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Come With Me Tonight	By : copperleaves Category: S through Z > Sons of Anarchy Views: 2633 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Sons of Anarchy, and I'm sure as hell not making any money off of this. I do own Olivia Gable and any characters associated with her history.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
note: this is an au/alternate timeline story, kind of a fix-it fic, that starts early in s2. It's my first SoA fic, and I'd love some feedback. :)

we can lose ourselves

not find our way back home

till the whole world feels just like a saturday night

without a care in the world

without a net underneath us

floating through the air

high as a kite

hey hey my my

you're as pretty as the big blue sky

hey hey it's alright

cause, baby, you can come with me tonight

Bob Schneider, "Come With Me Tonight"
The bar wasn't a usual haunt, but that was the point. It was outside of Charming, and as far as Juice knew it wasn't frequented by any MCs or gangs or anyone he was looking to avoid. He could have a beer in peace before he had to head back to the clubhouse for church. Sometimes, as much as he loved the club and his brothers, he felt sort of…separate from everyone else. He didn't mind being the butt of everyone's jokes; not really; but every once in a while he needed a break.
He slid up onto a stool, and as he tried to get the bartender's attention his eyes landed on a black leather wallet lying on the bar. He looked around. The stools on either side of him were empty, and the wallet looked abandoned. He thought about handing it over to the bartender, but he wasn't sure he trusted the guy not to steal any cash inside and then just toss it. This place wasn't just off the beaten path: it was also a total dive.
Juice flipped the wallet open and tugged the license out of its pocket. New Mexico. A woman, Olivia Jameson Gable. Jameson. Strange middle name for a woman. Maybe it was her maiden name. The picture was good, he thought; she was pretty in an old-fashioned kind of way. Light red hair. Green eyes. Pale skin. Freckles across her nose. Her height was listed at five foot three. A quick mental calculation told him she was twenty-nine years old.
He cleared his throat and slid the license back in place. He raised his head and looked around, eyes peeled for short redheads with freckles. It didn't take long before he caught sight of her down the bar a bit. She seemed to be alone, and she was drinking something that looked like bourbon.
He approached her warily, and when she glanced his way he offered a smile. "Hey," he said, but she held up a hand before he could say anything else.
"Thanks, but I'm not interested. I'm just fine drinking alone."
A crease formed between his brows. "Uh, yeah, that's cool, I, uh, I found this down the bar." He held out the wallet. "I took a look at the license, and I think it's yours."
"What?" She patted either side of her black leather jacket and her eyes went wide. "Oh shit. Wow, thank you, I didn't even realize I'd left it." She took it from him and opened it. Shook her head and tucked it away. "What a ditz."
"Nah, it happens." He hesitated. Then, "I'll leave you to your drink."
"Wait, hang on," she said as he turned away. He swung back toward her, and she flashed a brief smile. "I thought you were hitting on me. You're not hitting on me, are you?"
"I just figured you'd want your wallet back," he said with a shrug.
She studied him a moment, her head tilted and her eyes probing. "Yeah, okay." She jerked her chin toward the stool next to her. "Let me buy you a drink. I don't think there're many people in this place who would've given it back at all, much less intact and without creepy strings attached."
"I thought the same thing." He slid up onto the stool, and she waved down the bartender. He paid attention to her, Juice thought and rolled his eyes.
"Another bourbon, neat, and whatever he's having," she said.
"Beer. Whatever you got on tap," Juice said.
The bartender gave him a long, lizard-like blink. "We ain't got Dos Equis if that's what you're after."
Juice opened his mouth, but the girl was there first. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Ain't got spic beer," the bartender drawled.
She huffed out a laugh and glanced from him to Juice and back again. Casually reached into her back pocket and pulled out what looked like a set of brass knuckles.
"You gonna punch me, little girl?" the bartender said with a leer.
"No, baby," she said, her voice going low and smooth like honey. She flicked her wrist and a six inch blade flipped out. She set the knife on the bar and smiled. "But if you don't give my friend his fuckin' beer I might give you a few interesting new piercings. Tell me, sugar. You know what a Prince Albert is?"
He grunted, but his eyes were trained on her knife as she spun it in a lazy circle. "No," he said.
"Google it. But first get the man his drink."
