mainly sugar, minimal spice

He searched for a reason. Any reason to speak to her again, because that interaction, however brief, stuck to him like glue.

Her smile, her airy giggle, the roll of her hips. 

A run in at the grocery store could’ve been easy enough, but she orders in. Another casual run in at the gas station was hopeful, but she never left her apartment. On the rare chance he did see her out, she walked to the corner store and back. No stops in between, always in a rush, fingers covered in the pull down of her sleeves, body tight and tense.

He had a million questions, but only one that mattered, what the hell is her name? 

//

Juice goes in early most days, his inability to fall asleep and stay that way forces him to keep busy. He tends to lay in the silence until the soft sound of bird song carries through his window, a natural alarm that tells him to get moving.

He starts every day the same way. Smoothie, smoke, and a drive. A quick coast around town that still bought him enough time to field the schedule for anything worth the hassle.

Fortunately, the sign he had been searching for was right at the top of the list, printed in black lettering like divine intervention. A new customer.

Violet Bellini, at the exact address he had been casually rolling by twice a day, had requested a pickup for automotive services.

He snagged the paperwork and told himself to play it cool, coaching himself the whole drive there. 

Be cool, be cool, be cool.

The uhaul, stuffed full with the remnants of her old life, sat parked against the curb, parallel with the entrance to the apartment. Behind it, still attached to the tow, was a baby blue Honda Civic too old and dingy to belong to someone with a few thousand dollar custom sports bike.

When he finally caught a glimpse of her, he faltered. He lost words, thoughts, and breath. Black leggings curving up her ass, an athletic long sleeve with a deep v neckline. The view of a too toned hourglass sucked the life out of him.

//

She was in another world trying to communicate with the delivery driver, which was like speaking to a brick wall. He arrived in the foulest of moods and was impatient, insisting she unloaded everything herself and he wanted it done within the hour.

She let out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand down her face as the older man berated her. Her eyes rolled and caught movement in the corner. The breath she was taking caught in her throat. Her expression shifted, leaving nothing but a blank stare, as if waiting to wake up from a very vivid dream. 

Her handsome stranger. Wide grin, honey tinted skin, an adorable mechanic shirt hung loose from his shoulders. He was doing an excellent job at playing cool, inspecting the car with his eyes, flexing his gloved hands and tugging them to his wrists.

Cool, calm, collected.

He moved forward with a skip to his step and only then did she realize he was actually there. She turned from the driver like she was hypnotized, his aura was brighter than the sun and her feet shuffled towards it, powered by curiosity. “Gas station? Right?” 

It was cute, watching her act unsure, as if he didn’t have ten identifiable markers front and center. A fauxhawk and tribal tattoos weren't exactly a style everyone was sporting in this town…or in any town. The only thing he was missing was the goofy matrix sunglasses and a patched leather vest. She pieced him together like a puzzle. The forearm reaper tattoos and small embroidered lettering ‘Juice’ that sat evenly across his chest.

“It’s not just the bike then? You just have a thing for shit that breaks?” He smiled brightly, patting his hand against the burning hot metal so nonchalant.

The heat started at her neck and spread that rosy red color all across her cheeks. She looked like a hot mess and knew it too, but he recognized her. Even with the messy bun, lips chapped and chewed, all out of sorts from scrubbing the apartment clean.

He didn’t even blink before he grinned wider, skin stretched so tight his cheeks burned. The tension in her body, built up by the grumpy man in front of her, was fizzling each moment of prolonged eye contact.

They explored each other shamelessly, mesmerized by the finest details up close.

His gaze was an overly sweetened coffee. Irises rich like an espresso with a delicious touch of cinnamon, warm like they were freshly brewed just for her.

She had freckles, he noticed, a gentle dust of constellations across her cheeks. That’s where his gaze landed and that’s where it stayed. Counting them, losing count, starting all over again. 

“Hello! Hello! Your stuff, now!!” The older man snapped his fingers inches from her face, tone vicious, more than irritated with the young folk having sex with their eyes. 

All the air sucked from her lungs like a vacuum and her arms crossed on instinct, gripping the phantom ache that shot a throb through her biceps. Her face paled, stumbling back from the biker daze she was locked in. Before she could even attempt to find her footing, the young biker teleported between them. His head flung over his shoulder and back again. 

“Think again tough guy, we don’t treat women like that, not in Charming.” 

He was smiling, calm. One hand pushed the older man back a step and his free hand was resting on the handle at his belt. It had gone unnoticed, at first, the knife worn like an accessory. Juice gestured to it subtly, treating it as a weapon rather than a tool.

It was like a second blow, this time to her abdomen, numbness washed over her and a tingling sensation of pins and needles pulsed through her veins.

A vile taste creeped up her throat with each bounce of the leather slip containing sharpened steel. She tracked him. His movements, his expression, the grip he maintained of the knife. Mindlessly her steps moved back, placing distance between her and it.

“Good thing I’m from LA,” the old man scoffed and peered behind the young biker, “get your shit out of my box.” 

The driver turned with a huff and pulled himself back into the airconditioned cab. She didn’t even hear him, all she heard was the dull hum clouding her head until her back hit a wall. Brick siding warm from the morning sun, her fingers brushed against the grout line.

She watched the gloves grip into fists at his sides, uncurling slowly with his exhale as the young biker fought to let it go. He spun around and she flinched back, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

His whole face contorted into pure confusion, “Are you...okay?” 

Her hands dropped from the building. One hanging helpless at her side and the other smoothing across her chest, tapping out a steady beat. 

