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Come With Me Tonight	By : copperleaves Category: S through Z > Sons of Anarchy Views: 2631 -:- 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
- 8
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and i had a lover

it's so hard to risk another these days

these days...

now if i seem to be afraid

to live the life i have made in song

well it's just that i've been losing so long

Jackson Browne, "These Days"
If she'd thought things had been crazy before, that was nothing compared to now. Gemma was on the lam, wanted for a double murder. Abel had been kidnapped by some crazy IRA asshole as retaliation for his son's murder.
Sack was dead.
His funeral had turned into a drive by and Deputy Hale had been run down in the street. Olivia had no love for cops, but by all accounts Hale had been a good man—and no one deserved what happened to him.
For her part Olivia was just trying to keep her head down. Customers had slowed to a trickle because apparently the town was fed up with the violence that seemed to follow SAMCRO everywhere. She couldn't blame them, but it didn't make her life any easier. Luckily she'd been able to pick up a few custom jobs, and she was working on one of them when Opie ambled into the garage.
She hadn't seen him in a week or so, and his appearance now made her smile. She kicked the stool his way and it gave a little squeak of protest as he settled onto it. He was silent, as usual, so she bent her head back to her work and let him figure himself out.
"I had heard the rumor, but I didn't think it was true. I had to come see for myself."
She lifted a brow but didn't look up. "What rumor is that, mon ami?"
"About the bike. A pink bike. What the hell is goin' on in here, Ollie?"
She cut her eyes toward him and laughed, low and quiet. "It's a commission."
"Obviously. For who, Liberace?"
"You gonna sit there and heckle me, or are you here to work?"
He made a thoughtful noise and then shrugged. "Might as well. What's up?"
She pushed a bit of side panel and a sketch across the table toward him. "I've already got the stencil on, so all I need is some detail work."
He stared. Blinked. "Is this the ThunderCats logo with a hair bow on it?"
"Uh huh," she said with a grin. "A pink hair bow."
"What the hell is goin' on in here?" he repeated, even more dubiously.
She laughed and handed him a paintbrush. "You know the Pink Kitties?"
"Uh, yeah." He unscrewed the cap on a jar of black paint and dipped the brush in. "That's that all-girl car club down in Lo Di, right?"
"Motor club, really. They have bikes and cars. All classics, nothing new. But, yeah, you got it. This is for their enforcer. Her nickname's Cheetara."
"Huh," he said.
"She just became a full member and got her nickname." She waved a hand. "It's sort of a status thing, I guess. The club chooses your nickname, and you're not really a member until you have one."
"Kinda like getting patched in."
"Yeah, sort of."
He grunted again and went quiet. She was content to work in silence, and for a long time the only sound was the background murmur and hum of the radio. A song she liked came on and she sang along under her breath without even noticing.
"So's this Cheetara that hot blonde you were with the other day?"
"Ha," she said. A flush slipped across her cheeks. "No, that was Kitty Pink. The club president."
"Right to the top. Impressive."
She hitched a shoulder. "We're just hangin' out, really. I mean, she's cute—"
"Uh huh."
"And we have a good time, but we're not, like, a thing."
He held the panel up for her inspection. "Yeah?"
"Good so far. Make sure you get the highlights along the head there."
He made a face. "I grew up on ThunderCats, Ollie. I could paint this blindfolded."
"Mea culpa, good sir. Didn't mean to insult your honor."
"Forgiven. Just don't let it happen again."
She flicked her fingers in a wry salute. "Speaking of cute blondes," she said after a moment, "how're things with Lyla?"
He scowled like the line he was painting had insulted his mother. "Fine. You know. Fine."
"Um hm. Calm down, Ope. Your enthusiasm is gonna blow the roof off."
A brief smile that was more like a glower. She figured the subject was closed, because that's usually as much as she could get out of him about anything, but he surprised her.
"I like her. I mean, I really like her. I just—" He dropped his brush and selected another one. Spent an almost indecent amount of time inspecting the bristles before he dipped it.
She regarded him with brows raised. "What? You…were just diagnosed with a debilitating illness? You're shaving your beard and joining a barbershop quartet? You're giving up on women altogether and will forever live a life of asceticism?"
