Title: Cover Me Up
Author: heythereanna (Anna)
Pairing: Brooke/Jax
Rating: MATURE; Language, Adult Content
TW: Strong language, rape, alcohol/drug use. Please read at your discretion.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take Mark Schwahn's position and remake seasons four through eight of One Tree Hill. Kurt Sutter, however, is a god and his work is untouchable.
Author's Note: For those who were fans of Habits of My Heart and Bad Religion - this fanfic takes material from both fics and combines them into this story that I have spent months redeveloping from BR. I hope that you all enjoy it as much as I do, and I truly hope that you love it as much - if not more - than Bad Religion. Thank you all, and be sure to check out my other fics Trouble Is Her Only Friend and The Boy Saw A Comet. You all are the reason I keep writing!

- - - - - x - - - - - -

She doesn't quite know how she wound up here.

Not here as in location, but here as in her life. A life that is now an endless mess of overbooked days, glamorous nights and hungover mornings strung together. Her company is what keeps her sane - or at least, that's what she reminds herself when she feels like she's lived a hundred lives that aren't even close to what she'd dreamed of as a child - but it's really all thanks to the various high end liquors that she's become accustomed to drinking throughout her nightly obligations as a member of New York's fashion society.

It had once been a comforting and thrilling dance to her, the posing and the smiling until her face felt as if it would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces. It had once been a waltz that she took such pleasure in performing with the utmost grace and without the smallest bit of effort. Her sashay into the spotlight had been her specialty - pose, smile, giggle, charm. They had written articles about how open the fabulous fashion designer had been with the press, how utterly entrancing she had been when they'd gotten their turn to spin her around the floor. She'd met all the people she'd ever need to, smiled at every camera thrust into her face. She'd drank all the concoctions that the cute and young bartenders could come up with, seen all the antics that the rich and famous could get themselves into and weasel out of, done all the parties that had become incestuous and monotonous. She'd lived the life that teenage girls with sketch pads in small towns would dream of while they watched Sex of the City.

And then one day, she realized how completely disenchanted with her life she had become.

She had agonized over it all, how the life that she'd abandoned everything for had become a tedious carousel that she desperately had wanted to step off of. How could she be so utterly bored by it all, she would ask herself over bourbon on ice during chronic insomnia filled nights. She had left her home for this, her family for this, her world for this. Being here in New York at the helm of a fashion empire had been a pipe dream of hers since she'd been that teenage girl with a sketch pad, praying for a miracle to happen; since she'd been the rebellious wild child in love with the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, disobeying every rule her parents could throw at her. This was what she had wished for when she'd lie awake at night, what she'd answer when people would ask her what she wanted to be when she grew up. After all of the wreckage she'd left in her wake chasing the utopia that she'd achieved, the life that she'd built for herself had to be worth it. After everything that she'd sacrificed, after all she'd left behind, it just had to be.

And so, like all determined lost girls do when they're bored, she'd decided to fall in love.

She had gone off and married a blonde haired, blue eyed novelist from a small forgettable town in North Carolina that said he adored her more than life itself. He was a man who liked to work on vintage cars and read her poetry at twilight, one who was destined for something more than what his hometown could offer a man like him; a man that reminded her of ghosts from her past just enough for her to convince herself that he had been what she had been meant for, a reassurance that she hadn't been pining for another set of blue eyes that had haunted her since the moment she past the California state lines.

It hadn't been long before she'd lost herself along the way and suddenly stopped putting her well being first, eventually forgetting about her lofty ambitions entirely. She had given up her willful freedom to be on the arm of a man with the need for his dreams and aspirations to come before her own, and soon she had stopped dancing altogether. She had become quiet, keeping the purse strings of her life pulled tight, and the media turned it into a firestorm of rumors. She committed herself to her marriage, putting her husband before everything and everyone else - right up until the moment that she discovered a misplaced love letter that informed her that her perfect husband of almost four years had been having an affair with his high school sweetheart for nearly half of their marriage.

And so she had created a new dance, a tango between careening off of the edge of her sanity and the sophisticated image that's been carefully choreographed by attorney and public relation experts, where she performs the role of taking the high road. Instead of dragging her husband's adulteress whore by her peroxide blonde curls like the girl she'd been before she had moved to Manhattan would have done in an instant, she expresses nothing but gratitude and requests for privacy. There's no bar brawls and broken bones, no bloody knuckles and violent designs, not a whiff of scandal. It's all carefully built statements and coy smiles designed to keep stockholders happy and to keep her name out of the headlines, an eloquent script that she's memorized to the point of perfection. During the day, she remains the success story that the papers have made her out to be, the girl from old California money who had built an empire to rival the likes of Dolce and Gabbana from her college dorm room. She designs impeccable couture dresses, has opened boutique stores all over the globe, walks every red carpet with the grace of an Old Hollywood starlet and keeps her pearly white smile on for the world to observe with envy.

But at night, she sets a fire to the reigning queen of the fashion world.

It's no longer the jealousy inducing life of the successful CEO of Clothes Over Bro's, the picture perfect image fading into the jaded wanderings of the NorCal girl with a sealed juvenile record and a penchant for self destruction. She's learned how to drown herself with strong drinks poured in hole in the walls far from the prying eyes of the press, how to seek salvation with the local men too. Not the Wall Street suits that she takes as her dates to whatever film premiere or art gallery opening she's been forced to keep up appearances at, but the ones that she would have never gone near if she'd been entirely herself. Men with dark gazes and even blacker thoughts, men that made her wish it could be possible to scrub her skin till it was raw the next morning in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the shame that would slowly seep into her bones. But after a long day of playing the part of the glamorous fashion mogul and reminding herself of every wrong turn she had ever made, she slips right back into her new found habits and into the sheets of rugged strangers that remind her of the ghost that lurks in her past.

She sips from a glass of Patron en Lalique on ice, her current favorite vice, as she sits at her vanity. She stares at its reflection, at the carefully put together ice queen that she's become. Gone are the wind-tousled waves that could only be attained from her seat on the back of Dyna Wide Glide, replaced with sleekly styled and impeccably maintained locks. Gone is the wildfire in her eyes that could've once burned down the world with one glance, doused in the numb haziness that the alcohol and her loneliness bring. Gone is the girl from North Country that once lived on the back of a motorcycle without fear or reservation, and the woman here in her place is the epitome of sophistication, of elegance. Her fingertips trace over the small wrinkles that have appeared around her eyes, along the curve of her jawline, stopping at her crimson painted lips. She pauses there, her fingertips lightly pressing in the scream that threatens to escape her lips, and she wonders one last time how in the hell she got here.

She stands, resilience pushing her through as she grazes through her massive dressing room in a black lace lined silk robe. She sips at her glass, the liquor charring her throat while her fingertips run over high end silks, satin and lace. Some garments still have the price tag on them, masterpieces of the runway that haven't even taken their first breath outside of the warm vanilla honey scented air of the walk in closet, the bits of paper fluttering like snowflakes on a winter morning.

She's blatantly avoided all events like this for some time, and she doesn't really need to go to this one either; a gala of little importance for a cause that her company donates a very small percent of its profits to for the good press it gives her. It's a charity that awards the wealthy for their outstanding excellence in something, that's all she remembers - because even the charities are beginning to blur together. She's surprised that she pays attention to anything but the bottom of a bottle anymore, to be honest.

Maybe it's because the old Brooke Davis, pre-Brooke Davis-Scott, had never been one to sit idly by and weep for lost betrayals, to wonder what if's and bargain for an already destroyed life. No, that wasn't even close to what she had been groomed to become. She had been born to hold her head up high and claim whatever throne she desires.

Perhaps that's why she's leaving her brownstone in the first place. She's sick of being the poor little girl just trying to keep her image together. She wants to feel alive again, feel something other than anger and grief over the debacle that has been her divorce - her now-finalized divorce.