“Fine,” she managed, still staring at the silver top of the knife's handle. She leaned back against the wall slowly, hoping she could just disappear within it. The fresh start she was creating blurred together with the mess she was leaving behind, because she couldn’t really leave it behind, no matter how hard she tried. 

He attempted to follow her gaze but he couldn’t figure it out. The town was still in the sweet hour of quiet, just before the door chimes and soft chatter begins. Her panicked sigh turned into a soft giggle watching him scout the area for trouble. She took a tentative step forward, tugging down her sleeves and using the fabric to catch the tears before they broke the threshold of her waterline.

His features softened watching her collect herself, his shoulders sagged and he offered a hand palm up and open. He was trying, he didn’t have a clue but he was trying. She saw that, but it didn’t stop her body from moving back in defense when he reached out.

“Sorry,” she breathed, glancing around like something else was coming. 

The young biker opened his mouth to speak but closed it before anything could come out. She despised that look, the obvious difference in his eyes. Still warm, but concerned, confused, searching hers for something she wasn’t willing to give. The silence lingered like a sickness, until the beep of the uhaul’s horn made them jolt where they stood.

“Right,” she squeaked, a few quick steps to get herself past him, “can you tell me how to find your shop?” 

The soft scent of cologne came first, subtle but sweet. The underlying hints of motor oil that could never fully wash off his skin. Then warmth radiating off him. She spun around and he was right there, having followed her step for step. Never once has he been able to say he’s too tall but watching her head tilt back was overly satisfying. He tried to bite back his grin, but the muscles in his face were failing to cooperate with his agenda of remaining smooth. 

“Are you doing this all by yourself?” He leaned closer, hand on the edge of the box truck to support himself while he took inventory of the busy day she had ahead of her. 

She didn’t think she had so much stuff, when the boxes were all across her old room it didn’t look like a lot. She donated more than half her closet and only kept the things she considered essential. Miscellaneous picture filled frames and memories too beautiful to call trash. Meticulously collected decor, and the couch she paid way too much money for. The majority was music equipment, either too expensive or too precious to leave to rot in a storage unit. 

“I’ve got it, I’m stronger than I look,” she shrugged. 

“Yeah? And what’s your plan for the couch?” He looked back down, locked on the glossy rings of jade, and a huff of air blew across her cheeks. Her face smiled but her body moved on its own again, a small step back that took her right off the curve and onto the asphalt. 

“Well the truck has a dolly,” she gestured vaguely and shrugged again, a little more convincing than before but not enough.

She wasn’t frail so to speak. She was petite, but the work she put in to maintain her physique was obvious. She could lift a box, but the couch was a three seater. Dolly or no dolly, she needed help. He let out a soft chuckle, and she took in a full breath like the sound he made was permission to be there.

“Okay,” she huffed, spinning on her toes and pressing both hands on the trunk of her lost cause, “she’s probably a goner but if you tell me she’s a goner I’ll probably cry so fair warning.” 

She knew nothing about automotive maintenance, for someone who could appreciate a nice ride, she was clueless. All she knew was the little blue sedan was her mother’s baby, therefore it was her baby. A baby that has been on its last leg since well before she inherited it.

Beautiful women are usually his kryptonite. Tripping over his sentences, fumbling his words. Something about being around her, it came easy. He had no choice but to be the brave one and allow her to be timid.

He enjoyed it almost too much, watching her nerves rise and fall, her eyes widen, and her breath catch. He had her interest, that much was clear, he just needed to drive it home.

She turned to the sound of shuffling, and there he was. Sifting through her things, moving boxes closer to the edge. 

“You really don’t have to do that!”

“I can’t just leave a lady in distress, it’s in the job description,” he grinned, passing her a box so she didn’t even have the opportunity to say no, “this one is light, lead the way.” 

She accepted the box labeled kitchen shit and stilled. He plopped down against the pavement, lifted two stacked boxes with ease, and waited patiently for her to mentally catch up. She cleared her throat, blinked back the fear, and then moved. One foot in front of the other until she was bumping her hip against the already cracked door. Her stomach was in a knot, nerves on fire, box trembling in her hold. She slid it on to the counter and she shook out her hands hoping the jitters would fling right out of her. The boxes dropped with a thud and her body shuddered, head rolling from shoulder to shoulder, desperate not to look like an absolute wreck in front of him.

She had been doing great since the move, sort of, but that was before the young biker wielding a knife brought all right back to her front door. 

“Nice digs, I never knew this was here.” He looked around, wading deeper into the apartment that wasn’t much of anything yet. Bare walls, floors, her backpack, and a small pile of clothes forming on the floor beside it. He tensed, every part of his soft nature went rigid and she followed his gaze. Black lace, with the tiniest patch of slick still visible from her quick morning strip. She choked on air and rushed.

She dropped down into a squat and balanced with grace, stuffing loose articles in her bag as quickly as possible. His jaw hung loose from its hinge, the tight fabric of her leggings became sheer with her position, exposing a whole different view of her lace panties. He was in genuine awe, star struck, until he felt a bit of drool slip over his lip. 

Then just like that, smooth went out the window. 

“Shit. I’m sorry!” He stumbled backwards, bumping the boxes, and rushing forward again. Spinning in place at an absolute loss for what comes next. “I didn’t even ask, did you need help? I can help you, more than happy to actually, I can absolutely leave!”

She forced her clothes in, making room where there wasn't any, and managed to stuff her anxious energy in along with it. 

