him wear it. She is absolutely certain he hadn't been wearing it when she left with the stranger. It crosses her mind Chibs may have donned the accessory in the aftermath of his less than Christian act. The thought, though she finds it ridiculous, doesn't seem so ridiculous while she is sleep deprived. On the contrary, she finds it rather endearing.

Its Schuyler's hushed laughter that brings Chibs to face her. He is unsure why she is laughing. Then he sees she is staring at the beads resting on his chest. "Do you find me amusing?" A hand levitates to count several beads subconsciously. His voice is guarded as he prepares for an answer he may not like.

Schuyler smiles politely. She picks up Half-Sack's kutte that had been lying folded beside her. By doing so, she more or less naturally slides into Chibs' sphere. Her feet return to the hardwood floor and Chibs startles in his stupor when her leg unexpectedly settles along his. When she turns to face him again, she leans in close. Close enough to smell him, but also smell someone else on his skin and she knows he smells the same on her. "No, no. Not at all," she whispers in his ear. Then she pulls back far enough to gaze into his eyes. His eyes, she discovers, are brown. "Well, maybe just a little bit. A healthy amount." She considers his lips. "I assure you."

"Is that all?" The beads drop from his grasp and he considers leaning in to embrace her.

The exchange is over in an instant. She stands from the couch and crosses the room.

His eyes are on her as she walks away. Raking over her naturally blond hair, the Reaper on her back that stands as a warning (to him, in this moment, as much as to anyone else), and her hips that are swinging in the same fashion they were when she confronted the man at the bar. Chibs believes it is a more natural walk for her than her usual posture. The posturing she conducts herself with when surrounded by men who would take any sign of femininity as a weakness they could craft into a weapon to use against her.

Schuyler stops at the pool table Half-Sack is dozing on. She lifts his head gently and slides his vest underneath him. She looks back at Chibs and knows his eyes have been on her. The quirk of her eyebrow communicates she wants him to continue watching. Then she disappears out the teal doors.

Chibs' lips part slightly in a look of thoughtful contemplation. His mind flickering between new and old beliefs.

A delivery truck labeled Unser Shipping arrives on the scene mid-morning the following day. It parks halfway between the barn and the brothel jerking to a halt. Tig and Happy emerge from its cab. One is noticeably more eager to enter the establishment than the other.

"Where the hell have you been Trager?"

Schuyler is reclining backwards atop her V-rod. Her arms are crossed behind her head and she doesn't bother to look his way as she lobs insults in Tig's direction. "You missed a serious rager. Too bad no one missed having your chaotic ass around."

"See they kicked you out. Didn't you read the sign? No dicks, no risks, no service."

"Oh, don't you worry about me. I had my fill. And just because he wasn't a risk doesn't mean he didn't serve his purpose."

Tig visibly falters. He actually trips on the first stair. "Piss off!" he throws the expletive over his shoulder in the same moment he rips open the front door.

"Come on! You can do better than that."

Happy continues his menacingly methodical pace, but he does turn his head a crisp ninety degrees and glower at the woman in a sort of greeting. Schuyler raises a peace sign in his general direction. She understands that was Happy being his brand of friendly.

"There you are." Jackson appears from the same door the delivery crew disappear behind. He stomps down the slanted stairs feeling the effects from the night before having only slept a few hours. He crosses the lot and joins Schuyler straddling his Harley. "How long you been out here?"

"Rest of the night." Schuyler sits up. She throws her legs over the same side of the sturdy machine to face Jackson. "Since you and Juice up and ditched me." She had been awake to watch the sun rise. Now the sun is hanging low over the sandy desert and she faces the serene scenery.

"What can I say? You weren't half as entertaining," he replies with a laugh. "Maybe with red hair, I'd consider it."

"You would be so lucky." Schuyler reaches into her travel bag hanging off the back of her bike. She retrieves her emergency pack of cigarettes and offers one to Jackson. Payment for the ones he loaned her the day before. "I can't sleep in places like this." She taps the bottom of the pack and a cancer stick falls into her hand. "No matter how old I get, no matter how much booze gets in me."

"Don't tell me you're homesick." Jackson lights his tube with it hanging halfway in his mouth. "Is it the couches that bother you? Can't imagine sleeping on the bike would be any better."