Perhaps the reason for going is far more personal and vengeful, to hope that her almost ex-husband sees her picture in whatever magazine he reads in the morning and simply dies with guilt, that he'll think of her every time he looks down into his mistresses' eyes when they make love. She wants to make him suffer, make him feel like the worthless piece of shit that he's revealed himself to be. After all, just because she has to hold her head up high didn't mean that she can't get her hands a little dirty. And so when her eyes see a red strapless number in the back of her closet, her thoughts are settled. She hangs it on a nearby dressing rack, her eyes slowly shifting back to the space it leaves open in her closet and to the small wood box it reveals.

How did you wind up here?

The words whisper in air as she sets her glass down and cracks opens the intricately carved mahogany case, retrieving one of the many pictures inside. As she holds the photo in her now shaking hands, her eyes run over every inch of first love.

A younger version of herself, the before as she likes to call the woman in these photos, stares up at her with a brilliant smile and laughter escaping her lips. The leather and denim clad teenage boy sitting beside Before isn't looking up at her, though - he's too busy staring at the girl in his arms, the grin on his face telling a love story that no words could. He's handsome in an undeniable James Dean way, a magnetic charisma flickering in his gaze with a touch of the outlaw that he clearly is. Shaggy blonde hair that had seemed to always fall just right, eyes so blue that she could drown in them, hands calloused from hours spent gripping the handlebars of a motorcycle, and lips tasting like cinnamon whiskey that had sent her head spinning.

Well, she can see everything but the latter - but that's a memory that not even ten years and two thousand miles can take away.

"Strolling down memory lane?"

Rachel stands in the doorway, clothed in an elegant black backless sheath gown, one of Brooke's designs. Her oldest friend and chief operating officer of her company had flown back from a Clothes over Bro's runway show in Milan the moment that she'd heard about the destruction of her marriage, standing at her side through the tumultuous event that has been Brooke's divorce. It had seemed fitting, considering that she had been a bridesmaid at the ridiculous event in the first place. Only while the other bridesmaids were saying how incredibly beautiful she had looked, Rachel had been begging her to reconsider her options. She had warned her that Lucas Scott would be the death of her, but Brooke hadn't heeded a single word. She'd walked down the aisle with a beaming smile and married the fucker anyway, who she had been convinced would never leave her.

She wonders sometimes if her life wouldn't be in such shambles if she had just allowed herself to get over her stubbornness and listen to Rachel - or even more terrifying, what her life would have turned out to be if she had chosen to stay in Charming all those years ago. Would she be here, the head of a company with all the money in the world and still longing for something more? Or would she be a wife, a mother even? Would she be happy and peaceful or as bored and unfulfilled as she is now? And of course, the most painful thought of all: would the boy in the picture still love her as deeply as he had then?

At least she has someone that does truly love her at her side, she reasons as she looks over at the redhead, whose eyes now skate between the photograph in Brooke's hands and to her face. Rachel had fallen out of the shell game of life a year or two after they'd graduated from college together, drowning herself in crank after her former employee and unfortunate mother Victoria had fired her for showing up late for modeling shoots. Brooke had found her in their first apartment in Greenwich Village, half dead from a bad batch that was running through her veins. She hadn't been such a fucking mess back then, she could actually take care of people, and so she got Rachel off of the needle and up on her feet - and fired Victoria without a second thought. From the day she had stepped out of rehab, she hadn't left Brooke's side. Sure, now they take off at the end of the night in opposite directions with their own men to forget about their separate sets of problems, but they always circled back to each other the next morning. Rachel had quickly become the only constant in her life.

"Could you zip me into this?" Brooke asks without meeting her gaze, sliding the picture back into its place before grabbing her glass and downing the tequila. She slides her dainty feet into a pair of gold accented Jimmy Choo peep toe pumps and her decision is subtle, the kind that just lingers in the air. She gestures to the hanging dress, dropping her ebony robe to reveal the strapless cream lace corset lingerie that seems to keep her together in that moment. She likes to think that it holds her heart in, protects her from anyone getting a bit too close to the feeble organ that she once hung on her sleeve without a care in the world.

Rachel doesn't say a word about the picture. She simply takes the dress off of the hanger and hands it to the brunette, patiently waiting as Brooke steps into the dress. The organza folds of fabric from the bottom of the dress rustling against her skin the only sounds to be heard in the silent room as she says a silent thank you to whatever higher power put the two women together. There is the soft sound of the zipper as she closes her eyes, the sensation of the fabric binding to her voluptuous curves bringing her a certani peace. It keeps her a little more whole while she holds her shoulder length chestnut locks high from the back of the dress, breathing deeply.

"This reminds me of…" Rachel trails off as she takes a step back, the both of them looking at the brunette's image in the nearby mirror. She nearly lets the words "your wedding day" slip from her mouth, but Brooke stops her before she can.

"I know." Brooke murmurs as she brushes a stray lock from her vision, her hands busying themselves with her hair as she pulls it into a low bun, messy yet sophisticated. Her hands drop to her sides before her arms wrap around her body, as if to protect her from the shooting pain that generally fills her veins when she speaks of her failed relationship. But there's no pain, no cruel shot, no weight looming in the shadows waiting to drop. Her marriage is simply over. She's ready to move on, she convinces herself as she looks over at Rachel, her smile frozen on her features.

If only that were the truth.

The redhead pauses, her arms wrapping around Brooke's upper body as she returns the smile. "Your smile is a sight for sore eyes, Davis. Even if it is faker than my tits." Her face turns serious for a moment, her expression falling. "If it's too much, if you can't do it and you need to leave, just tell me. We'll come right back and pull out Gone With The Wind and swoon over Rhett Butler and that Southern drawl of his."

Brooke nods silently as she pulls away from Rachel, grabbing a gold clutch from her nearby end table before they walk downstairs. No other words need to be said, no thank you's or sentiments of adoration. They both know that's not what Brooke needs right now as they silently slip into their limo. She needs to be tilting back a glass of straight tequila while the bartender pretends it's champagne, getting lost in the swarms of the rich and famous of Manhattan.

She needs to be back in her world, trying to find some sort of stable ground where she can say, "okay, this is where I belong". Every place she walks into is the same: perfectly lit, string music thrumming in the background, elegantly decorated with a sea of people, each person swimming along on their due course; the socialites smiling their ridiculously plastic grins and the businessman acting as if they own the room. It's a far cry from the quiet bars in Charming, and none even give her the sensation that she craves - belonging.

But then again, she doesn't feel like she belongs anywhere anymore. And that's the only thing that hasn't changed in the ten years since she left home.

She fights back tears at the thought, her own cynical voice popping into her head as they pull up to the flash of paparazzi cameras. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

And yet, Brooke does exactly what's expected of her and plasters on a smile.

Why? Because Brooke Davis has been raised to claim whatever throne she desires.

She just doesn't know if the crown is worth the weight it carries anymore.

- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –-

He doesn't quite know how he wound up here.

Not geographically here, but just here. Caught between his club and his two week old premature son.

His before and after are beginning to blur together and he's losing details of his before every day. That's what he calls it in his journal now, when he talks about Wendy nearly killing his unborn child. He just calls it before and tries to forget that his mother found his ex-wife overdosing in a pool of blood on his kitchen floor, and calls what happens now after. He doesn't want his Abel to read about Wendy's twisted way of bringing him into the world, not after everything that he's gone through in his last week of life. He can only imagine what the day looks like, when he tells Abel that his mother shot up a bad batch and almost killed both him and herself in the kitchen that he'll eventually sit and eat his breakfast in every morning, let alone fathom the looks of betrayal and disgust that will distort his little face. It's too much for a child to understand and that's perfectly fine with him. He'll wait as long as Abel needs, till he comes asking to know the truth. He can wait forever.

He had grown completely and utterly content with the path set forth by Clay and Gemma decades before, of the course charted when his father and Clay had become two of the founding members of the Sons of Anarchy. Get his GED, sit at the table as vice president until Clay's hands finally gave out on him, take over as president. He'd slipped into the all too familiar disconnect that the life led to, sleeping with every woman he laid his eyes on and pushing every boundary he could. The only thing he'd ever been good at was being an outlaw, so into SAMCRO he dove deeper. And why not? It'd been his birthright to sit at the head of the table, whether by his own father's claim or by his stepfather's ambitions. Being a Son had been all that he'd ever known, and so he forgot that there could be a future without it.