“You’re okay,” she sighed, lifting from the floor just as effortless, “and honestly…I could use the help.” 

“Cool,” he rocked back on his heels, giving her two playful thumbs up.

Their eyes met then, and she smiled, because he really wasn’t so bad. Trustworthy might be stretch considering they just met, but he meant well, and at some point that had to be enough again.

He helped out with everything and hardly let her lift a finger. He took boxes from her mid-step if it looked too heavy, peeked into half opened boxes, and asked far too many questions.

“You’ve been here for like a week right?” He asked, glancing around like a makeshift bed might spontaneously appear, "Where have you been sleeping?” 

“Oh! I don’t really.” 

“Don’t?”

She didn’t say anything else, she gave him a half smile that required an unreasonable amount of effort. He knew that expression, far better than he cared to admit, so he let it go. 

He honed in on her after that, taking notice of what set her off. Sudden moves, loud noises. He tried to dance around it, working with her to keep the real smile on her face as they shuffled around each other.

He started communicating what he was going to do before he did it, warning her before he plopped a box down, intentionally clearing his throat before he approached her from behind.

Between him, her, and the dolly, they got it unloaded and scattered across her apartment in under an hour with little incident. 

He placed down the final item and snickered to himself. “This is like a year’s worth of toilet paper.” 

“I uh, well it’s cheaper to buy in bulk.”

Saying without saying what he already knew, she doesn’t go shopping. She barely leaves the building, only ever opening the door enough to accept her most recent order of take out. Her friends helped pack up her life and sent her a whole care package with it.

“Anyway… I really can’t thank you enough for this," she sighed, gesturing to the mess of boxes and furniture, "can I buy you lunch maybe? Or a beer at least?” 

“No need, I’m still on the clock,” he gave another nudge to the couch, making it perfectly even against the back wall.

He so desperately wanted to say yes. All he wanted to do was take her to lunch, buy her the beer, but he was already going to have to explain why what should’ve been a standard pick up took so long.

“Oh fuck my car,” she breathed.

It slipped her mind in between the chaos. Light hearted conversation, his terrible finger positioning on her keyboard when he helped set it up, and having to pry the box of sheet music out of his hands before he could get a good look. He picked fun, found humor in just about everything, and overly explained himself if the joke didn’t quite land. Existing slowly came easy with him there. Him and his obvious intentions to make things simpler. She moved, he moved. Quick steps on her toes, heavy thumps of his work boots just behind her.

“Do you need anything from me?”

“Nah this is the easy part,” he grinned, tapping the side of the tow truck, “you can even ride with me.” 

She blinked, the confidence was sexy, but for some reason the wall he was almost over went up a little taller. She shifted, holding her hands and folding them in on themselves because she didn’t really know what to say. She could hop right in, it couldn’t hurt. He was kind. He made her laugh, gave her space, gently touched her back once and she didn’t flinch under the pressure. Even if he turned out to be another version of the worst person she's ever met, it was approaching midday. There were half a dozen witnesses taking their daily stroll down the main strip.

There was no reason to say no, every reason to say yes, but neither one left her lips. The dead air between them festered, and he panicked.

“I mean you can! If you want to, obviously, you could ride with me, or follow me. I guess that’s cool, I’m a good driver! Safe, really safe driver, it’s up to you!” The ramble of uncertainty spewed out between them and forced himself to shut up before he took far too many steps in the wrong direction. “Okay, I’m sorry, I’m gonna get to work now,” he mumbled, fiddling with the controls of the tow truck, carefully maneuvering around her where she seemed to be cemented into the concrete. He’s done it easily a hundred times so it went quick. Hooked up and ready to be pulled before she had even remembered to speak. “Um, so, you’re going to…?” He stood awkwardly, waiting to see if he should open the door or find a view of her in the review mirror. 

She blinked, and just like that she was back to reality.

“I can take my bike,” she mumbled, regrettably gesturing to where she parked it last week, “that way you don’t have to bring me back, I think you’ve done enough for me today.” 

“Right, of course,” he sighed, gripping the back of his neck, dragging the greasy leather against his skin, “we’re right around the corner, big yellow sign, big red letters, you can’t miss it.” He pointed in the general direction of the shop, pulling his door open slowly to give her one last opportunity to change her mind. 

She smiled softly, “Big sign, big letters, got it.”

He was so jittery, anyone who saw him would've sworn he was high.

The absolute last thing he wanted was her coasting in on two wheels. She was a head turner and so was her engine, but the two of them combined was a drug the busy lot of samcrow didn’t deserve to have a taste of.

He paced from her open hood, to the edge of the garage, and back again. Searching, listening, not wanting to miss her arrival. Each tick of the clock hand pushed him a little further over the edge and he couldn’t wait anymore. He rolled himself under the lift, all intention of just taking a peek, but one problem after the next, he got lost in it. 

//

A deep hum of the engine vibrated up into her, using the momentum from the road to roll right in, an effort to avoid the attention her bike tends to bring. She walked herself back into an open space, directly across from a line of Harley motorcycles, each one nearly identical to the other. She kicked the stand and peeled off her bike, unzipping her jacket and pulling the helmet over her face. 

“And who might you be,” Tig, as his embroidered shirt read, grumbled in her ear from behind. A heavy arm dropped over her shoulder and she gasped. She spun, helmet gripped tight and whipping through the air. His hand stopped it, looking at her, then it, and back again with a wolfish grin. “Feisty, I like that.” 

