Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

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
- 5
- 6
- 7
note: so I've noticed a slight rise in hits over the past few days. I'd love to hear from some of you! What do you think...?

well i know it's hard to tell

but I can save you from this spell

i can help you get right through

stick around like super glue
dig them ghosts up from the grave

throw them bones into the waves

oh, baby, you don't have to worry

i'm built for comfort, not for hurry

Bob Schneider, "Honeypot"
Juice could feel her shivering against his back, and he wished he'd thought to offer her his hoodie before they left. She probably wouldn't have taken it. She only took the helmet because he shoved it on her head in the middle of her protests. She was stubborn as hell, and he was beginning to understand why she insisted she wasn't old lady material.
He followed the directions she shouted in his ear. Her house was just inside the Charming town line, but there wasn't anything else near it, really. The houses on her street were far apart and there were no streetlights. He realized with a grim sense of the inevitable that from now on he was going to worry about her out here all alone on this dark, quiet street.
He knew she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment.
Or maybe she would, secretly, but she'd never admit it.
He pulled into the driveway she indicated and cut the engine. The house was a small Spanish style bungalow. The roof was missing tiles (he could tell even in the moonlight) and the yard was weedy. The driveway was cracked and buckled, and he wondered that she let her beloved car park on it.
"It's a work in progress," she said at his look. She took the helmet off and hung it on the handlebars. "Thanks for the ride. Um, I guess...I'll see you later."
"You gettin' rid of me?" he said, lifting his brows.
She hesitated. Frowned. "I just thought—I figured you'd need to get back. For—for Chibs. For the club."
"The club knows where I am if they need me, and Jax said he'd call the minute they knew anything about Chibs."
Her expression clouded and she looked away. "So he was…?"
"Breathing. Unconscious. That's all I know, really." He didn't tell her about the blood. She didn't need to hear about that.
"Come on. Let me take you inside and I'll make you a cup of tea." He held out his arm, but she just stared down at his hand like she didn't understand what he was saying.
"Tea?"
"Yeah. You don't drink coffee, right?"
She looked up at him. Tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention, Liv." He gestured toward the house. "Come on. We can't stand out here in the yard all night."
At last she nodded and started toward the house. She dug in her pocket for the keys, and he couldn't help but notice the brand new, heavy door and the number of locks she had on it. Apparently that had been an early priority. She let him in ahead of her (as she always did; she hated having anyone at her back) and locked the door behind them.
"Well," he said. "You weren't kidding." Definitely a work in progress. There were no walls, just studs. The floors were covered in plastic sheeting, but beneath it he could make out scuffed and scarred hardwood. There was a fireplace on one wall, and she'd managed to keep the original tile intact: white and blue and yellow, surrounded by red terra cotta.
"I hated ripping out all the plaster," she said. "But the wiring is shit. Even if it weren't fifty years old, mice got in and chewed it all to hell. I almost burned the place down the first time I turned on a light. The whole thing has to be rewired.
"Also there's asbestos around the pipes, so that'll have to be replaced. It was either rip out the walls completely or try and patch up all the damage. I figure I'll do a plaster surface over the drywall to get some of the character back."
He hadn't heard anything after asbestos. "Asbestos?" he repeated, alarmed.
She waved a hand. "It's only dangerous if you disturb it, and I haven't touched it. We're perfectly safe. It has to come out for the house to pass inspection, though."
"Oh." A crease formed between his brows. "Where did you learn how to do all this stuff?"
A quick shrug. "Here and there. And I've always been good with my hands."
He opened his mouth to reply but shut it again. It was probably safer if he just let that one lie.
There were two lawn chairs set in the middle of what was probably supposed to be the living room—the fireplace was a clue—and he herded her toward them. "Sit down. I'll get that tea." He frowned. "You do have running water in here, don't you?"
She glared up at him. "Of course I do. Only a microwave to cook with, though."
"That's about my speed. Stay here. I'll be right back." He started toward the kitchen and stopped short. "Where's the—oh." One gap between the studs was a bit wider than the others and didn't have wires running across it. That must be the doorway. This place was like an obstacle course.
"Now you understand how I hurt my arm," she said, and he could hear the smirk in her voice without even looking at her.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered.
The microwave was set on a folding card table. Next to it was a stack of paper plates and bowls, plastic utensils, and two coffee mugs. There was a box of teabags. Some microwave popcorn. Quaker instant grits. Grits? He shook his head, mystified.
He managed to coax water out of the reluctant tap, and a few minutes later he was back with one of the mugs, now giving off mint-scented steam. "Quite a setup you've got here," he said with a nod toward the air mattress he could see through the studs.