He snorted. "I don't even know what that last one is."
"Boring as fuck, that's what. But maybe I'm just jealous of some people's self discipline." She waved it away. "You just what, Ope?"
He let out a heavy sigh. "I can't get past the porn. Can't she find something else? Does it have to be porn?"
"Hum." Her head tilted thoughtfully as she studied the lettering she was painting. "Is she in it against her will?"
"No, nothin' like that. I think she even likes it."
She set down her brush and pinned him with a long look. "If that's the case, then how is it your business?"
He stared at her, and she looked back with steady calm. "If we're gonna be together—"
"Opie. Is it dangerous for her? For you? For the kids?"
His face scrunched. "No, not really. It's just—"
"Okay, then. She's a grown woman who's happy in her profession. She makes decent money. She's not being forced to do things she's uncomfortable with. Your problem isn't porn; you consume it, after all. Your problem is you don't like your woman being touched by someone else. With all due respect, buddy: grow up."
"Jesus, Ollie, I thought of all people—"
"What? That I'd agree with you about the evil porn industry?" She shrugged. "A lot of women are treated like shit, and that I do hate, but that's on the producers—who are usually men, thanks very much. But Lyla doesn't fall into that category, and if she's happy then more power to her. A woman's body is her own. If she wants to use it to make money, let her."
Her tone gentled. "She doesn't belong to you, Opie. You can love her and you can want her and you can be her man, but ultimately her life is hers."
"It doesn't really work that way when you're an old lady," he said with an uncomfortable shrug.
"Exactly why I have no interest in being one," she said and rolled her eyes.
"Is that why things didn't work out with you and Juice?" he shot back.
"Well. Talk about outta left field." She grimaced and looked away. "There was nothing to 'work out' between Juice and me. We're friends, that's all."
"Uh huh," he said. "That's why he never even so much as pokes his head in here anymore, and why he's been actin' like his dog died ever since the lockdown."
"Maybe his dog did die," she said acerbically.
"Possible," he said, "but doubtful. I don't think he has a dog."
She let out a small huff of annoyance. "Then maybe he's sad about that. I don't know, Ope. The moods and whims of Juice Ortiz are neither my business nor my concern."
"Whatever you say, Ollie," he said. His smug, indulgent tone was infuriating. "If everything's so copa-fuckin-cetic, maybe you can get him to show you how to use the computer so you can quit hand writin' your goddamn invoices."
"I know how to use the computer," she said with a glare. "I just don't like it, and clearly the feeling's mutual."
He gave a grunt of amusement before his expression turned serious again. "So what about Clay? He said anything?"
"About what?" She shrugged. "Gemma showed him the before and after pictures of my car. That seemed to satisfy him. Right now I think both he and Jax have way more to worry about than one chick mechanic."
"Fuck if that ain't the truth," he said under his breath. There was a quiet moment. Then, "So I'm still wonderin' why you look so nervous all the time."
She cut him a sharp look. "I'm not nervous," she said. "Just, I don't know. Surprised, maybe. Pleasantly surprised. It's nice to be able to do my job in peace. Nice to just…be, I guess."
His eyes landed on the leather cuff she wore around her left wrist. He didn't know what the story was, and he had no plans to ask, but he had a feeling the thick bracelet wasn't just unusual jewelry. He'd never seen her without it, even when she was elbow deep in an engine or washing down a car. He thought she probably hadn't had much chance to "just be," as she put it, and he was glad that was happening for her now.
"Learn to use the computer, Ollie," he said at last. "I'm sick of tryin' to read your handwriting."
That wasn't what she had been expecting, and it surprised a laugh out of her. "Fine," she said, "but I won't be held responsible for the consequences."
He grinned and let the subject drop. He hadn't meant to say as much as he had, really. They got along so well because they both knew when to shut their mouths, and they'd both just broken the number one rule of their acquaintance. She didn't seem troubled by it, though, and she'd given him a lot to think about. He ducked his head and concentrated on his work, content to let her just be.