“Get out of here before you traumatize her,” a different man said. Shorter, stout, longer hair that was frizzy from being brushed out incorrectly. She saw the beer belly first, then his eyes that were checking her out head to toe, “you need something sweetheart?” 

“I’m looking for Juice?” 

The two men exchanged a glance with pressed lips, nodding silently in agreement to something she wasn’t privy to. Her body turned to the sync of her eye roll, taking a large step towards the small sign that read office. They moved like it was a practiced endeavor cutting off her path, all smiles and mischief. 

“Juice?” Tig whined, smoothing back his mess of greasy hair. “You sure about that doll?” 

“We are more than happy to help sweetheart, older men are more…experienced.” Bobby grinned fists pressed at his hips. A tone that suggested he was joking but a gaze that suggested he was starving. 

She did her best not to react but she couldn't control her face. Her lip curled, her nose scrunched, and she attempted to take another step towards the garage, “I’m positive.” 

“You could at least let me show you how a Harley rides, I bet it’d be the best ride of your life,” Tig shot his final shot but it was more of a nail in the coffin. 

“What he means doll is you can take us both for a test drive,” beer belly Bobby chuckled. 

“I doubt it’d be very memorable,” she mumbled, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. 

They scoffed out their own versions of a laugh, another subtle nod of approval exchanged between the older bikers. 

Tig took a generous step forward, grin never faltering, “it’s all about who’s in the drive seat.” 

“Oi! Juicy boy! Your little lass is here!” Saved by the bell, a thick Irish accent called out, sparing the young brunette from any further torment. “He’s over here sweetheart, been waitin’ on you.” 

Chibs gestured for them to take a beat and let her through, then a loud bang followed. 

“Ow!” Juice could be heard, the echo of wrenches clattering against the concrete mixed up with the shuffle of him scrambling. He trotted out into view, eyes like saucers trying to pick apart the situation of her stuck between two very different hard places. She finally smiled, giving the young biker a small twiddle of her fingers.

“It’s a good thing I prefer to ride,” she mused, moving past her miniature audience, "pardon me." 

“Shit,” Bobby snorted, clapping Tig on the back as they both turned to watch her walk away. 

Each step Juice took, she took three, moving to meet him halfway. He did his best to remain calm, casual, but it failed miserably. 

“You came,” he said, tone carrying such genuine surprise for someone who had been holding his breath waiting for her to arrive. 

Her eyebrows drew together, grin spreading just a tad wider, “You have my car?” 

“Right obviously! I meant that you made it, made it in one piece, that’s good! You, you in one piece. I like it, your pieces.” 

A mixed group of uniformed men and leather kuttes had doubled in size, snickering and whistling, killing any chance he had at stringing together a coherent sentence. His throat was tight, sweat beading at his temple, hands moving constantly through each and every fumbled word. 

“Friends of yours?” She asked, pulling all his attention back down to her, somehow still smiling. 

“Yeah, no, well! sometimes, did they say something? did they, well yeah their my friends, brothers technically, friends sometimes, did they talk to you?” 

She corrected the healthy distance he had intentionally left between them. It was for her peace of mind, not his, but different rolls seemed to apply when a heard of men had eyes on her ass. It was her turn to be brave, seeing as the atmosphere of motor oil and impact drills had turned him into the equivalent of a bumbling idiot.

“How hard did you hit your head?” 

The sound of a bang was visible now, a swelling lump of his forehead where his skull and the metal went to war. She tugged her sleeve over her knuckles, slowly brushing the droplets of sweat rolling over the developing knot. His hand caught hers on its way down, and that’s when the hooting and hollering started. He groaned, but she giggled. Soft, airy, better than any drug. Her gaze dropped, and he cast a pleading look over her shoulder. Mouthing the words shut the fuck up. 

She didn’t pull back, and that surprised them both. She was raised with the belief you have to give to get, and he spent his entire morning giving. She gave his hand a supportive squeeze. It was the most she could give right away but it was more than he expected to get. It gave him the guts to ignore the watchful eyes behind her and focus back in on her. 

Cool, calm, collected.

“That was courtesy of your car actually,” he nodded her along, pulling gently at her finger tips with each step back into the shop, “first question, do you even know what an oil change is?”  

“Rude,” she gasped. 

“I’m sorry but this engine is toast, I’m talking bone dry and rattling toast.” 

“Right,” she sighed, looking it over like it was worth more than each individual custom detail on her Kawasaki. He pulled a clean rag from his pocket, and passed it over with a half baked smile. 

“It looks like the rear main seal went bad... We could quote you a new engine but the year of this thing, it's not worth your money."

"Yeah okay..."

"I’d be happy to teach you the importance of checking your oil for future reference.”

She scoffed lightly, toying with the rag she didn’t really need, but then he closed the hood. He lowered it with the purest intention of doing so gently, but it slipped. Right from his greasy gloved finger tips, smacking down with a force. The slam echoed off the back wall and his hand shot up in anticipation. He caught her before she could go far but it just redirected her. The need to retreat that had been carved into her sent her rushing back into a nearby tool box with a thud. 

“Sorry,” she whimpered, and the sight of her quivering lip nearly broke him in two. 

“Hey…” he yanked off the dirty glove and let his warm hand cradle her elbow, “I promise you’re okay here.” 

His thumb brushed cautiously, waiting for her brain to catch back up to where she was. As unlikely as it may seem, she was safe.

They all understand the word no, as rare as it is for them to hear. They laugh, joke, push further than necessary, but they know where a firm boundary is. She had a ton, it seemed, but luckily he was the patient one of the group. 