She rolled her eyes. "Fuck you, Ortiz," she said without heat.
He grinned and sat down in the other chair. Stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. "Jesus. What a fucking night."
"Y'all get car bombed often?" she said, eyeing him over her mug.
"This is a first."
"That's some small comfort, at least." She gripped the mug with both hands and stared down into the pale liquid. It smelled good. Comforting. Her clothes smelled like smoke even though she'd been far away from the blast. Or maybe Juice's had, and she'd picked up the scent while they were pressed together on his bike.
"I'm okay, Juice, really. You can go if you need to. I'm just gonna take a shower and try to get some sleep."
He wanted to ask her about her issue with the cops, but he figured she wouldn't answer. He knew he didn't want to leave her alone, though. Not yet. She'd been too shaky and out of it since the explosion, and he thought she could use the company—whether she really liked it or not.
"It's okay. I don't have anywhere else to be."
"That's bullshit." She paused. Then, "You and Chibs are close, right?"
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "He sponsored me to become a prospect. He's the reason I'm in the club."
"Oh," she said. When she raised her head the look on her face stopped his heart. "I'm sorry, Juice, I'm so sorry. It should've been me."
"What…? Olivia, no, Christ." He leaned forward and reached for her, but stopped himself. His hand hovered in the air between them before he pulled it back with an awkward little shrug.
"Look, Liv, don't even say that. Fucking Zobelle and his fucking white supremacist dickbags decided to take a swipe at us, and Chibs just happened to be the one to start that car. It could've been any of us. It could've been you. Sack. Ope. Me. Anybody. Don't think—"
His face scrunched and he looked away. Cleared his throat and tried again.
"Don't think for a second that I'd trade you for him. Of course I fucking well wish it hadn't happened at all, but I'd never wish it had been you."
Her bright eyes—the precise green of new leaves, he'd decided—searched his face for a long time. Finally, "But you love him."
"Of course I do. He's my brother."
"Yeah. And I'm nobody."
He let out an exasperated sigh. "I wouldn't trade either of you, okay? You're not nobody. You matter." He broke off. Then, "To me. You matter to me."
"Oh," she said again, softly. She started to say something else, but his ringing phone interrupted her.
He flashed an apologetic grimace and fished for it. "Fuck. It's Clay. I gotta go. Are you sure—?"
"I said I'm fine, Juicy. Go on."
He studied her. "Yeah, okay," he said slowly. "Call me if you need anything. I'll pick you up tomorrow, okay?"
"Tomorrow? Why?"
He lifted his brows. "Your car's at the garage, remember?"
"Oh fuck. Right. I open so get here early."
"Yes, ma'am." He was halfway to the door when he stopped. She'd stood up to follow him—no doubt to lock the door behind him—and the look on her face when he spun back around was wary.
"Don't kill me," he said.
He pulled her to him, one hand on her waist and the other curled in the hair at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were wide, surprised, but not frightened. He took that as a good sign. "I'm going to kiss you," he said, just in case. She could still go for that knife, after all.
Her mouth quirked. "I figured. Get on with it, would you? You're ruining the moment."
He laughed softly and bent his head. Just before their lips met he let his eyes trace over the lines of her face. She let out a breath and a flush spread across her cheeks. When he kissed her, he could feel her smile against his mouth. Her lips were chapped and she tasted like mint and smelled, faintly, of smoke. He drank her in like a drowning man.
She brushed her fingers along his jaw, pressed her other hand to his chest, and kissed him back. She let herself forget everything for a few wild, frantic heartbeats and just enjoyed the feel of his mouth against hers. She wanted him to stay. She needed him to leave.
"I have to go," he whispered, his breath hot on her skin. He kissed her again; pulled her body into him tighter.
"I know." Again. His tongue brushed hers and she pulled away. "I know." But then her lips were on his and they both forgot why it was so urgent that he leave.
He traced a burning path down the side of her throat. Flicked his tongue against her and nipped at the soft skin. She ran her hand over his head and murmured his name.
His phone rang again. He jerked back with a curse. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"Fuck," he said, frustrated.
"It's better. We shouldn't—we're both just upset. This isn't—"
"I know," he interrupted gently. He sighed and pressed his forehead against hers. "Remember what I said. If you need anything—"
"You worry too much."
"That's right," he said. "You can take care of yourself."
"Bingo."
He kissed her again, a quick peck, and straightened. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah," she said, her smile hazy. "Tomorrow."
Her voice stopped him at the door. "Juice?"
He cast a questioning look over his shoulder.
"Be careful. You matter to me, too."
"Yes, ma'am," he said again, with a grin. The door closed behind him and she reset the locks. A moment later she heard his bike start. She stood listening until the engine's growl faded. It took a long time on such a quiet street, but she didn't mind.
Sometimes the silence was unnerving, and she knew tonight would be one of those nights.