Maybe it had been because there hadn't been anyone telling him anything different anymore, no voice in his ear telling him that he could have a better life - let alone that he could deserve one. He hadn't had one of those since he'd gone and fucked up the only thing in the world that mattered to him at the ripe old age of nineteen - and ten years still isn't long enough for him to let go of that.

No, not him. There would be no future for Jackson Nathaniel Teller outside of the Sons of Anarchy, his mother had made damn sure of that. Teller's lived at the gavel and died bloody, that was the family way and he'd begun to realize by that point that his end would probably be just that. His father, who had lived for two days after being dragged almost two hundred feet by a semi truck that had plowed into him, had proved that Teller's were nothing if not resilient motherfuckers.

He'd met his ex-wife somewhere along the way and married her because it had just made sense, an escape from the loneliness. Wendy Case had been a crow eater, all ragged blonde curls and brown eyes and bad decisions. He probably should have known better, but hindsight had a funny way of being 20/20. It hadn't been as if he'd had high expectations for the recently sobered up junkie who made him forget about his emptiness for an hour at a time. There hadn't ever been a real connection between them, just mindlessly good sex and the convenience of finally settling down. He had known better than to hope that she would be everything he'd hoped that a wife would be. He had dreamed of that life, of one where he'd be so in love with his wife that he couldn't do anything but be with her, that he'd flown off to New York in the arms of the only woman he'd ever truly given his heart to. But somewhere along the way he had just accepted the fact that this had been where he had been meant to end up after all. Right where his mother wanted him, sitting at the left hand of his stepfather and letting himself get lost in the club one violent act at a time. Or at least, he had thought it was where he was meant to be.

Right up until he'd found his father's journal buried in his mother's storage unit.

He'd been digging through the piles of what he could only describe as pack rat behavior, cussing under his breath about how Gemma needed to let some of this meaningless shit go, and there it had been. The words of his father, all typed out for the world to see on a Selectric typewriter that couldn't have been more than ten feet away. How The Sons of Anarchy Lost Their Way had fallen into his hands, and then suddenly everything he'd become used to went up in smoke.

John Teller, the legendary outlaw, had desperately wanted to get the club out of the gun running that had become intertwined with the core of who the Sons had become. His father had spoken to him from the grave on the pages of what could only be described as a memoir, leaving him a road map to pulling the club out of the bad religion that the life had become for them all, to the money and the power and the savagery. He spoke of what the intention of the club had been at the beginning, what anarchy truly meant, how he feared for the future of his son.

In an instant, his world has gone from being filled with a tradition, with reputation that the Teller name and bloodline had carried since his father had returned from Vietnam, to being something that he now silently questions at every angle. Nothing makes sense to him now. Not his club, not the arms dealing business, not the crow eaters, not his mother, not his life.

So he's started pushing back against Clay, against the gun business; even tried to float the idea of not rebuilding the assembly warehouse after the explosion. He had tried in his own quiet way to reason a balance between his father's words and his stepfather's teachings since his son had brutally entered in the world with a genetic heart defect and a half a stomach, but the violence in his heart has outweighed any kind of reason. The second he'd heard Abel's doctor tell him that the kid might not even make it, all he's felt is pure rage. And that hate, that anger, that burden on his shoulders of caring for a child that would have hundreds of thousands of medical bills by a month into his life, it's all just one more thing keeping the hold of the club on him. He's trying, he tells himself when he pages through his father's words. He's trying, and that's all he can do right now.

All he wants is to be what John had wanted for him - to be a good father to his son and a good brother to his club, to live a normal life where Abel won't have to be in constant fear of his father getting locked up at any second. He needs to know that it's possible for him to find an escape hatch, he'd promised himself when he'd finally gathered the strength to look down at Abel for the first time in his little toaster. There had to be a better way, a true brotherhood. It couldn't have just been the pipe dreams of a grieving anarchist who'd just watched his eldest son died, because if there's one thing he knows for sure it's that he doesn't ever want his son to bear the weight of the cut on his back.

So now he stays in his place with the club and rides, blows down endless and endless miles with a cigarette on his lips and a prayer under his breath for his son. Sometimes it's with the club, but most of the time it's at night when he can't sleep. He had forgotten what it feels like to just let his headers drown out all of the sounds, for the world around him to become paper cutouts along the way, for his body and his bike to become one with the pavement. It's the only feeling that keeps Jax breathing easy anymore. He needs it, craves the feelings that will rush through him when his bike becomes an extension of his hands and all of the rage disappears from his heart. He's abandoned his young boy to find it, leaving Abel under the watchful eye of Gemma and his doctors. He's sure it's a decision he'll regret for the rest of his life, but it's the only one he feels he can choose. He's not the kind of man that's going to sit around in the blank hospital praying for a miracle. The chances of Abel's survival get better every day that he makes it through, but sitting and watching his born crank-addicted child isn't something that he's strong enough to do right now. Doing that would just make him lose what's left of his mind.

But today, unfortunately, is not one of those days. Today he's been forced into going to the visiting Fun Town Carnival to keep the club's image as a necessary evil to protect the Charming way of life - or at least that's what he's beginning to open his eyes to. Everything Gemma and Clay do is a calculated move with self serving ends, but at least today's chore is for a genuinely good cause where he can get drunk and go on rides with his club. It's a lighter day in comparison to the shit with the Mayans and the stress of trying to keep the Irish connect and Jax is actively trying. He and Bobby, Tigs and Chibs laugh as they walk through the fair. Gemma and Clay spend their afternoon in the photo booth making out like teenagers - actually it's probably way more pornographic, but he really doesn't want to picture that. They shove the dunk clown into his tank after he calls them leather butt buddies, he eats some crappy fair food and drinks some beer with his brothers; it's a good All American apple pie loving, baseball watching, soda pop sipping kind of fun-having day, outside of running into a few guys from the Nordic gang in Lodi.

Until he sees her.

He's walking down the main drag with the guys when she blows by him faster than a hurricane. She can't be more than fifteen, all playful and innocent smile and long chestnut waves as she runs through the carnival at a breakneck speed. Her hazel eyes sparkle with excitement as she asks for more tickets from her dad, all the while getting a lecture from her mother about how she's been on the ride four times already - but her careless laughter shows how little her mother's opinion actually matters to her. Her smile is infectious, tugging at the corners of his lips as the group saunters on, and everything about her makes Jax's entire world go off kilter for just a heartbeat.

He has to look down to make sure that twenty nine year old Jax is still standing there, that he's still all leather and denim and mayhem and not the auto shop grease monkey sophomore getting caught smoking in the boy's bathroom - and low and behold, he is. He takes a jagged breath in as he tries to grasp at strings of the present, trying to force himself to focus. He's just a victim of a nostalgic glimpse from the past that still tugs at his heartstrings so painfully that he can't bear to say it out loud, a caustic torture that he lives with on a daily basis, and she's the perfect remind of it all for him.

Because after ten years, Tristen Oswald is practically her older sister's twin. All she needs is the cheer uniform and a blue "C" painted on her cheek, complete with a fifteen year old version of the rugged biker he's become chasing after her.

Fifteen and chasing hopelessly after the girl from the rich side of town that's been too damn good for him since the first grade, and somehow convincing her to go on a date with him. Sneaking her out of her bedroom window at twilight, listening to her scream with laughter as she rides on the back of his bike with her arms outstretched in the wind, her amber waves whipping with the breeze. Kissing her under a full moon while the whole world fades away.

Sixteen and feeling like if he could just look into those hazel eyes for the rest of his life, he might turn out okay. Realizing that maybe, just maybe, he's falling in love with a girl who can see through all of the bullshit and the heavy weight of the expectations on his shoulders, someone who sees him for something more than just the biker gang's kid. A girl who allows him to dream outside of the club, to make plans for a future that doesn't involve him wielding a weapon.