“Now, are we thinking scarp yard or a viking funeral?” 

Straight face, deadly serious, hoping to bring the smile back, and it did. It was slight, not as bright as before but she wasn’t frozen this time. The corner of her mouth curled up, and she adjusted. Rubbing her arms, finding her footing, enraged by the cards she’s been dealt.

Flirting with a boy would never be simple. Not with the constant source of panic deeply rooted in her chest and the endless list of triggers she was left with. 

“Viking funeral definitely,” she sniffled, “she deserves it.” 

“Does she have a name?”

Her eyes rolled up, and the other half of her mouth curved up, “it was my mom’s, she called her blueberry.” 

“Fitting.” 

“Yeah, she thought so,” she huffed, trailing a finger along the flaky blue paint. 

“I’ll get the paperwork and you can say your goodbyes, sound good?” 

“Good." 

He gave her elbow a gentle squeeze, then parted. The smooth strut he had planned, tripped him right over a stool that sent him stumbling towards the office door. A burst of laughter echoed from the opposite end of the garage and her eyes followed the noise.

Tig, Chibs, Bobby, and a few new faces all stood watching everything through the blinds of the office window. She covered her mouth to keep from laughing too, spinning back towards the car. 

Several sets of hands yanked the young biker inside the second he got within reach, and the grilling session began. They asked all the standard questions. The who what and why, but Juice didn’t have any answers yet, he still hadn’t even formally asked for her name. 

Her little show of sass was the talk of the club, and it had only been a few short minutes that passed them by. Her comments were repeated, dramatized, and oh how he wished he could’ve watched her knock them down a peg himself. The door opened and their laughter had developed into a full on cackle. Clipboard in hand, toothy grin wider than when he left, he practically skipped to her position.

She pretended to listen, giving a half decent nod when he paused, and following along as he walked her through each page. Where to sign, what it said versus what it actually meant, but he quickly caught on to the fact not a single thing he said was registering in that beautiful head of dark brown hair. He placed the packet on his work bench, letting her sign and initial where necessary, one page at a time. 

This wasn’t his job, the job description does not require talking to customers at all. It’s an office problem most days. Their fearless leader being out of the office, Bobby was taking point for the day, and he had no intention of subjecting her to that twice. He held her hand through the entire process of destroying her little blueberry, double checking they dotted all the I’s and crossed all the T’s, she glanced his way.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Hm?” 

“Is your name actually Juice?” 

The sweetest chuckle followed. He wiped the sweat from his palms and offered his hand. “Juan Carlos Ortiz.” 

“Violet,” she grinned, slipping her dainty hand into the warmth of his surprisingly smooth hand. 

“Violet, he repeated, giving her one good squeeze before letting go. 

She straightened out the papers and pushed the clipboard in his direction, going as far as to slip the pen back in his shirt pocket where he originally retrieved it from. She peered up at him through her lashes, intrigued by him and the way his goofy nature seemed to make things feel less...tense.

“Well, Vi, your work here is done, and I will dispose of the body,” he shrugged. 

Her chest fluttered, “Don’t worry I’ll tell the cops you were with me all night.” 

She did everything right. Playful banter, fluttering her lashes in between lingering glances, but she had to consider maybe he was just being kind. Because the moment came, the part where he should have asked for her number, and he let it pass right by. The interaction seemed mutual, but her baggage shows, and she couldn’t ignore that most would rather look the other way than help carry that weight. 

“It was nice to meet you,” she shrugged, hips swinging with each tiny step towards her bike. 

There was no grind to her hips this time, no arch to her back as she put her helmet on. Every eye on the lot was watching and she made it quick. She toed herself forward, warming the engine gently until it rumbled nice and pretty, and in a blink, she was disappearing from his view.

His itty-bitty biker, that had clearly been through hell. His life comes with baggage too, and the idea of giving someone so gentle any more to worry about didn’t sit right with him. There was a fear she would say no, if he had asked, but an even bigger one that she would’ve said yes. 

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He clicked off the stove, ruffled little girls hair, and shoveled some scrambled eggs onto her tray to keep her busy. Then stalked down the hall seeing no need for a rush. He was fully aware of the problem, and had no interest in fixing it. He leaned himself against the open door frame of your bedroom and there you were. 

A pretty little thing in serious need of an attitude adjustment. 

You blinked a few times to keep your composure, for a moment you thought he dressed that way on purpose. A view like that wasn’t unusual but it still made you weak. Grey sweats hanging at his hips did you in every single time, standing there like a man carved from stone, littered in art coated muscle. It was almost impossible to stay strong but your annoyance took precedence.

You raised the back of your hand, and it sparkled. It looked better than he imagined. It wasn’t too big, or too flashy. It was subtle in a way you would appreciate, but still enough that everyone would see it first. 

A sparkly claim.

“What the fuck is this?” 

“Your ring,” he tossed the dish towel at his shoulder and crossed his arms over his bare chest, “like it?” 

“Do I like it? You don’t want to try will you marry me or even a what do you say, are you actually insane?” 

“Yeah.” 

You chuckled despite yourself. Your handsome devil, so unbothered, so damn serious. 

“The answers no until you learn how to ask correctly,” you tossed it towards the end of the rustled sheets. It landed perfectly, gem glinting in the morning light.

It was like the damn thing was staring back at you. 

The cut, the clarity, the encrusted band with her birth stone. It wasn’t what you pictured, but he still managed to hit the nail on the head.

Almost like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and that annoyed you too.