Schuyler is really quiet for a time. The minutes creep on as the sun climbs higher and the companions take turns blowing smoke rings towards the distant horizon. She finds the way to answer him is to do so while simultaneously popping each and every joint in her hands. Twice. A nervous habit.

"I can't sleep in a clubhouse that isn't my own. Without my brothers on every side of me."

"Oh."

"Yeah. 'Oh'."

"You're careful 'bout what you drink."

"I've only been really hammered a hand full of times," Schuyler admits through gritted teeth. She understands her tendency for caution can be viewed as a weakness in her circles. Until she finds a socially acceptable loophole and she smirks again. "I'm designated driver."

"That why I always see you turning down dope?"

"I hate weed. It doesn't agree with me." She rubs her tired eyes. "I know my limits."

"Most of us don't." Jackson throws his leg over the bike to mirror Schuyler. He inhales smoke and holds it in his lungs. "Has it always been like this?"

Schuyler can feel Jackson's eyes on her as she avoids looking directly at him. There's a question on his mind that he feels he should ask but he doesn't quite know how to put it into words.

"I'm never one to be caught off guard."

Jackson exhales slowly. "Has anyone ever tried –"

"No." Her eyes don't stray from the morning light. "I've never experienced anything close to what you're imaging. Men have tried, sure. And I've heard every threat you can imagine. But no. I'm usually the one breaking that shit up. I've seen a lot of it, but never had a direct run-in, you know?"

For the first time since her patching, Jackson realizes how limited Schuyler's access is and how truly ostracized she must feel on a regular basis. Regardless that the reason may be dressed up for her own protection, it's just an excuse. The truth is she is held at arms' length from the club she is meant to be a part of. Always on the outside looking in. "Does that have anything to do with you turning down the company of that Sweetbutt?"

"Don't call her that!" Schuyler doesn't hesitate now to stare Jackson down, correcting his crude choice in language.

"Sorry." Jackson raises his hands in surrender. In the process he drops his cigarette and stamps it out.

"Another necessary precaution," Schuyler explains. "I had to write my own bylaws. No hang-arounds, no patches, no clients. Hell, did that once and the dumbass is still calling me."

"No shit. You leave him sweating?" Jackson ventures to make a joke.

"He was a high school friend who slipped through the cracks."

Jackson admires the woman across from him. He knew she was resourceful but hadn't imagined she could be so strong. He finds himself not wanting her to feel on the outside of his club. Outside of her own chapter. He wants her to feel as safe in California as she did in Texas. "I want to show you something."

They leave without a word to anyone else at the compound. Jackson knows the exact location he wants to go without having to consult a map. Less than a mile from the Nevada border underneath an overpass there is a hovel in the middle of the desert. Jackson and Schuyler park their bikes above said overpass. Jackson straps his overnight bag to his shoulders and the duo trek under the bridge together.

"There's this place dad use to go," Jackson begins as they descend the shifting terrain. "Said he was hiking along the border one day. Stumbled upon it."

The two duck out of the Nevada sun. Jackson walks the length of the wall and stops to wipe his bandana over the sand dusted stones. "First place he read this. The words that started it all."

"Anarchism," Schuyler reads aloud. Standing side by side they read the long quote in comfortable silence. "I don't remember Eddie ever mentioning this in any of his stories. Do you think JT ever brought him here?"

"I know if he shared this place with anyone, it was with your old man." Jackson watches Schuyler trace the last few letters of the writting with a finger. A hidden relic of their collective history. "I just found out about this place myself."

"How'd you manage to do that after so long?"

"I was getting some stuff out of storage for my son." Jackson says while shifting his weight on his feet. He clutches the satchel to his side a bit tighter. "Came across John's old boxes. Pictures, journals, that stuff. I remembered reading about this and wanted to check it out. Said it "lit a rebellious fire" inside him. When he read it, he would have been the same age I was when he died…"

"Why are you telling me this Jax?" Schuyler's voice is sympathetic, her eyes comforting.

"I wanted you to see this, to remind you of what our dads'," Jackson indicates the wall beside them, "wanted for the club. Social order and the free grouping of individuals. Not tyranny."