Seventeen and hearing her whisper that she loves him over and over again as he feels her body wrap around him, vowing to keep her safe for the rest of his life as he makes love to her for the first time with every fiber of his being. Protecting her from the life with everything he's got and wondering if she'd been made to get him away from Charming as she rambles aimlessly about dreams of New York City.

Eighteen and wanting her to be his forever, no matter the consequences. Planning to run as far away as he can get with her, dreaming of college and marriage and babies and growing old with the young woman he's watched her blossom into. Laying beside her, watching her sleep as he runs his fingers through her hair, and realizing that she's the only thing that matters anymore. Battling their manipulative mothers and their domineering fathers, because it's us against the world.

Nineteen and sitting next to her hospital bed praying that she'll wake up, knowing that she's better off without him dragging her down with him. Finally fucking it all up just like everyone said that he would and falling apart when she'd disappeared off into the sunset to New York, just like she'd promised that she would - just without him.

How did you wind up here?

The condescending voice he hears all too often spills through his mind as he stands there frozen in the middle of his memories. He swallows the agony that bubbles up in the back of his throat as her father, Elliott, catches his eye before mumbling something to the raven haired woman at his side. He waves awkwardly at Jax. His wife, however, shoots him an icy look that cuts as easily as the knife strapped to his side. Safe to say that she'd never been a fan of him, not even close. To her, he had been a criminal with no place in her daughter's world - a fact which she had never let him forget, not once in the nearly five years that he'd spent madly in love with their daughter.

Jax should know better, he tells himself as he walks over to Tristen. He should be listening to Bobby, who's desperately trying to convince him to stop whatever he's about to do. But at the end of the day, he's not better than this and he certainly isn't any wiser as he walks up to her.

"Hey, here." He says to Tristen with an extended hand full of tickets. "They kicked me off 'cause I was screamin' too loud." Jax says with a wink.

The young girl's face lights up like a Christmas tree, grinning from ear to ear. She cautiously looks over her shoulder at her mother, who looks like she might combust. But he knows that look in Tristen's eyes - one part foolish youth, one part devious ideas and one part of unstoppable determination. She's the spitting image of her older sister, and it leaves him feeling just a little bit less empty when she grabs the tickets from his hand.

"Sorry about my mom in advance, but thanks for the tickets Jax!" Tristen calls out over her shoulder as she runs off in the direction of her ride, the skip in her step all too familiar. She's happy, truly happy, and it's a sight to behold.

Apparently, happiness is all he wants for the Oswald girls - even if he's not a part of it.

Unfortunately Victoria Davis-Oswald, who's currently floating over to him with an even more frigid look to her than usual, doesn't seem to think of it that way.

"That's not necessary." Victoria whisper yells through gritted teeth, her icy smile all but sending a chill down his spine. He's never understood how someone with as much money as she's got has never paid someone to pull the stick out of her ass.

Jax raises an eyebrow, turning his eyes back to Tristan. "Give it a rest, Victoria. It's the a ride at a summer carnival, not a Harley. I'm sure she'll stay just as prim and proper as you want her to."

The Oswald matriarch narrows her eyes. She's preparing another vicious shot at him, but her husband slides in before she can get a word in.

"What my wife is meaning to say," Elliott sighs, smiling in his normal polite nature. "Is thank you."

He nearly snorts in laughter at the look on Victoria's face, but he chooses to keep his words short and sweet. After all, he should be thinking like Clay - two steps ahead and careful not to piss off people who he may need to bail him out of trouble someday when the gavel rests in his hands, not his stepfather's. "I'm glad someone can put those tickets to use." Jax says with a warm smile, reaching out and shaking Elliott's hand.

Victoria folds her arms across her chest. "We should be going." She snipes at her husband before walking away, but not before giving Jax one last look of utter disgust. It's a look he sadly knows from the Davis women all too well.

Elliott clasps his shoulder firmly, letting another sigh slip from his mouth. "She means well, I swear." He sighs, but the shake of his head says otherwise. They both know the truth; Victoria's a bitch for the sake of being a bitch. Her eldest daughter, however, had only been a bitch when it came to people hurting her friends and family - which is probably why rumor had it that Victoria didn't have anything to do with her daughter's company. That's my girl, he'd thought to himself when he'd heard it - because the truth is, in his eyes she'll always be his girl.

"How you doin' these days, Jax?"

Elliott's voice brings him back to the present and Jax smirks, holding open his cut for effect. "I'm whole, that's all I can ask for lately." He says with his wily half moon grin. And that's the truth - it's all he can ask for, even though all he wants to do is ask how she is. But even he knows better. He'd lost the privilege of knowing that too many years ago to even attempt it.

The Oswald patriarch chuckles, shaking his head. "I hear congratulations are in order for that baby boy of yours." He looks over at his daughter, a wistful smile on his features. "You'll find that no matter what, you'll want to protect that boy as much as you can. And trust me, it's even worse with girls."

Jax hears Tristen laugh from the ride, turning to watch her hair fly around her face as she screams with happiness. He can't help but smile, forgetting who he's standing next to as he drifts away. While Elliot is saying something about his daughter, Jax is a million miles and a decade away. He can hear her voice, feel her skin beneath his hands, see her standing in his bathroom doorway in one of his old t-shirts without a trace of make up on. He can feel her lips on the back of his neck, hear her whispering into his ear as the sound of a Dyna Wide Glide drowns out everything around him. His nose fills with the scent of vanilla and honey as he turns his head around, still looking for the real thing even though he knows she's long gone.

"...but I've been meaning to ask you, have you heard anything about a newcomer named Ethan Zobelle?"

Elliott's words drag him back to the present, forcing him out of his daydream as he shakes his head. "No, I haven't. Somethin' I should know about?"

He watches as the business magnate's brow creases, and he knows that worried look all too well. "He bought the old Sherman's building, he's opening up some cigar shop - but that's not what concerns me." Elliott digs into his pocket, producing a business card of some sort and handing it to Jax. "He gave this to me, right before he and Jacob Hale asked if I'd be interested in selling them a hundred acres of timber for a housing project."

His blue eyes search the card, and he understands the worry. "League of American Nationalists?" Jax reads aloud, looking back up as he holds the card up between two fingers. White Hate had made its way to Charming, and apparently its first stop had been at the Oswald home. He remembers the Nords that he'd seen walking through the fair, the Aryan Brotherhood ink that covered their arms and and scorn on their lips. "What'd this guy look like?"

Elliot rakes a hand through his closely cropped salt and pepper hair, clearly distraught. "The guys with him looked like the typical guys I see at the mill, the ones that run with Darby. Tatted up meatheads, swastikas, gang tags. But this guy looked as clean cut at they come, suit and tie businessman. He even knew that the zoning commission had been looking into my land for that highway they're planning, brought up eminent domain and how much money I'd lose. I did some digging after they stopped by, he owns a chain of these shops along the West Coast. Including Stockton."

Jax's hair stands on end. Opie had only been out of Stockton for a few months, where he'd been protected by none other than the AB boys inside - per Darby's instruction - and Opie had mentioned how much of the heroin trade that they'd controlled in the pen. Zobelle's appearance is starting to feel like a lot more than coincidence. "What'd you tell them?"

"That I'd sooner raze that land to the goddamn ground in before I gave it any group associated with white hate." Elliott snarls, shaking his head. "My family's been in Charming since it was founded, Jax. You know how much it means to me. I'm not about to see our town's values get trampled by a bunch of meth cooking skinheads looking to rack up more territory."

Jax nods, slipping the card into his pocket. "I'll talk to the club, bring it to the table. We'll handle it." He murmurs quietly, his head now on a swivel. If shit's about to go down, he wants to be prepared.

"Jackson," Elliott starts, his gaze shifting to his wife that's currently flagging him down. "Don't underestimate these guys. They made it pretty clear that they aren't going anywhere anytime soon, and if they've got Jacob Hale in their pocket..."