“Put the fucking ring back on,” and then he walked away. Abrupt turn, heavy steps, resuming his perfect execution of blueberry pancakes so you had a plate ready when you finally decided to put your big boy pants on. 

You stared at it for too long. Considering, overthinking, and decided you couldn’t put it back on, not yet.

You treated it with care, but to give in would've been too easy. You had to let it stew inside you first, find a way to give him hell without actually saying no. 

He knew that, so he chose to overlook it when you sat at the table without it, because he also knew inevitably it would be right back where it belongs.

He had everything he never wanted, and he loved it. 

He loved coming home to you, he loved waking up to her climbing in the bed during the night. He loved rocking her to sleep, and holding you until you were snoring even though you swear you don’t. He loved the ring he bought you, and the tattoo of your initial healing perfectly where his ring will go.

He was made for more than he ever thought possible, because as it turns out, you can teach an old dog new tricks. 

He had a foot in both worlds and surprised himself everyday that he seemed to excel equally.

Violence was fun, the chaos of it was as easy as breathing. Loving you, parenting her, it had become second nature, something learned but worth every second of effort it took to get there. 

Only one thing could shit on his good mood, and that was the fucking Irish. The stubborn as fuck pale faces that act like kings. 

One patch went down, a prospect alongside him, and that meant war. 

War meant lockdown.

You and little girl were stuck in his dorm room, willingly this time, but without him. He wasn’t there for the bedtime story, or the early morning cuddles. He was on a hunt, stuck in a van with your adopted brother. 

Day in, day out. 

Staking out in revolving shifts but the damn irish were proving to be resourceful. Happy didn’t say a word about you, about the ring, about anything really. Jax tried to be as quiet, but his phone just kept ringing. Always Tara claiming she needed this and that. 

Happy couldn’t fathom the need for a call every five minutes. He tried not to side eye his president but at a certain point he couldn't help it.

You hadn’t called once, not even a text. Were you annoyed? Sure, of course. Exhausted and mildly pissed off? To be expected, but you were handling it. 

You knew he was busy keeping you and the people you love safe, so you kept your mouth shut. It made him want that ring on your finger even more, really. The way you understood club life like it was woven in your DNA.

It was hotter than he would ever admit. 

After the fifth and final call, Jax arrived. No van and no Happy.

You tried not to let the disappointment show when your brother shot you a charming smile, but you were approaching your very wits end with the level of understanding you’ve maintained over the past week. Your daughter gasped at the sight of leather, searching, searching, searching, and nothing.

You saw the disappointment hit her like a train and it wrecked you. 

This is easily the longest she’s gone without seeing him since they met. You explained daddy didn’t disappear, he would come back for her. She was just too little to comprehend anything aside from his missing presence. She had been nothing short of a terror. Throwing things, kicking and screaming, endless whining that was making your head throb. You tried to be a gentle parent. Calm, collected, respectful of her feelings. It never went far. She was at a loss, and so were you. 

She huffed, puffed, and plopped herself down from the picnic tables.

“Hey!” She yelled, commanding the attention of Chibs, Tig, and Jax too. “Where esm’ daddy?” 

Jax was all smiles, squatting down to reach her level and poke her in the belly. “He’s running some errands for me, he’ll be back for you soon, okay?” 

“No,” she huffed. Then she kicked him. Right in the groin, causing the charming blonde to drop back against the concrete with a deep groan. The leather kuttes from you to the door all groaned in sympathy, gripping their crotches like they felt it too.

“Hey!” You scolded, pulling her back by the shoulders and demanding she apologize, but she refused. She crossed her arms, staring them all down like they were enemy forces.

“Here darling,” Chibs drawled, pulling out a prepay from his pocket, “he’s the last number dialed, why don’t you let her give him a call?” 

You fiddled with the prepay, glancing around the smug faces that made your cheeks burn. “This feels like rewarding bad behavior.” 

“We’re rewarding a solid shot.” 

“Douchebag,” Jax groaned, rubbing his crotch as he found his footing. 

You shooed your miserable little girl back into the clubhouse, forcing her to keep moving until you were locked in the safety of his room. Just stepping a foot in was relaxing, for the both of you. He hadn’t stayed there for over a month now but the air still smelled like him. His cardboard thin pillows smelled like his aftershave, the sheets like his soap, the few shirts he had left in the closet still had that faint hint of motor oil and exhaust fumes that never quite washes out. It settled you more than it did her, you were surviving the week in his clothes and taking hits off his pillow just to keep it together. 

Pathetic? Yes. Necessary at this rate? Absolutely. 

It’s not your fault he’s made you so dependent, blame him entirely.

He was the one who made it a habit to always be home for dinner. He was the one who insisted on being there to put both his girls to bed. You were just the sucker who got twisted up by some sort of accidental Stockholm situation. 

You hit re-dial on what you assume is today’s current prepay number. He answered with a grunt, one that told you exactly how pissed off he was. 

“Guess again,” you chuckled. 

The harshness slipped. A soft whisper carried through the line, “hey.” 

“Hey,” you grinned, “your daughter is being a monster.”

“So now she’s my kid?” He chuckled, leaning back against a cool brick wall. God, he needed to hear you. The sweetest little reminder of what he had waiting was enough to settle him, hearing you laugh? That was like striking gold. 

It was annoying how much he missed you, how much he thought about you and little girl, and how ready he was for this shit to be over so he knew you were both safe again. It never stopped him from doing his job, but it was always there. The two of you had embedded yourself in his brain worse than a sickness, always lingering in the back of his mind. 

