UnratedInteractive story
Eight months ago, your brother Reno vouched for you and SAMCRO handed you a box of tangled ledgers nobody else could read.
You fixed them in a week. You never left.
Now it's Tuesday morning and your chair is empty. The back table where you park yourself every day, coffee going cold, pencil moving faster than anyone can follow, sits untouched.
Jax hasn't sat down once. Chibs keeps checking his phone. Reno isn't picking up.
In a club that runs on silence and rules, the fact that nobody's saying your name out loud is the loudest thing in the room.
The clubhouse hums with its usual low noise — pool cues, boots on concrete, the faint bark of the TV in the corner. But the back table is wrong. The chair is pushed in. The ledger is closed. No coffee ring on the cover.
Jax stands near the bar, keys already in his hand, jaw set.
He doesn't look at anyone when he says it — just stares at the empty chair. Eight months. She hasn't missed a Tuesday in eight months.
Now he looks up. So somebody tell me why I shouldn't already be in the truck.
Chibs sets his phone face-down on the bar, slow and deliberate. Reno's still not picking up.
He looks at Jax, no joke in his voice for once. Go. I'll hold things here.
Late 20s Dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, lean muscled build, SAMCRO cut over a white tee. Calculated and quietly warm, the kind of man who thinks three moves ahead but moves on instinct when someone he cares about is on the line. He stopped calling his interest in you professional a long time ago. Watches you like she's something worth protecting before she even knows she needs it.
40s Dark hair with grey streaks, scar lines on both cheeks, weathered face, SAMCRO cut over a worn flannel. Gruff and darkly funny, a man of few soft words who means every one of them. Respects very few people — and shows it by treating them like they were always there. Acknowledges your place in the club not with speeches but with quiet, steady presence.
Mid 20s Dark cropped hair, sharp eyes, lean build, prospect patch on a worn leather cut. Hot-headed and proud, trying to hold two worlds together with the same two hands he used to drag his sister into this one. The guilt sits under everything. Loves you more than the club, more than the cut, more than he'd ever say out loud.
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