Jax brushes him off, his tough exterior getting the better of him. "C'mon, Elliott. You're acting like I don't deal with this shit on a daily basis."

"Then do us both a favor and stay whole. 'Cause I'm not making that phone call to her. You hear me?"

Her.

Jax grimaces as he nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. He knows that Elliott means business if he's bringing up their connection. Bitterness pulls at his lip and he's not sure of what to say at that point. None of it seems to fit as the two stand still, but this time he knows why - because the words he wants to say are trapped beneath a decade of regret and a lifetime of apologies.

"Vicki's right about one thing," Elliot says firmly, looking down at his watch and then over at his wife. "I have to head out, if I can even get Tristen off that damn ride."

He nods again, clearing his throat gruffly before he speaks. "Yeah, I gotta track down the guys. Can't let them wander too far without adult supervision." He says as he looks back up to Elliot, the pained smile on his lips.

Elliot holds out his hand, shaking his own firmly. "Call me after you talk to Clay, let me know how you guys want to handle this."

He gives him one last twist of a smile, nodding as he drops his hand back to his side. He watches as the man he once thought would be his father in law walks towards his wife before turning away. He flips out his phone, dialing up his stepfather without another thought.

"I'm busy," Clay answers, and Jax can hear his mother laughing in the background. "Make it fast."

"Get out of the photo booth, we got business. Nords are threatening Oswald." Jax snaps between gritted teeth, taking one last look at Tristen spinning around on The Zinger before shutting the phone quickly.

How the fuck did you wind up here?

- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –-

"She looks positively wretched."

Brooke stands frozen in the middle of the party, clutching her purse with a dangerous ferocity. They had been there an hour or so, maybe even two, and so far it had been fine for the most part. She had milled about the top of the one percent with a glass of champagne in her hand, rubbed elbows with some of the wealthiest people in New York, possibly even found a few investors for her new men's line. Not to mention, she had been complimented on her dress so many times that she's actually grateful for her own talents. The trumpet silhouette, the beautiful folds at the bottom where it fans out – she feels like a mermaid, a gorgeous sex goddess of a crimson coated mermaid that had floated through the party effortlessly. Brooke feels as if she's been walking through the clouds, beaming so bright that she actually had felt normal for just a few moments.

And then, she had appeared.

Peyton Sawyer, otherwise known as her husband's disgusting mistress, stands directly across the room in a sleek white dress, all pale skin and bones. She's changed her hair since they've last seen each other, stringy blonde curls now chemically straightened in a severe ultra modern bob that does nothing for her features. Her lips are coated in a dark red lipstick, eyes smudged with smoky black eyeliner and a very ironic pearl necklace dangling around her neck. Brooke can't help but survey that she looks more mature, but more importantly she looks she's lost the touch of innocent youth that she had with mascara running down her cheeks from fake tears and horridly crafted lies.

It's been nine months since they'd seen each other, nine long and never ending months since she'd found out that her husband was sleeping with his high school sweetheart, a woman who she'd actually become good friends with over the years of her relationship with Luke. She had cried, Brooke remembers. She had wept and pleaded for her to forgive them when she'd been confronted. At least Peyton had at the start, right up until she had tried to say that it had been Brooke's fault that they'd wound up fucking, because she had been too wrapped up in her own business to support Luke's promising future. She can still feel the slap that she flung right into Peyton's face, still feel her screams burning her throat.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare twist my words around to make yourself feel like you are not a backstabbing two face bitch, Peyton! Because you are, and you know it!"

Brooke had just stood there at the end of it all, when Peyton had begged her for mercy, to not cut her out of her life, to forgive her and Luke. She had just stood there wordlessly as Peyton told her that she would give Lucas up, that it was just a horrible mistake and that their friendship meant so much more. She had turned on her heel and walked away while the blonde had screamed her lungs out apologizing to her. It had only been when Peyton had grabbed her arm, attempting to pull her back to the conversation, that Brooke had truly uttered the words that would change her marriage forever.

"You want my husband? You can have the bastard, but don't you ever come near me again or I'll put you through a goddamn wall, so I'd get out of New York if I were you. That's not a threat, by the way. That's a promise."

"Be fair." Brooke says quietly, downing her drink. "She looks halfway decent."

Rachel shakes her head, blown away by the fact that she's trying to take the high road. "No, she doesn't. She's the woman you caught having an affair with your husband, a woman who then tried to get him to rip you apart in a divorce so she could get your money. She's a fucking leech, Brooke, and she had her teeth in your ass for so long that there should be a goddamn scar."

"Rachel, that's enough." She hisses as she grabs another glass of champagne and desperately tosses it back, hoping that it'll take the edge off of her nerves. She prays for something stiffer to magically appear, but alas, no luck. "She won't come over here, she knows better. Or at least she should." She murmurs resiliently.

"When has Peyton Sawyer ever done what she should do? When?" Rachel snaps back, her steeled gaze focused on the blonde across the room. "When she was a bridesmaid in your wedding, or when she was fucking your husband two years after you cut the cake and said I do?"

"She will." Brooke promises, more to herself than anything else. Perhaps it's not just the haircut that's grown up, she prays. Maybe her ex-husband's new girlfriend had listened and wouldn't come anywhere near her, as she'd told her to. Certainly not at a public event, she wouldn't have the gall to do it. The source of Brooke's marriage collapsing had never once been revealed to the press, to her stockholders. Not a single soul outside of the attorneys, the slut and Rachel knew about it all. After all, she had a brand to protect, a business. Peyton had to at least understand that. Surely with Red Bedroom Records, the label that Brooke had financed at the urges of her husband - and against the wishes of the redhead beside her - she'll grasp that right now, Brooke needs silence. It's at that moment that she's really beginning to hate how right Rachel can be, as she realizes she'll now need to shed her stocks in the record label as well.

But when their eyes meet and brown hits hazel, Peyton's eyes don't drop in utter shame, and she realizes that she's fucking doomed.

Brooke's face shows no emotion, the polar temperature of her gaze apparent. It's all in her shaking hands, the unbridled rage that had yet to be unleashed. She had held it all in during the divorce negotiations, kept herself from saying one ugly thing about her husband and his mistress. She had stopped herself from badmouthing him in the press for her own survival but it's all still there, lingering in the dark when she's not paying attention. Her crystal flute of Dom Perignon trembles in her hand, the liquid nearly spilling over until Rachel grabs the glass from her hand.

"The reporter from the Times is on your left and one from the Post on your right. Take a breath, Brooke." Rachel whispers into her ear, trying to pull her away. "Come on. Let's grab a few bottles of Cristal and go home. I know they've got it hidden behind the bar, I used to screw one of the board members and it's all he drinks."

Brooke watches as the blonde fidgets in her gaze, watches Peyton shift uncomfortably while the brunette's fists ball up in rage. It's all there, every ounce of pain and hurt that she'd felt since she found out about the affair. How many times had Lucas told her that she was insane, that she was just imagining things, that absolutely nothing was going on? How could anyone compare to her, his beautiful wife? How could she even be accusing him of this? How could she be so crazy?

How could her safe option, the good ol' Southern boy who loved his momma more than anything, have been such a disappointment?

Peyton compared, apparently. Peyton Sawyer, who had tried to take everything from her, seemed to always have the higher ground on her. She'd taken Lucas, taken a future where they might have been happy. She'd encouraged him to try to take half of the company, to go after Brooke's trust, to take anything he could get his hands on. And when he'd failed thanks to an ironclad prenup, leaving Lucas with absolutely nothing, it had been a bloodbath. Their friends had all chosen sides, Lucas's brother and his wife dutifully picking their blood and not their in-law. Not a single person but Rachel and her own family were left, and the woman standing across the room from her her had been the one to do it.

She doesn't even say a word as Peyton takes a step towards her. She just holds up her hand like a makeshift stop sign and shakes her head before turning on her heel towards the nearest balcony. "I need some air." Brooke chokes out before clamoring through the crowd, trying to remain as poised and graceful as possible.