She'd been staying out of the clubhouse as part of her agreement with Juice. She didn't want to run into him there or make it look like she was trying to make things more difficult for him. As Opie had pointed out, Juice steered well clear of the garage these days, too. They each had their territory, and neither wanted to encroach on the other.
That's why she was reluctant to accept Tig's invitation for a poker game, but he was persistent. He insisted she owed him the chance to win some of his money back and to do anything less was unsportsmanlike. That wasn't the word he used—he might or might not have said fucked up—but it was what he'd meant. He even tried to play the I got shot gimme a break card, but she'd stood firm until he mentioned that a bunch of the crow eaters had gotten together to cook supper for everyone. At that she'd perked up.
Real food? That didn't come out of a greasy bag or a microwave? It was more than she could resist, and ultimately she'd given in.
Everything was going great, too. She was so interested in the food she wasn't paying much attention to the game, and as a result she'd lost the last two hands. Tig was thrilled (even though he hadn't won either of them), and he thought for once he might come out of the night ahead. Or at least even.
Then Juice walked in. He'd been jumped the other day, had his cut stolen, and he still wore the cuts and bruises. She winced when she saw his battered face and ducked her head back to her cards. Bobby invited him to join the game, but he shook his head and wandered toward the food instead. A tall brunette with dusky olive skin and big luminous eyes made him a plate. The way she looked at him had Olivia glaring daggers at the three Queens she held.
It was stupid. They were both adults. She was (sort of) seeing someone else, and it didn't bother her (that much) when the crow eaters fussed over him, as they were wont to do, and for the most part she liked all of them well enough. They gave her a wide berth, as though they didn't know what to make of her, but the few times she'd actually been able to engage one or two of them in conversation it had gone okay.
Except Dana, the one who'd been simpering at Juice for the last few minutes. The woman was a stone cold bitch, and while Olivia could respect that (she could be a stone cold bitch herself, after all), there was something about Dana that just put her off. A ruthlessness. Juice didn't have an old lady, and he was vulnerable. Olivia didn't think Dana was interested in Juice so much as she was in being an old lady, a position notably higher than a crow eater no matter how low on the totem pole your old man ranked. If one of the other club members—someone with more status, say—so much as looked at her, she'd probably drop Juice like a hot potato.
Normally Olivia wouldn't have any problem with such a mercenary attitude—life could be shitty, sometimes, and you had to do what you had to do—but Juice deserved more.
"Ollie," Bobby said. He said it like it wasn't the first time, and she jerked her head up.
"Um?"
"How many do you want?" he said, patiently.
"Oh." She slid her cards across the table. "Two." He dealt them out and she added them to her hand. A Queen and a deuce. Four of a kind, how nice.
A round of betting followed, and she tossed her chips in with a distracted little frown. Juice and Dana were chatting, and she was all over him. Olivia tried to ignore them and pay attention to the game. When it came around to her turn again, they all stared at her with expectant eyes.
She smiled, shrugged, and dropped her cards on the table. "Sorry, guys, I fold. Hand like a foot." She glanced up at the clock over their heads. "Looks like it's about time for me to head out anyway."
"Seriously?" Tig said. "Come on, we're just gettin' started!"
"Sorry, Tiggy. Guess I'll have to rob you blind some other time." She grabbed her work shirt and bag off the back of her chair and started toward the door. "Night, guys. Thanks for the game."
"Night, Ollie," several of them chorused back. Tig sounded despondent.
Chibs followed her with his eyes as she made her way to the door. He watched her navigate the room with studied care. The way she avoided the bar, where Juice and Dana were sitting. The way Dana's hand was perched on Juice's thigh like a mark of ownership.
He nudged Happy, who'd been sitting next to Olivia. "What'd she have?" he muttered.
He flipped the cards and they stared.
"Fuck me," said Tig. "Why the fuck'd she fold?"
"I got an idea," Chibs said, grimly. "Lass!" he called. "Give a mo, yeah? I'll walk you out."
She glanced back with an exasperated frown, but she didn't argue. Chibs considered that progress. He shrugged into his jacket and went after her, and when they met at the door she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.
"Think I'm gonna get mugged walking through the parking lot?"
"It's good manners to escort a lady to her car at night," he said with a grin.
She rolled her eyes and stepped through the door he held open for her. "Right. And you've no ulterior motive at all." She zipped up her coat as a chill wind blew past.
"Ach, well, maybe I needed fresh air." He took a deep breath through his nose. "Ahh, the sweet smell of motor oil and asphalt."
She snorted out a laugh. "Like a whore's perfume."
"Aye, cheap and heady."
They both went quiet, and a few steps later they were at her car. She wondered when he'd get to whatever he wanted to get to, and she hoped to God it wasn't about Juice. If she had to have one more conversation about that she might lose her mind.
"Well," she said. "Glad you were here. That was harrowing."
"You're a real smart ass, you know that?"
"It's a gift."
He grinned and fished out his cigarettes. He held the pack out to her, but she declined, so he shook one out, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. He shoved the pack back into an inside pocket on his jacket and took a deep pull. Raised his head to blow smoke up toward the sky.
"You know, lass," he said, his gaze still trained on the stars, "it's comin' to a point you've gotta make a choice."
Her head tilted. "What do you mean?"
He lowered his chin to eye her. "Either you're part of this club, or you're not. You can't have it both ways."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Chibs."