“She kicked Jax in the nuts because he came back without you, and I know for a fact she didn’t get that from me.” 

His laughter rumbled like thunder, carrying over the line like a lightning strike to your heart. “That’s my girl.” 

You glanced over at the corner she put herself in, arms crossed and pouting. “You have a minute? I think she could use some daddy daughter time.” 

“Put me on speaker.”

“Come on babe, Happy’s on the phone.” 

You hit the speaker button and placed it down on the bed. He heard everything. Her little whine from across the room, her stomps, the grunts escaping her as she weaseled up the bed because she wouldn’t just take your help to get there. He waited until he heard her close, the ruffle of sheets slushing through his end.

“You being good to your mom?” 

She crossed her arms again, staring you dead in the eye. “No.”

“Why not?” 

She babbled. Half of it was words, half of it was nonsense. You picked up on about a quarter of it, but he got it all. Her and her pitiful attitude come through the other end of the line. Angry he wasn’t back yet, stir crazy from lock down. She missed her bed, her stuffies, and her daddy. He hummed along, entertaining her tiny rant and encouraging her to let it all out. Mommy was being mean, she said. Mommy keeps saying no, she said. On and on with endless reasons why you’re wrong and she’s right, bring him to the conclusion it was time to wrap things up. You both had run out of grace for the situation and he couldn’t blame you. 

She needed a break, you needed a break, and he was desperate to see your faces after the bullshit errands keeping him too damn far away from you both. 

“Look who’s here,” you chuckled, pointing to the door where leather kuttes were trailing in one at a time. 

“That’s my dadddy!” She screeched, a full sprint taking over her chubby little legs. She giggled the whole way over, hands flailing, grin spreading, squealing like a bat out of hell. 

The crowd parted. First for her, then for him, making space where there wasn’t any so he could get by.

“Hey mama,” he said, voice rough, low, just for you. You tilted your head all the way back, lips puckered and waiting for his. He pressed his chapped ones against your soft ones gently, pecking them a few times in a row before pulling back. “You feelin okay?” 

“Better now, you?” 

“Better now,” he smiled, kissing the side of your daughter’s head, tickling her face with the rough scruff of his cheeks.

“Is it okay if I go home? She’s out of a few things, and I need a shower that’s not communal.” 

He gave you a look, one that very obviously told you a few separate things all at once. One, you’re testing his patience already. Two, having two girls to worry about in his life is exhausting. Three, you are absolutely not leaving this clubhouse. 

“You two are killing me,” he muttered, eyes shut tight. 

You weren't actually asking, he knew that, but it was sweet to pretend given where you are. You couldn’t completely ignore the reputation he has made for himself. You could act the part of a good girl rather well. Please, thank you, asking the question but ignoring the no he gives once you’re behind closed doors. It’s a system, he likes the system. 

You stood and slipped right in under his free arm, taking a hit of him. He hadn’t left the van in days, but even the van stench was delicious because it was him. Warm, breathing, intoxicating. 

You pulled in one, two, three, and an extra for the road. “I’ll be back before the vote, okay?” 

“Take a prospect,” he stopped you in your tracks, hand gently holding your arm, “Tacoma.” 

You nodded, kissing a cheek softly, and you were gone with the wind.

Then it was him and her. 

Her attitude came and went like the tide. She was so excited he was there, she forgot she was angry. Then she would remember, and start to pout all over again. 

Rinse and repeat. 

She was talking endlessly, then staring at him like he kidnapped her. She started laughing, then snarled at him if he touched the wrong toy. It was a game of cat and mouse with her attitude, and he loved every second because she was all you, but so much of him now too.

Every perfect inch of her.

You slipped on your ring the second you got in the car, admiring the view without his smug expression making you wish you left the damn thing at home all together. 

You couldn’t. You tried, but you just couldn’t. You never asked for it, you weren’t even sure if you wanted it, but it felt like part of you now. Something decided, certain. A mix of impending doom and the hope of a new beginning all wrapped up in one. 

It was stupidly perfect, and every single day you kept it close, teasing yourself with the idea of it. 

You had less questions this time. You know who he is, what he wants, how far he’s willing to go and what he’s willing to give. It all added up. 

You made your bed, with Happy Lowman, all he really needed to do was ask. 

You sucked up every single second of the rarity that is baby free time and felt guilty while doing it. Groceries were purchased. Snacks for him, her, a few unusual pairings for you. Bags of dirty laundry were switched for fresh clean clothes. Then you took a much longer shower than necessary, but the hot water felt too good, and every inch of you needed special attention. 

You did your hair the way you liked, dressed in something other than his well loved samcro printed tees. Circling back to hell on earth. Your least favorite place that still somehow manages to feel like home. 

You pulled in a few minutes to spare. Stashing your ring for safe keeping, fumbling with your bags, loading up the arms of the Tacoma prospect who was lingering behind you like a well trained dog. 

Then there was chaos. Yelling, screaming, the rush of fleeing bodies, then there was a boom. 

A life altering explosion that blew the clubs home to the sky. The rush of hot air hit you first and nearly knocked you down. Then it was the harsh stench of smoke, fire, and something sour that made you want to keel over. 

The reality of what you just witnessed set in and you gasped, collapsing at the sight. Your knees cracked against the asphalt so loud it could be heard over your sobs. 

Your baby girl was in there.

You screeched at the very top of your lungs but no sound left your lips. All the air left your lungs, every fiber in your being felt like it was pulled apart. Ash and smoke heavy in the air, warm firelight blinding your mind.