It's like parting the Red Sea, every person in front of her easily moving just to get a glance at her. She smiles, she says hello, and she even compliments someone on their dress – a Clothes Over Bro's Couture design. It's all to get her to the glass door on the side of the party, and when she finally gets to it, it's her lifeline.

Brooke rips open the door and goes flying out onto the balcony, the beginning of fall cool air hitting her like a freight train. She wordlessly cries out as her body hits the railing, her hands holding onto the metal for dear life. She looks down for a moment, the people walking below like ants. If only Peyton were down there, she thinks for a moment. Then she'd be praying for a magnifying glass to fry her up with and not for wings to fly far away from this tragic scene.

"This is not your fault." She whispers to herself, gasping for air. "He's a cheating bastard and there was nothing that you could possibly do about it. She was his mistake." Brooke manages to get out, staring up at the starless sky to keep the tears from falling. But this time it doesn't work, she realizes as her head drops and her waterworks don't stop. She needs something stronger than her faltering willpower.

Brooke tears her purse open wide, grabbing her emergency stash of cigarettes as she opens the holder and pulls one out, only to realize that she had forgotten to bring a lighter with her. But nestled just beside her cigarettes is that same picture that she'd found earlier that night, the one she'd tucked away just in case she needed an escape.

Jax.

One look at his ocean eyes, and she's finally able to control her external emotions as she heaves a deep breath in, finally catching it. The ice water settles in her veins once more, her blood ceasing its relentless boil, and she opens her eyes to the world before her.

She doesn't even know why she's bothering to try when she pulls out her phone, reminding herself that he's bound to have changed his number. But she has to try, she thinks to herself. What would one more ghost of her past be after seeing Peyton?

It rings once, twice, three times, and the voicemail kicks in.

You know what to do.

His voice fills her ears, and Brooke is flashing back to Charming and the boy in the photo. She can't even hang up, frozen as the beep sounds, and then the words just fall out of her mouth.

"Hi, Jackson." She whispers, closing her eyes as she savors the sound of his name on her lips. "I don't even know why I'm calling, really...I was heading out tonight, and I found this old picture of us on your first motorcycle...and I just..."

Brooke pauses as the tears begin to fall, trying not to picture what Jax could be doing right now instead of answering her call. She tries to breathe, tries to keep her composure, but even five little words on a voicemail message somehow disarms her best intentions to stay impervious.

"I don't know who I am anymore, or how I got here. And I miss who I used to be, who I was with you...I want to have a home again, you know? And real friends, you know...the kind of friendships we used to believe in. I miss that, and I miss you, and I guess I just...I miss all of it. Ten years ago, it all seemed so clear and so simple...but I don't know what's going to make me happy anymore, and I just..."

The voicemail, as if somehow knowing that she's becoming too vulnerable, cuts her off. "If you're satisfied with your voicemail, please press one. To delete your voicemail, please press two."

Brooke smiles bitterly, pulling the phone back and preparing to press two. What is she doing, calling him? It's been ten years, ten long years. Who is she to think that he'll still know the sound of her voice, anyway?

The sound of the door opening causes her to turn, expecting it to be Peyton. Her hands instinctively hang up and slide her phone back into her purse, as if ready to throw her ex-husband's whore off the balcony at a moment's notice - so ready, that she doesn't realize that her voicemail's just gone through.

Instead, her eyes focus on the man that enters the balcony, an unwelcome surprise. He's older, a sort of handsome air around him that Brooke is sure has helped him close deals in the past - but also one that she has no interest in. He's just another suit, but she surmises that he could be of some use as she looks over the man's shoulder to see Peyton coming her way. Her eyes land on him, focus on him, protecting herself from the woman behind him by keeping her eyes on him.

He smiles as the door shuts behind him, and she knows that smile. It's the same one that had been gleaming from her mother when she'd finally caved to leaving her hometown, one of a predator closing in on his prey, and she feels her hair stand on end as he takes two more steps closer. He pulls out a gold zippo lighter, the side of it engraved with some sort of design that she's not familiar with.

"I hate to interrupt," the man says with a gleaming smile, flicking open the top of the lighter. "But I was always taught that beautiful women don't light their own cigarettes."

Warily, Brooke puts the cigarette to her lips and lights in, breathing in the sweet taste of nicotine as she reigns in her worries, taking a deep drag of the cigarette. She's overreacting, she's sure, but her mistrust of strange men is something that keeps her safe these days. "And they say chivalry is dead." She says with a wry smile, smoke spilling from her lips.

The man laughs softly, shrugging as he pulls out a cigar and clips the end, the movement so swift that she wouldn't have noticed if it had been a finger in the Cuban's place. "Only in New York." He puffs on the cigar, leaning against the balcony beside her. He holds his hand out to her, his Cheshire Cat smile sending a chill down her spine. "Ethan Zobelle, at your service."

She eyes his hand with suspicion, taking his hand with a certain hesitation. "Brooke Davis." She says firmly, about to ask him what he's doing there, but the man - Ethan, as she's no been informed - interrupts her.

"Oh you don't need an introduction. Your reputation proceeds you, Miss Davis, and I might say quite the illustrious one at that." Ethan says as he holds onto her hand too tightly for comfort. "I own a string of cigar shops on the west coast - but I hear you're from there, so perhaps you know it. Impeccable Smokes, locations in Stockton, Alameda and Millbrae."

Brooke's body tenses ever so slightly, his words ringing alarm bells in her head. She knows what's in Stockton, knows how many of her childhood friends have spent time in their penitentiary and how many more have been gunned down in gang wars there since before she'd been born. It had been impossible to grow up in Charming without knowing that the Aryan Brotherhood had controlled the Stockton State Pen for the better part of two decades, and you definitely couldn't grow up without knowing the blood drenched history between the Nords, 1-Niners, Mayans and the Sons of Anarchy - not when she had been running straight into the line of fire by falling in love with one of the sons of a First Niner.

Not when the scars of the gang war that had spilled onto Charming's streets are burdens that lie just beneath the beautiful dress that she wears.

Ethan keeps his eyes focused solely on her, and she meets them with an innocent gaze. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar." Brooke says warmly, her smile a disguise as her eyes subtly search him for any signs of the usual suspects. There's no visible AB tattoos on his exposed skin, no track marks in his hands, no missing teeth. By all efforts, he looks completely and utterly normal - which she's sure is exactly what a shot caller of the leading neo-Nazi group would want for the sake of blending in with the crowd. She doesn't know how high up he is, but she knows that he's up high enough to get an invitation to an event in New York and to operate his own business shelters to run money through. His gang ties paired with his obvious intensity would be what most considered unnerving, but to the girl that had grown up caught between the Oswald family and SAMCRO, it's nothing more than child's play.

"I'm actually planning on opening a location in your hometown. Charming does seem the next logical step for expansion, quite the underdeveloped area." Ethan says plainly as continues to hold onto her hand. His voice is unnaturally calm as he smiles once more, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? Miss Oswald?"

Her hand rips from his grasp, eyes narrowing dangerously. Brooke looks over his shoulder for Rachel, who's currently distracting the two reporters that she'd been concerned about, as she flicks her cigarette in Zobelle's direction and stands straight up. She knows for certain that this is no accidental run in, that this had been a carefully planned rendezvous. Her running to the balcony had given him the perfect opportunity to step in and play his part, whatever it is.

"Well, you certainly have my attention, but let's be crystal clear," she pauses. The smile that rises to her lips cold, cruel, and filled with every savage thought that's rushing through her mind. "Dredging up my past is not the way to get something you want from me, and Charming is very firmly in my past."

"And so is Jax Teller, according to your lengthy juvenile record. Disorderly conduct, battery, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer. You'll have to excuse my curiosity, but how exactly does a girl of your feminine wiles shatter the jaw of a cop in three different places? Not that I blame you. Color deserves to put in its place."