"You wanted to prove to me Clay is losing his way."

"He doesn't give a shit if the Mayans roll right through Indian Hills. I need your help to make sure we stick around long enough, so that Jury has some back up when they do. We're not going to start turning our back on our brothers."

Schuyler ponders his words. "Well now. Who says we have to wait around for the Mayans to make the first move?"

"How do you mean?"

One town over from Indian Hills is where the clubhouse of the Mayans MC Nevada chapter resides. Jackson knew the precise routes to take in order to avoid being seen. The pair drives right up to the rivals' front door and idle their bikes.

Schuyler leaves the key in the ignition and leans her bike on its kickstand. With her helmet still on, she pulls her riding gloves tighter and walks to the end of a line of Mayans' customized motorcycles. She places her foot on the tailpipe of the first bike. A few feet away she is barely able to understand the words Jackson says into his prepay over the running motors.

"Looks like Jury is going to have back up when the Mayan shit goes down." Jackson pauses as he receives an answer. "I'm on my way back. And I'm not alone!"

Jackson stashing his flip phone is the cue she needs to use all her strength to kick the motorcycle over. It falls into the one beside it. A domino effect occurs knocking over four more.

Schuyler hops on her motorcycle. She stands straddling the machine to close the kickstand. Meanwhile, Jackson revs his engine louder and louder. Schuyler stands tall on one foot on top of the bike's seat, lifting the other in the air mockingly exhibiting her ability to balance, as the bar's doors are flung open in a hurry. Mayans pour out in drones as the blonds peel out of the parking lot. Schuyler, in her rush to drop to the seat, still manages to put on a show. She catches air, popping a wheelie as she ramps over a curb. This move puts her on the open highway, and she clears past Jackson who had had a head start. She catches sight of him fisting the air in her sideview mirror.

The compound enters their collective view, but the layout has been altered. The truck hauling the product has been relocated and there isn't a single motorcycle in the parking lot. The barn doors are closed, which would explain the lack of vehicles, and the windows are shuttered on the brothel. The bar cleared the way for the duos' arrival.

Schuyler banks a hard right when she enters the lot and her back-wheel slides about twelve inches sideways before dangerously coming to a stand-still. She proceeds to rev her engine calling for the doors to be opened. Jackson appears beside her equally in control of his ride.

The two bikes ramp up the slanted staircase when the bar's doors are flung open on their hinges and drive straight through the center of the bar room. They hastily whip off their helmets and reach for their weapons at the same time the enemy enters the compound. Ammunition is sprayed clean through the open doors as the allies duck out of the firing zone.

The blonds join the battle. With the Mayans stationary in there firing squad, the collective members storm out of the bar. Several Sons flank alongside the compound wall and flip the picnic tables over on their sides to use as protective shields. A second wave files into the lot. Jackson and Tig act as human shields for the two Presidents who duck behind a civilian's car parked at the front for additional cover. Schuyler and Bobby move in the option direction and stand in front of a passerby's truck to return fire.

The SOA had a plan to tip the scales in their favor. From behind the bar, a secondary group appears holding double barrel shotguns that were stored in the bar. Happy is leading them as the group draws closer and closer to box the enemy in from both sides. One of the Mayans takes a bullet in the shoulder, another catches a shot in the ribs, and all their bikes are shredded from the surprise attack. The Mayans, severally outnumbered by the residing members, turn tail and flee the premises.

As the enemies leave, they continuously pop off rounds. Needles takes a bullet in the leg and drops in front of the teal doors. Schuyler lowers her pistol momentarily only to feel her left arm start to burn. Blood drains where a bullet grazed near her left elbow and lodged inside the truck's body behind her. She feels Bobby pull on her shoulder from behind and lets him drag her behind the vehicle.

The hail storm of bullets dies as abruptly as it started.

The Sons' regroup inside the brothel's primary room to find the building sustained most of the damages. Needles is taken to an apartment room to have the bullet removed and his wound patched up. Schuyler wraps a gray bandana she keeps in a pocket of her kutte around her arm and it eventually stops bleeding. The guns were transported safely to the compound, the bikes are undamaged, and the club is, luckily, completely intact.