He was back at eight thirty the next morning, and he approached her door warily. He hoped she wouldn't be pissed about last night. She hadn't seemed mad when he left, but maybe over night her mood had changed. He took a deep breath and knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Her voice floated to him from inside, telling him to hang on a minute goddammit! He grinned and knocked a third time, harder.
A moment later the door flew open and she glared up at him. "Fuck you, Ortiz. Seriously."
"You told me to be early," he said with wide, innocent eyes.
She spun away and it was only then he realized her hair was down. It hung almost to her hips, a thick wave of red-gold that smelled like mint and…lavender? Yeah. Mint and lavender. It caught the early sun and glinted like molten copper. He thought she looked like one of those paintings. He didn't know enough about art give the idea a name, but the sort of dreamy-looking ones with ladies whose clothes billowed.
"Come in. I'll be another few minutes." She cut a look over her shoulder. "What? You're catching flies."
He shut his mouth with a clack and ducked his head. "Um, nothing. I just—I always wondered—" He stuttered to a stop and pointed at his head.
"Oh. Yeah. I had to wash it last night because of the smell. So. Anyway. I'll be right back."
She wound her way through the studs into the bedroom. He could see a mirror hanging on the back "wall", and it was there she stopped. He watched in fascination as her nimble fingers created two long braids. She groped in her pocket for pins and twisted each braid up into a bun and secured them in place. It took five minutes. Maybe less. He couldn't help but be impressed even as part of him wanted to pull the pins out and unwind the braids and bury his hands in all that hair as he—
Not really an appropriate thought. He ducked his head and turned away, afraid she'd read his thoughts on his face. He should've asked Tig to come pick her up. After last night it was like all the progress he'd made toward getting her out of his head was just erased. He could still taste her. He could swear the scent of her hair still clung to his helmet.
"Hey," she said, "you ready?"
He spun around, pasting on a smile. "Yep. You?"
Her mouth quirked. "I think so."
She had pulled her jacket on over her work shirt, and now she zipped it to her chin. Her jeans, he noticed, had a hole in the knee. He eyed it a moment then looked up at her.
She shrugged a shoulder. "Yeah, I know. They're my last clean pair, though. I've gotta hit the laundromat tonight. Come on." She jerked her head toward the door.
It was a brisk morning, and she was glad for the jacket as she stepped outside. The cool would burn off by noon, she knew. This part of California had nearly perfect weather all the time. In all honesty she missed seasons. She hadn't lived anywhere with four proper seasons in three years or so, and sometimes the constant sunshine and mild temperatures made her antsy—though she had to admit it was a nice change from Las Cruces' searing days and frosty nights.
"I brought you your own helmet so we wouldn't have to argue about it," he said.
"Thanks." She took it from him with a wry grin and strapped it on. She hesitated. "You know, I really hate motorcycles."
He snorted out a laugh. "Jesus, Liv. You really aren't old lady material, are you?"
"Told you."
He regarded her a moment, his eyes intense and dark. Something about that look unsettled her, and it took all her concentration not to squirm. Or blush.
"I don't know," he said, "I have a feeling you're gonna change your mind about that some day."
Her head tilted and her lips curved. "Now why would I do that?" she said.
He shrugged and swung a leg over his bike. "Don't know, Liv," he said over his shoulder. "People change sometimes, don't they?"
She mounted up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He started the engine and revved it a few times before he peeled out of the driveway. She took a deep breath, savoring the bouquet of fresh air and warm leather.
"Yeah, Juicy," she said, quietly so he wouldn't hear her over the combined roar of the wind and the bike, "I guess sometimes they do."