He looked at Juice, wide-eyed, and Juice grinned. "It's a metal bar through your dick, man. I'd do what she says."
The bartender turned pale and stumbled away. He was back in a flash with a glass. "It's Coors. All we got on tap tonight."
"Coors sounds lovely," she said with a brilliant smile. She closed the knife and stowed it back in her pocket. "We appreciate your prompt and friendly service."
"Crazy bitch," he muttered, but only once he'd turned away and thought she couldn't hear. He hurried down to the other end of the bar to help some customers there, and Juice let out a gusty sigh.
"Holy shit," he said. "I'm glad I wasn't hitting on you."
"I wouldn't really have stabbed him," she said. "Or you, for that matter." She took a sip of her drink and grimaced. "That probably looked completely psycho."
"Surprisingly, no. I've got a buddy," he said, thinking of Happy, "who would've shot that guy just on principle."
Her mouth quirked. "I'm glad you left him at home then."
"Yeah, me too."
A silence fell between them, and her eyes felt hot on his face. They were light, a spring green, and her features were stronger than they'd looked in her license picture: straight nose, full mouth, a dimple in her chin when she smiled just the right way. Her hair was long—way long—and she had it divided into three braids along the curve of her skull, and then plaited into one heavy rope down her back. Her skin was so pale he thought it would show every emotion, every mark, every handprint—
He cut the thought off before it could go any further.
"I'm Juice," he said and held out his hand.
She slid her palm into his and the dimple flashed. "Olivia. But I guess you know that from my license."
"Nice to meet you. Thanks for the beer."
She laughed and dropped his hand. "What, no thanks for defending your honor?"
"That, too." He grinned wide enough to make his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I'm not Mexican, though. I'm Puerto Rican."
"Ohhh shit. Well let's call him back and I'll apologize. Clearly your honor was in no need of defending."
"Nah." He waved a hand. "I think he needed the shit scared out of him by a crazy redhead with a knife. Probably did him good."
"Nice," she said, "thanks."
He shrugged a shoulder and took a pull from his glass. "So. New Mexico, huh? You just passing through?"
She made a low noise and her eyes flicked away. Back. "Just moved here, actually. For a job."
"Oh yeah? What do you do?"
"Um, I'm a mechanic."
"Huh. Me too. I mean, sort of. I work at a garage, but I'm really more the IT guy."
She slanted him a look. "The IT guy at a garage?"
"I look after the security system and the computers and everything. Somebody's gotta do it, and most of the people I work with only know how to use a computer for porn." He winced as soon as he said it, but she didn't seem to care.
"Better you than me," she said with a rueful grin. "Hand me a box of computer parts and I'll build you Hal 9000, but once you turn that fucker on I gotta tap out. Computers and I are like oil and water."
"Must make working on newer cars tough."
"That's why I prefer classics. I like to get my hands dirty."
Something about the way she said it made him choke on his drink. He coughed and cleared his throat, but when he looked at her her expression was innocent. Maybe he'd been imagining things. His brow furrowed as her words penetrated and something clicked. "Was that your car in the lot? The Cougar with the New Mexico plates?"
"Yup. That's my guy. Rebuilt him from practically nothing." She studied him over the rim of her glass. "You aren't acting as surprised as I thought you might."
"Ahh…" He rubbed a hand over his scalp. He'd just seen her threaten the bartender with a switchblade, and she was wondering why he wasn't questioning her about being a mechanic? "I guess I don't want you to stab me," he said and flashed a smile.
"Right," she said with a twist of her mouth. Or maybe, she mused, he just wasn't an asshole. Surprise, surprise. Stranger things had happened.
He was cute, she thought, despite the dumb mohawk and scalp tattoos. She figured he must be pretty well inked up, but the black hoodie he wore zipped to his throat covered any others he might have. Gang? Maybe. But somehow he didn't give her that vibe, despite the big knife hanging from his belt. A banger probably would've pulled down on the bartender, and he hadn't—assuming he was carrying, and she had a feeling he was.
"It's, what, a '70?"
She blinked and ran his last question over again in her head. She'd missed most of it, but she had the gist. "Good call," she said. "My grandpa had a '69 when I was a kid, and I grew up wanting one, but then I saw the '70."
"The grill's better. Classier, I guess, but still kinda grungy."
"Grungy," she said, turning the word over in her mouth. "Yeah, exactly. I think it's a grungier car than something like the Mustang or the Thunderbird. A little rough around the edges." Her mouth quirked. "The '69 is rougher in some ways, but I guess I like a little style with my grunge."