"How does that feel?" Jackson sits next to Schuyler on a barstool. Clay is on the other side of Jackson and acknowledges his question waiting for Schuyler's reply.

"Not even worth wasting a Band-Aid over. It's no fun if it doesn't leave a scar, right?"

Jury saddles up to the bar with an update. "Cleared the Chief's book debt. We're covered. What happens now? I'm probably gonna lose a couple more guys 'cause of this."

Clay's words are not half as comforting as he means for them to be. "Well there won't be another hit for a while. That pop-off was only about dick size. They wanted to let us know they're watching."

Jackson extends his consideration where Clay failed to. "Vegas will stick around for a while. Until the Mayans get the message about your status increase."

"Appreciate that." Jury and Jackson nod in mutual forgiveness and understanding.

Clay stands from his stool. "Brother." He embraces Jury.

Jackson stands to do the same. He whispers apologetically to Jury. Then Jury walks away to tend to his maimed establishment.

"You two want to tell me what the fuck happened out there?" Clay's glare in unyielding when he is once again surrounded by his own people.

"It was my fault Clay." Schuyler takes the fall. "I didn't sleep a wink last night. Wanted to go for a ride to clear my head. Jax wouldn't let me go alone. I didn't know the routes to avoid and they spotted me first."

"That's right," Jackson confirms. "You saw the rest play out."

From a distance, Chibs and Tig approach to join the conversation seeing their charter regroup to formulate a game plan. Tig nods a greeting to Schuyler and she allows the two of them to enter into the inner circle.

Tig nods at Schuyler's injury. "Bet the other guy looks worse."

Schuyler jokes, "The other guy won't be able to sit for a few days." The two share a brief laugh.

Clay refocuses the conversation by laying out the works. "Juice will stick around and watch over the AK assembly."

Tig offers, "I'll have Vegas bring up some illegals. You know, help him out."

"Oh, and," Clay's tone is completely serious. He directs Tig's attention to the corridor where three scantily clad women emerge, sauntering into the light. Tig's reward for driving the cargo truck. "I got some helpers for you."

"No, really?" Tig feigns a look of wonder and surprise.

"I know."

"I love you."

"You don't deserve it."

"No, I love all of you. Yes, I do. Come here." He breaks from the group to wrap his arms around each of the women's waists. "Uno, dos, tres, let's go!" Tig cackles madly all the way down the corridor into one of the apartments furthest away.

"You stick around, will ya," Clay asks of Chibs. "Make sure him and Juicy get some work done. They don't come back with any new acronyms on their health records."

Chibs answers him with a resounding chuckle. "You got it." He is more than happy to loiter in Jury's stable for a while longer. He hits Jackson on the back and nods to Schuyler to bid them goodbye. Then he walks off to locate Juice.

Jackson has a request to make of Clay. "Look, I wanna go back to see the kid. I'll ride with Happy and his guys."

"I'd like to head back too. That is if you don't need me to stick around here boss," Schuyler states more than she asks permission. "I do good to keep my eyes open for thirty-six hours. Any more, and I'll be pushing it."

"You did what you came here to do. You're relieved of duty."

As the two companies stroll off Clay walks back to the bar and takes a seat beside his Secretary. "How's he doing?"

"Hard to say," Bobby replies.

"What about Schuyler? Did she cop to anything?"

"Told me I was imaging things," Bobby says with a cocked eyebrow.

"I got anything to worry about with them?"

Bobby takes a deep, steading breath. "Not yet."

Author's Notes:

How closely were you paying attention while reading? Did you notice that Jackson considered revealing his father's manuscript to Schuyler only to pull back in the last minute? What does this mean for their developing friendship?

Don't sleep on the fact that the bandana Schuyler keeps with her is gray, who knows when that nugget of information may be relevant. And, yes, she has officially come out to a majority of the club as bisexual. More jokes of this nature and Schuyler's attempts to curve her brother's less than PC opinions will start to flow from this point onward. It all has plot relevance!

Does Schuyler's approval of Cherry mean anything for her relationship with Half-Sack? And what does it mean for Schuyler's standing with the charter if Bobby and Clay seem to be keeping a close eye on her?

Find out the answers to all of your burning questions in the next instalment of TROD!