Her blood runs ice cold and without a second thought, Brooke's hand balls into a fist and thunderously slams into Zobelle's face. Her hazel eyes are alight with a voracious appetite of rage as she takes another step closer to the man that's now bent over in pain. Her lips are right beside his ear as she lets her mask of model behavior slip from her features to reveal the savage she's longed to let loose. "Those records are sealed." Brooke growls, her hands on the man's shoulders.

"Tell me, did Gemma Teller teach you to do that?" He snarls as he spits out a wad of blood. "Or did you learn that after your precious biker boyfriend let you get shot by the wetbacks?"

Brooke's knee slams upwards into Zobelle's groin, leaving the man doubled over in pain. Her hands grasp his suit to keep him upright, the appearance of it all as if she's an upset patron being comforted by a kind stranger. "You're painting a very devilish picture of me, Mr. Zobelle. If I were you, alone with me on a balcony..." Her gaze wanders to the railing, her smirk volatile. "Well, I would not want to find out exactly how much of a ruthless bitch I still am. So why don't you get to the point before I scream my pretty little head off - because as you said, I have quite the illustrious reputation and no one will take your word over mine in this town - and throw you over that railing like the piece of white hate trash that you really are."

The laugh that follows from his lips is bone chilling. Ethan raises his head, looking her dead in the eyes. The polite businessman is gone, leaving someone much more monstrous - but only for a split second. He stands up before before looking down at her, sliding his hands down his suit jacket. He composes himself, reigning in the demons that clearly exist within him, and returns to his calculated behavior. "Now that you've gotten that out of your system," he says calmly, "perhaps you're ready to talk business."

Brooke laughs boldly, raising an eyebrow. "Business? What on earth makes you think that I'm about to get into business with the Aryan Brotherhood? You can flex your muscles all you want back in Lodi, but you have no power here."

Zobelle smiles menacingly, shrugging ever so slightly. "We're called the League of American Nationalists, LOAN for short - but you're right, Miss Oswald. Manhattan isn't quite what you'd call a hotbed for membership to the cause. But back in Charming?" He takes two steps to the left, circling her slowly. "Well, let's just say that people are far more interested in the progress I can bring to a town that's stuck in the 1950's." He takes two more steps, standing at her side, taunting her. "A town where your family isn't nearly as well protected as you made yourself in your ivory tower." Two more steps and he's too close for comfort, whispering into her ear. "Especially not your little sister."

The color drains from her features as her hazel eyes go wide. Tristen is the chink in her carefully tailored armor, her weakness in every way. She's left speechless, praying for her ghost in leather and denim to come running through the ballroom to throw Zobelle off the balcony. But he's two thousand miles away - and so is her unguarded and unsuspecting sister who's been sheltered from anything having to do with the Sons since Brooke had left Charming. Her trusting, innocent baby sister who used she used to catch playing in her makeup because she had wanted to be just like her.

"What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Zobelle." Her voice quavers slightly as she tries to think of how she could alert Rachel - but there's no way. She doesn't know the life, doesn't know how dangerous the man that stands behind Brooke is. To her best friend and to the entire party, Ethan Zobelle is an upstanding businessman in a growing market who's probably just trying to get into bed with a pretty young socialite.

Zobelle's hands settle on her arms as he leans beside her face, his body reeking of the cigar he'd dropped in the madness that she'd caused. Brooke feels like she's suffocating, trapped in every way she can possibly think of, and for a moment she truly does contemplate shoving him off the balcony. She wonders what the retaliation would be for killing a high ranking member of the Brotherhood, of what could be done to her - but it's not her own well being that she's concerned about at this point. She needs to get her father on the phone, needs to know that her sister safe and sound behind the heavy gates of her family's estate.

"I want you to call your self righteous father and tell him to get off his high horse and to sell Jacob Hale the land that he needs for Charming Heights." Zobelle sneers. The look on his face is disgusting to her, the shameless power hungry gaze making her skin crawl. "And I want you to do it as soon as you walk out of this building, which I'm sure will be directly after this conversation has reached its end."

"That land has been in my family for generations, SAMCRO won't let that happen." Brooke counters, but her words are cut off by the painful tightening of his hold on her arms. Tears spring to her eyes as she gasps in pain, knowing that his hands are sure to leave bruises.

"Oh yes, your precious biker boys that keep your town so safe from the dangers of drugs and modern day living!" Zobelle condescendingly coddles far too close to her face for her liking. "You shouldn't have so much faith in your precious Sons. They're a relic, Miss Davis, not a necessary evil. Sooner or later, the people of Charming will realize that. But after tonight, I think your father will."

Brooke winces as he finally lets go of her arms, pushing down the tears that have bubbled up with resilience. Her gaze hardens once more as he stares her down, meeting his eyes with an unmatched ferocity. "And if he doesn't?"

Zobelle's smile remains at its arctic temperature. "You should really check on your sister more, Miss Oswald. Unsupervised teenage girls can get into an awful lot of trouble in Charming. But you know that already, don't you?"

- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –-

He's in a room filled with mirrors, each one showing him a different version of himself. Blood spattered and holding a gun in his right hand, proud father tossing Abel into the air, strong club president at the head of the table, willful teenager with too many questions for the world around him with the girl of his dreams at his side. He sees himself over and over again, each one a different image of who he is. Jax reaches out to them, the other versions of himself, but every time he gets close to one the mirror shatters, leaving him surrounded by fragments. He's trying to put all of the pieces back together but keeps getting cut by the shards, howling in pain as the glass slices his skin. When he breaks the last mirror, Brooke is standing behind it, blood seeping from her belly with lifeless eyes and cold porcelain skin. But when he reaches for her, she disappears into ashes with his name on her lips.

"Jackson, wake up!"

Her voice pulls him from his dream, his blue eyes shooting open to golden hazel globes of light and dimples deepened by concern for his well being. Her body is curled up around him, her tanned skin covered by a long white satin nightgown. One hand rests on his chest, the other gently stroking his hair, and he feels like he can breath again. She is an angel in his arms, his saving grace, and time has been just as kind to her as he'd always known it would be. She's as beautiful as she's ever been, and the wistful smile that spreads along his face is the truest he's felt in a very long time.

Brooke.

She's smiling, gentle and serene, and his hands cradle her cheeks. His fingers slide along the curve of her jaw, eyes wandering her face and committing it to memory. Tears are in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He buries his face into her neck, breathing a sigh of relief as he inhales her intoxicating scent of vanilla and honey. Her lips press to his forehead and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he is safe, locked away in her warm embrace from the world that careens around him.

"It was just a nightmare, babe." She whispers against his blonde locks as he slides his hand down her arm, along the soft curve of her waist and hip.

"You're here…" Jax murmurs against her soft skin, his hand running along and under the slip that covers her voluptuous body. He needs her, craves her, desires her. She is his anchor to this reality, his salvation, and her body answers his touch gratefully. Her body's just as responsive as it's always been.

"Of course." Brooke whispers into his ear. She hooks a finger under his jaw, tipping his eyes up to meet hers. "Always."

Jax leans his forehead against hers, his hands spanning her waist. "Can you stay?" He whispers, his lips just barely grazing hers.

Brooke shakes her head from side to side, her hand resting on his heart. "You know I can't."

He feels his heart shatter as she leans in, pressing her lips to his. They move in tandem, tongues battling for dominance as his hands cup either side of her face, pulling her as close as he possible can. He loses all self-control as he rolls on top of her, invading what space had been between them as he tangles his hands into her hair, pulling her into him.

"I'm all alone here, Brooke." Jax nearly sobs against her lips, and she welcomes his kiss again, his hands skating over his bare back, holding him close to her. "I need you so bad..."

"Then stop wasting the time we have..." She whispers before kissing him again, and he nearly loses his mind out of sheer ecstasy.