A thousand things popped into his head. He was glad she hadn't been insulted by his description, and he couldn't help but wonder about the kind of woman who carried a brass knuckle switchblade (and wasn't afraid to whip it out) and liked her car "rough around the edges." He had to clear his throat again, this time to stall while he gathered himself.
Finally he struck on something suitably banal and said, "You're probably too short to hit your head on the claw under the hood."
She pulled a face. "One of the few times my height has been an advantage. That thing is a danger to itself and others."
Her voice trailed away as the sentence ended, and her eyes were trained on a spot near the door. "It, uh. It's tripped up more than a few people, like some kind of, um…booby trap."
Juice frowned and followed her gaze. His scowl deepened. The bartender was talking to two other guys, and he was gesturing their way. He was glowering and—Juice was no lip reader, but it didn't take a genius to tell—cussing like a sailor. His buddies looked mean. Big and mean.
"Maybe we should get outta here," Olivia said.
He whipped around to stare at her. "What, together?"
She regarded him through cool green eyes. Lifted a brow. "I really don't want to have to stab anyone tonight. Do you?"
"Good point." He slid off the stool and reached for his wallet, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Fuck it," she said. "Ludo owed you that fuckin' beer."
The three heavies were making their way through the crowded room toward them. She tugged his arm and the two of them cut around the other side of the U shaped bar. Juice unzipped his hoodie and a quick glance confirmed her suspicion about a gun. Well. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, but it was good he had it just in case. They made it through the door and into the parking lot, but they both knew the guys would probably just follow them. And a parking lot was a much better choice than a busy bar for assault and battery.
"I'm over here," Juice said and pointed left.
She was parked just behind him, so she walked with him to his bike. "Well fuck," she said when they got there.
The front tire was completely flat. Juice stared at it in disbelief.
"You are fucking kidding me! How did that asshole know this was my bike?"
She knelt in front of it and shook her head. "I don't think it was him. Look."
He peered over her shoulder at the nail sunk deep into the rubber and scowled. "Pretty fucking weird coincidence."
"Um hum." She glanced back toward the building and stood up so fast she almost knocked into him. "I'll bring you back for it later. Come on."
"I can't leave my bike!"
She was already crossing the lot to her car, but she stopped and spun back. "They won't know it's yours. Juice, come on!"
They both heard the squeak-and-swish of the door, and the brief swelling of music from inside the bar. She looked that way with big eyes, and her face told him everything he needed to know. He hurried after her.
She hopped in the car and leaned across to unlock the passenger side, and he slid in next to her. The engine started with a roar that subsided to a purr. She shifted into reverse and gunned it out of the parking spot, then streaked out of the lot. Juice glanced in the mirror to see the three stooges choking on dust and screaming unintelligible obscenities at the Cougar's taillights.
"Guess neither of us are goin' back there anytime soon," Juice said.
She let out a shaky laugh. "It was a shit hole anyway."
"Your life always this exciting?"
"Hah. No, thank goodness." She cut him a look. "Yours?"
"Um, sometimes. I guess."
Her mouth quirked. "I figured, with that piece you've got. Most people don't carry a gun and a blade unless they're expecting trouble."
He hesitated, and she waved a hand. "Forget it. It wasn't a question, just an observation."
He settled back in his seat and decided to change the subject. "You live around here?"
"I haven't found a place yet, so I'm staying at a motel for now. It's just down here." She rolled her eyes. "That's why I picked that dive: close to the motel."
Suddenly Juice burst out laughing. She took her eyes off the road long enough to blink at him. "Sorry, I just—you think he told those guys a girl half his size threatened to stab him? You really think he said that?"
Her lips curved in a reluctant smile. "He probably said it was you. Called upon their shared spirit of racial hatred. Racist Neanderthals unite." She whipped the car into a motel's parking lot and circled the building to park in the back, out of sight of the road. Cut the engine and jingled the keys in her hand. "Home sweet home."
She hopped out and shut the door behind her. He watched from the passenger seat as she crossed in front of the car and stepped up onto the sidewalk. She had her hand on the doorknob when she looked back. "You coming?" she said loudly enough for him to hear from inside the car.