"No?" He pointed back at the clubhouse with his cigarette. "I saw you in there. And I see you every day. The way you try to avoid talkin' to anyone. The way you hide out in the garage. I know it was a bitter pill to swallow, havin' to stay here for that lockdown."
"I work here," she said, her brow furrowed. "I don't see how that has anything to do with the club."
"Everything has to do with the club, lass. Not just at TM, but in Charming. Did no one tell you that before you came here?"
Her scowl deepened. "What's your point?"
He shrugged. Took a drag. "Simple: either you're with this club, or you're not. And if you're not, it's probably time to move on." He paused. "I don't mean that as a threat, Ollie," he said, his voice softening. "I just mean it would be better if we didn't get attached to you if you're not truly with us. If you might run off any minute."
There was a silence. She leaned back against the car and slid her hands into her pockets. "Is that what you think? That I'm not with you?"
"Doesn't matter what I think. Only matters what's true."
"Why do you care?" she asked with narrowed eyes. "What's your stake in this?"
A long sigh. "Ollie, darlin', not everybody in the world measures things in gains or losses. Not everybody sees the people around them as commodities."
"I didn't—" She broke off with a frown. "No," she said quietly, "I guess that's true."
He flicked the cigarette away and ground it out. Took a step closer, but angled his body so that he was beside her, not looming over her. It was a small thing, but she appreciated it, especially considering what he said next.
"Whatever this man o' yours did to you—"
She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her with a gesture.
"It's written all over you for anyone who has eyes to see. And I'm not askin' about that, not really. I just wanna know: he's dead now, yeah?"
Her eyes were bright, her full mouth a grim line, and her cheeks burned like live coals. She jerked her head once, sharply, and he nodded too, with quiet satisfaction. "Aye, that's good. You take care of yourself, don't you, lass?"
"I always have before," she said in a strained voice.
"And you still do." His mouth twisted, briefly. "Here in SAMCRO, though, we're family. All of us. And we look after our own."
"That's what you said before. The night—" She couldn't go on, and she crossed her arms under her breasts and wouldn't meet his eyes.
"None of that was your fault, Ollie," he said with a sigh. "It was my own bad fucking luck, that's all."
"Right," she said, bitterly.
"Look at me, lass."
Her eyes flicked up to him and she flinched. He was standing closer than she'd reckoned. He lifted a hand in a soothing sort of way. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said.
"I know," she replied. Her face twisted into a glower. "I'm not afraid, Chibs."
He chuckled and leaned away. "Of course you are. You've been afraid for so long that you aren't sure how to live any other way. You can't imagine the person you'd be without all that fear, and what's more, you're scared to find out. But what's the worst that could happen, lass? You stop carrying that pigsticker? You turn your back to the door?"
She snorted and shook her head. "My dead husband's father finds me and strings me up by my thumbnails?"
"That's not gonna happen as long as you're with us. Get it?"
"Really, Chibs? Can you make that promise? When the club president's old lady was raped and the vice president's son was kidnapped? When a prospect was murdered and his funeral was turned into a shooting gallery? When Tig shot Opie's wife and Juice got fucking shivved and half of you might be going to jail any second for shooting up a church?" She had turned to face him, her voice a sibilant, infuriated hiss, and she punctuated each point with a jab to his shoulder. He weathered her burst of rage with a stoic face, and when it subsided he lifted his hands in a shrug.
"It's been a rough year, I'll not lie. But tell me, darlin': are you safer out there, on your own, or here, part of a family that would do nearly anything to protect you?"
"Why?" she demanded, throwing her arms out. "Why would you care about me? I'm nothing to you. I'm nobody. The other charters—it was different. They just let me be and kept the cops off my door."
"We're not other charters," he said. "We're SAMCRO. There's no half way here, Ollie. Either you're in—or you go."
"I don't—"
"No one's sayin' you have to decide right this minute. Sleep on it." He hesitated. "Looks like we'll be off to Ireland for a bit. Maybe you should decide while we're gone. Avoid any messy goodbyes if you decide to take off."
She lifted a brow and matched his steady look with one of her own. "If I'm here when y'all get back, I'm in. If I'm not—" She broke off and lifted a hand.
"Aye," he said with a nod.
She pulled a face and looked away. "I know at least one person who wouldn't shed a tear."
"Och, don't mind Jackie boy. He gets his back up and it can be hard to change his mind. Stubborn, aye? Like you."
She hadn't meant Jax, not really, but she didn't correct him. She thought, from the look he gave her, that he knew exactly who she'd been thinking of. She chewed her lip, and when she glanced back her normally bright green eyes were dark and troubled. "What do you think I should do?"
"Well now. That's your decision." He paused. "But." A short sigh. "I think you're safer here. And I think the club is better for havin' you." His face twisted. "Even if you do build pink bikes with kittens on 'em."
It surprised her into a laugh. "They're cheetah cubs."
"Oh, aye. My mistake. And the wee little bows on their heads?"
"Everyone likes to feel pretty sometimes, Chibs. Nothing wrong with that."
"Ah, lass," he said as he laughed, "you are somethin' else. I hope you do stay, and I hope this father-in-law of yours comes after you so I can hand you his bollocks in a sack."
"No. If he were to find me, I'm the only one who touches his balls." She smiled then, sweetly, with a little too many teeth. "I made a promise once."
He stared at her a moment, then inclined his head. "It's important to keep your promises," he said. "Only real honor left in this world."
"True enough," she said with a flick of her brows. It seemed they understood each other completely. "True enough."
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