She had lost track of time installing a new transmission in an old Mustang, and somehow it had gotten late without her noticing. She was exhausted after her fitful sleep the night before and she realized she'd forgotten to eat lunch. Her stomach growled angrily and she rolled her eyes. Demanding prima donna.
Night had fallen outside and the lights in the lot were only half-lit. It had been a weird day. Tense and quiet and sad. Not many customers, and some sort of farcical, Keystone-Cops-style attempt to keep a forensics team away from the van's remains. She'd stayed inside and out of sight most of the day. She knew Chief Unser was a friend of the club, but still. She didn't want to tempt him into curiosity.
She locked the door behind her and peeked into the office. Empty and dark. Gemma had probably gone home already, but it was weird for her to not poke her head in the garage to say goodnight. Maybe she was in the clubhouse, or at the hospital keeping watch over Chibs.
Olivia had just turned her back on the building when a voice spoke from the darkness.
"Hey," it said, gruff and weary.
She froze. Slowly reached behind her back and slid a hand into her pocket. She turned toward the speaker, but all she could see was the flare of a cigarette as he took a long drag. Her eyes narrowed. "Who's there? It's not nice to lurk in the dark and sneak up on people."
He snorted and stepped into the light. "It's just me, Ollie. Relax."
Jax. She eased her hand away from the knife and let her shoulders loosen. "You startled me, that's all."
"Uh huh." He held out the cigarette. "You're wound too tight."
She shook her head. He shrugged, took one last puff, and dropped the butt. He lowered his head like the act of grinding it out took all his concentration, but he flicked his eyes up to her face as he blew out a long stream of smoke. His expression was tense, his movements jerky, and she thought if anyone would know about being wound too tight, it was Jackson Teller.
"How's Chibs?" she said for lack of anything else. The silence had grown uncomfortable, so even though she'd been getting updates from Sack most of the day, she figured it was a safe enough subject.
He rubbed a hand over his chin and shook his head. "Still in a coma. They said surgery went well, and at this point it's just a waiting game." His forehead crinkled. "Either he wakes up or he doesn't."
"Ahh," she said on a low breath. Then, "It's late, Jax. What are you doing out here all alone?"
He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. His smile was at odds with the coldness in his eyes, and she shivered. "I was waiting for you," he said. His tone was affable enough, but she didn't trust it.
"Why? Worried I'd get lost in the dark?"
"I don't know. Maybe." He looked toward the clubhouse, but she could tell he wasn't really seeing it. "You know, it's weird. I can't get a straight answer about you from anybody. My mom says to ask Clay. Clay says to ask Gemma. Juice says he doesn't know a fucking thing, even though he follows you around like a lost puppy."
Her back went stiff. "He does not—"
"Come on, Ollie. You don't bullshit me and I won't bullshit you, yeah?"
She let out a breath. "Fair enough," she said, careful to keep her tone neutral.
"All I wanna know is if you're a danger to this club. That's all I care about. You're good at your job and anybody who has an opinion seems to think you're okay."
"Then why are you worried?"
"Why are you afraid of the cops?" he countered.
"Anyone with sense is afraid of the cops."
He acknowledged the truth in that with a wry flick of his brow. Then, turning serious again, "You're avoiding the question. Just like everybody else."
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "First of all, Juice really doesn't know anything, so stop bugging him about it. Secondly, I honestly have no idea how much Clay and Gemma know. I haven't told them anything, and I don't know how much Big Pete said."
"Okay…?"
"I'm here for protection, Jax. Are you down with that or not?"
"It all depends on protection from what."
She regarded him with a keen, wary gaze. The silence stretched so long he was sure she wouldn't answer, and it surprised him when she finally did.
"When I was eighteen years old I ran away from home," she said abruptly. "My mother died when I was fifteen and my dad never really recovered from it. I met a guy—typical—and he seemed too good to be true." She shrugged. "Turns out he was.
"I stayed with him for almost seven years because I didn't have any other choice. I was twenty-four when I finally decided enough was enough, and I ran."
He scowled. "You're on the run from some abusive asshole ex? Seriously? What do the cops have to do with any of this?"
"His father was well-connected. An important man back where I'm from. And a dangerous one," she said after a brief hesitation.
"So you think daddy might've sic'ed the cops on you because you broke his baby boy's heart."
Her mouth twisted. "Something like that."
There had to be more to the story. Something she wasn't telling him. He stepped closer. Loomed over her and glared down hard. When she looked up, her face was smooth, guileless; but he recognized the steely glint in her eye. His mother got that look sometimes. Gemma, though, had never been as deceptively soft as this girl. What you saw with Gemma Morrow was what you got. It was a trait he appreciated.
"I won't let him find me, Jax," she said, her voice quiet but firm.
"How do you know he's still looking? It's been five years."
"He's still looking. I promise you that much."
"He must really love his kid."
"Yeah." Her smile was more like a grimace. "Yeah, he sure as fuck must."
Their eyes met, and she knew he suspected she hadn't been completely honest. And she hadn't been, not by half. It was all just details, though: her own private bullshit to wrestle with; and it was none of his business. Well. Except for one thing, maybe. A detail Jax probably wouldn't consider so minor.
She knew Teddy Flanary was still looking for her because on the day she walked out of their lives forever, she'd shot Teddy Jr.—her abusive asshole ex—three times. Once in the cock. Once in the heart. Once in the head.
Three minuscule flicks of her finger and she'd obliterated everything he'd ever used to fuck her.
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Come With Me Tonight