He nodded dumbly and climbed out. She let him in ahead of her and hung the Do Not Disturb sign from the knob before she closed the door and locked it behind them. He glanced around the room: cheap, but clean, with an ugly bedspread draped across an unmade bed and a generic still life bolted to the wall. A suitcase on the low bureau. A duffle bag on one of those fold out luggage rack things. Both pieces of luggage were locked with combination padlocks.
"Most of my stuff's in storage," she said. "I like to travel light. And I don't really like maid service."
He turned to face her and she tugged her jacket off and hung it from the back of a chair. Dropped her knife on the table before she tucked her hands in the pockets of her jeans and offered a wry smile. "Not the usual scenario when you get picked up in a bar, huh?"
"I don't—" He paused and cleared his throat. "Nothing about this is all that usual."
She made a soft noise of agreement. Then, "Would you mind, um,"—she gestured toward the table—"your gun?"
"Oh. Yeah." He shrugged out of the hoodie and stripped off the holster underneath. Set them both on the table next to her knife and saw her relax.
"Nice ink," she said with a glance at his arms. She tapped her head. "Did that hurt? So close to the bone and everything."
He shrugged. "A little, yeah. About like the ribs, but without the tickling. How about you? Got any ink?"
Her head tilted. "Some," she said. "And you're right: ribs are a bitch."
He had a sudden flash of what might be under her button-down white blouse. On her ribs. Other places. He swallowed hard and flicked his eyes back up to meet her sardonic gaze.
"You're cute, Juice, and so far you've been cool. Don't fuck it up now by staring at my tits."
He almost choked. "I wasn't—I mean—I was just wondering about—I mean—" He sputtered on like that for a bit longer until she took pity on him.
"Don't worry about it," she said and stepped closer. "I took a peek at your ass when you went by me a minute ago."
"Guess we're even then."
"More or less."
She recognized the tattoo on his arm. That, combined with the motorcycle, answered the question about possible gang affiliation. Not a gang, exactly: an MC. Around here he'd be SAMCRO, unless he was Nomad. She wondered why he wasn't wearing his cut. She ran over the list of names Big Pete had given her, and his rang a vague bell. She should've paid closer attention.
She reached out and traced a finger over the Reaper, and he shivered a little—whether from surprise or from the feel of her fingers he couldn't tell.
"My old boss was in an MC," she said. Las Cruces Sons charter, she didn't say. "You could call some of your boys to come help with your bike. Better than hangin' around here, and the assholes at the bar would leave you alone."
"I don't know," he said. "It's not so bad here."
A wry smile. "You're just saying that because I didn't stab you for ogling my boobs."
"That's definitely a plus, but I think if you were gonna stab me you would've done it by now."
"Probably." A pause. "I've never actually used that knife on anything living, if it makes you feel better."
"A little," he said with a grin, "but they say there's a first time for everything."
She took another step and was so close he could feel the warmth of her. "They do say that, don't they?" Her eyes searched his face. "It's been a night of firsts. First time I ever threatened to give a bartender a Prince Albert. First time I ever picked up a guy at a bar. Women, once or twice, but never a guy."
He blinked. "Wait. You're gay?"
"If I were gay would I be about ten seconds away from making out with you? No. I'm bi."
He blinked again. "You're ten seconds away from making out with me?"
"Well I was. Maybe not now." Her eyes narrowed. "You're picturing me making out with a woman, aren't you?"
He pulled a face. "Nooo," he said as he nodded yes.
"Typical." She thunked him on the shoulder with the heel of her hand, and as he twisted away he grabbed her and pulled her against him.
"Didn't your mom ever tell you it's not nice to hit people?"
"My mom's dead."
"I'm sorry," he said, his face softening. "So's mine."
"Nice that we have something in common besides tattoos and a penchant for knives." Her gaze drifted down to his mouth and back up again. She bit her lower lip in a way that made him want to pant. "So are you going to kiss me or are we gonna swap sob stories?"
His hands were on her waist, and he gave a brief squeeze. "I wasn't sure you still wanted me to."
"Hhhmm." She ran the tip of her nose up the side of his neck and took a deep breath. He smelled good, like sandalwood and leather with a hint of beer. Pot, too. A trace. It had been a long time since she'd kissed a man, and even longer since she'd kissed one just because she wanted to.
"This is probably a really awful idea, but what the hell." She closed the last bit of space between them and pressed her mouth to his.

note: sorry for the abrupt ending here! I had to basically cut these first two chapters right down the middle, so ch2 will pick up directly where this leaves off.
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Come With Me Tonight