Then you saw them, emerging from the smoke and ash in slow motion like some low budget action movie. You cried, hard. You were so out of it you were crawling, pushing yourself up as fast as you could. Grabbing her, searching him, crying desperately despite both of them appearing whole. 

“We’re okay,” he wrapped his arms around you both, so tight his arms were shaking, “we’re okay.” 

She was sobbing, vicious cries that were ripping him apart with each wave. You were a snotty mess, absolutely wrecked with the possibility of what if. He was the pillar of strength letting it happen, holding himself together perfectly like he came pre-put together with superglue. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here.” 

He took you to the hospital. You didn’t think he would, at first. Hospital meant cops, Happy hates cops, but he checked her in himself. The police were circling the emergency room like sharks as more of the samcro family arrived by both car and ambulance. He let you give your statement, trusting you entirely to give them the illusion of help without giving them anything at all. 

He held her the whole time. Through the questions, the exams, too shell-shocked to put her down for even a moment. Rocking, humming, rubbing her back softly. Once she was clear, he took you home, but not the home you were expecting. His home. The three bedroom house that was made to hold a family, his family.

You two had discussed it offhandly one evening. His is bigger in every way. Bigger rooms, more square feet, and it has the bigger yard. You pay rent, he owns his outright. Logistically moving to his house made the most sense, but it was supposed to be a when we’re ready move. 

He helped you up and out of the passenger side, checking your head like you might spontaneously combust from the fever that didn’t exist. “You good?” 

“I’m not the one who got blown up.” 

“I got her out,” he mumbled, forcing you by the chin to look him in the eye, “she’s never in danger with me.” 

Your lip quivered, you couldn’t stop the waterworks if you tried. The fear, mom hormones on overdrive. He kept a steady gaze, brushing each tear away before they ever made it down your cheeks.

“I know,” you whispered, nodding against his hands. 

He nodded, satisfied, then immediately moved on to the next little girl that needed attention. 

“Come on little girl,” he cooed, guiding her tired arms out from her buckles, “we got a surprise for you.” 

“S’prise?” She slurred, blinking slowly. He hummed, jingling his keys as he approached the front door. 

It smelled just like him. Dull whiskey and the softest touch weed smoke. Gun oil and that rich earthy cologne he wears too well, it was enough to ease the tension inside you. You followed him step for step like the space was a booby trap waiting to happen.

It was clean, orderly. Everything had a place but there wasn't much to keep sorted. One couch. A table with one chair. No tv, no art on the walls. It looked more like a safe house than a home, but that's what he had you two for.

A reason to make it something.

“You ready?” He asked her softly, hand on the vintage crystal doorknob he installed himself. She nodded enthusiastically and he kicked the door open. 

Her jaw dropped, and so did yours.

The walls were her favorite color, and had a different design hand painted on each one. He painted her a castle, a rainbow, the weird green monster from her favorite book. There was a big girl bed covered in all the stuffed animals she could ever want. A doll house, a ridiculously fluffy rug, and a reading nook by the window. It was every little girl's dream come true.

“Happy,” you gasped, stepping into a room that looked like something out of a catalog. He plopped her down on the floor and off she went. Squealing and giggling at every little thing. It became a mess in seconds. You couldn’t see much of anything through the chaos of it, just a blur of your tiny tornado making herself at home. She tossed her entire toy chest, introduced herself to each and every stuffed toy, showed you all the Barbie’s he stocked the doll house (that was bigger than her) with. With every new thing she found, she ran to him first. Showing it off, laughing loud, making every dime he spent worth it.

The two of you joined her on the floor. Watching her lose her mind and every little thing. You wouldn't call him cheap, exactly. He prefers the term mindful of excessive spending, but this she didn't seem to apply.

“You spoil her.” 

“That’s my job,” he said lowly, voice carrying the clipped edge of roughness, “I was saving it for her birthday, but she needed a distraction.” 

His wheels were turning. Watching her, avoiding you. You've never seen that look on him before. You've learned the micro expressions that tell you what kind of day he's had. Anger was familiar. Relief was easiest to spot. This was new. Skin paled, his features usually flexed in one way or another were completely unbecoming. A dangerous cocktail of feelings he didn't know what to do with. Which to feel first, where to focus his energy.

You slipped your hand over his, knuckles raw from where he caught them both from smacking down against asphalt. “And what about me?” 

He took a breath in, like all he needed was the permission to be exactly where he was.

“You got that ring you’re supposed to be wearing.” His hand pulled back and dug into his pocket, pulling out something slim and flat, cuts in the metal fitted to the front door. “Got you a key made too, move in when you’re ready.” 

He looked at you, you looked at him, and the silence was enough. You were already a family, and it was about time you started acting like it. You rolled your eyes ridiculously hard and slipped your hand into your bra, pulling out that little loop of gems you were keeping very close. 

“I’m ready.” 

The roughness of his features gave an inch, momentarily putting away the hate he was clinging to for when they finally got their hands on the Irish. He took it, fiddling with it a moment before tugging you closer by the hand.

“You take this off again I’ll kill you,” he grumbled, slipping it back between your knuckles where it belongs. 

You took his hand, brushing a thumb across his tattooed knuckles, lingering across that picture perfect initial. The man you knew before, you might've believed him, but not this guy. You smiled up at him, this boundary crossing, agenda pushing, borderline psycho, who you just can't help but love.

"Whatever you say."

i feel like this isn't my best work, im so lost in mw4 land i can't stay focused on anything besides john mf price - sorrrryyyyyyy

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