His lips are pressed against hers, breathing her in and enveloping her warmth. She is fire, destroying him and putting him back together again all at once as her legs wrap around his body. His hands greedily pull the nightgown over her head, breaking their kiss before he dives back into her, her chest pressed to his as she pushes his boxers down. He needs her, needs to get lost in her, and she is more than welcoming as he thrusts himself deep within her. A strangled moan escapes his lips as he fills her, the sound of his name falling off of her lips nearly sending him over the edge. He eases in and out of her, their movements rhythmic as she writhes beneath him. They are one, falling and rising together as she cries out for him. He's so close to finding it, to finding that moment where his world begins and ends with her, and pulls back to look into Brooke's eyes.

"I"m so sorry, I'll never let anyone hurt you again..." He whispers he cradles her body beneath him.

Brooke smiles as she kisses him, rolling him onto his back with ease. His hands span her petite waist as she rides him, her agile body leaning over just before she whispers into his ear.

"You already have."

Jax's eyes shoot open to see his hands covered in brackish blood, watching in horror as her hands wrap around his throat and squeezes tighter and tighter. He can't breathe, suffocating in her grasp as he tries to press his hands to her bleeding stomach, and he doesn't even want to try because he'd rather die than see her die in his arms.

"You did this to me, Jax. This is your fault."

"Jackie boy, wake up!"

He wakes to the sound of Chib's strained voice as his eyes finally open, Brooke's screams echoing in his head. He'd fallen asleep in his room at the clubhouse, his hand clutching the Scotsman's arm so tightly that he's surprised he hasn't broken it. He's looking down at him in concern, shaking him awake as he gasps for air.

Jax's eyes finally meet his, frantic and out of his mind. It had been a dream, a nightmare that's haunted him for nearly a decade. "I'm - I'm sorry." He pants out, releasing her arm and raising his hands back in surrender. "I"m sorry that I woke you. Go back to bed, I'll be alright."

Chibs raises an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. "Believe me, I would've let you sleep if ye' weren't such a hot commodity tonigh', because I'd still be sleepin' like a normal person."

He looks up at him, confused. He shifts to check the clock on the wall, letting out a stream of curses as he sees the time. What the flying fuck could someone possibly want him at five o'clock in the morning? "What in the fuck's goin' on?" Jax asks as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"You tell me laddie. Hale's here lookin' for you and Clay. Won't tell me a lick of anythin'." Chibs plainly replies, tossing him a nearby t-shirt. "Put some clothes on, will ye'? We don't need to be givin' the good police chief yet another reason to be pissed at the club."

Jax groans, shrugging the fabric over his head before throwing on a pair of gray sweatpants. He doesn't bother looking at the phone that's blinking with a missed call and voicemail from an unknown number, but straps his knife on for good measure - with David Hale, the newly minted head of police in Charming, he never knows what he's getting himself into.

He saunters down the stairs in his bare feet, running a hand through his mussed blonde hair as he sighs in exhaustion. Hale's standing at the bar with Clay and Gemma, yet another awful sign. "Fuck's sake, why in the hell are we all up this early in the morning?" Jax barks as he walks in, scratching at his beard.

And then Gemma turns.

"Jesus Christ, Ma." Jax looks at his mom, who's as pale as snow without a trace of make up on her features. Gone is the biker queen that the club knows and loves. Her brown eyes are filled with tears yet to be shed, her hand reaching out and taking his. She's practically shaking as she squeezes his hand as tight as she can, unable to form words.

Whatever it is, it's bad. It's really bad.

"Alright somebody needs to tell me what's going on before this gets ugly." Jax snaps, his eyes skating between the three people before him.

His mother opens her mouth to speak, but Clay takes her hand and pulls her to his side, shaking his head as Hale steps forward. The police chief doesn't look any better, the concern on his face apparent. "Jax, did you talk to Elliott Oswald earlier today at the fair?" Hale asks quietly.

Jax nods, his hand still holding onto his mother's. "Yeah, he came to me about a problem with a new store owner. Petty bullshit over land." He's playing it off, and he knows it. Elliott had been scared enough to talk to him about it, the guy who had nearly gotten his daughter killed in a drive by shooting, but he respects that man's privacy and reputation too much to say anything more. Besides, it's a club matter.

Hale nods, fidgeting in Jax's gaze. "There was an incident tonight with the Oswald's, but nobody's hurt there." His words are plain, but there's something to his last phrase.

Nobody's hurt there? So where had someone been hurt? Who's hurt?

"Hale." Jax says firmly, letting go of Gemma's hand. "You need to tell me what the hell's going on, right now."

"I wanted you to know before it's all over town..." The young man looks to Gemma, and he finally loses it.

"What the fuck do you need her permission for?! Tell me what the hell is going on!" Jax explodes. He doesn't give a damn if Hale is the law in Charming. He'll wring his neck to get the information he needs, and his body braces to lunge in case he might need to.

Finally, Gemma steps into the middle of the fray. Her hands are on his cheeks, forcing him to look down at her. His mother doesn't falter as she tries to keep him calm, her voice soothing. "Baby, Tristen disappeared for a few hours, somebody snatched her from the carnival when her parents weren't watching. They were getting ready to call the FBI when she got dropped off at the gates by an unmarked van, drugged up."

His face pales in horror. His mind immediately goes to Tristen, seeing the young girl laughing as she had ran off to her favorite ride at the carnival. No, they couldn't have gone after her. She's a kid, an innocent. It would be crossing a line. "Tell me she's okay." He manages to get out.

Gemma's eyes flood with tears as her hands move to his face, cupping his cheeks. He knows she's trying so hard not to crumble and he's terrified of what she might say. His mind hasn't even begun to process it, trying not to envision what could have happened to her. He just doesn't know how wrong he really is.

"Baby...it's not Tristen who isn't okay."

- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –- x –-

She should've never left the party, she realizes as she stands completely and utterly still.

Brooke had immediately left the gala, not even bothering to grab Rachel, as soon as she's gotten away from Zobelle. She'd needed to get back to Charming and had even begun the process of chartering a flight, but she desperately needed to get out of her black tie outfit and into something she could sit in for a ten hour flight - which she'd painfully realized as she'd begun to lose feeling in her legs in the elevator from the tight waist of the gown. There had been no way to reach Tristen or her father, the phones quickly going to voicemail, and she'd cursed modern technology for allowing phones to be simply turned off when people needed to sleep. She'd taken a car back home, her mind completely focused on getting out of her contraption of a dress and onto her plane as soon as possible. She'd been so distracted by the thought of Tristen being hurt, of her baby sister lying somewhere bleeding and in pain, that she hadn't noticed that the door to her home had been completely unlocked and that her top of the art security system had been disarmed.

When she realizes it, standing there in her impeccably designed home that's been her safe haven for the better part of nine years, her stomach lurches up into her throat. Her hazel eyes go wide as she stops in her tracks right then and there, frozen as she hears the door lock from ten feet behind her and a creak on her reclaimed hardwood floor to her left. She opens her mouth to scream, to let everyone in the neighborhood know that she's in danger, but she can't get a sound out before one hand covers her mouth and another wraps around her lithe frame.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't let you do that."

Brooke can smell the rubber mask beside her face as she struggles against it, screaming against the hand as she thrashes in the intruder's arms. She's a rabid animal, biting down on his hand hard enough to draw blood and forcing the man drops his hand as he lets out a blood curdling scream. She whips around to survey her attacks, all three, her eyes burning with hatred as she sees the Aryan Brotherhood ink on the man's chest. She knows what's about to happen as another figure runs towards her, but she's not done fighting. She braces for it as she yells at the top of her lungs, "Fuck you, you son of a bi-"

Crack.

She can't even finish her phrase as the second's man's fist collides with the side of her face, knocking her down onto the floor so hard that she feels she's crashed down three levels into the garden level. She's been hit before, there's no doubt about that, but it's never been with such malice. Never with the murderous intent, and she knows somehow and someway that in this awful scenario there isn't a chance that they're here to steal some cash and jewelry. No, this is personal, and she remembers Zobelle's words from just a short hour before as the figure drags her to her feet.

"You shouldn't have so much faith in your precious Sons."

He leans her against the other man, who hooks his arms through hers just to get her to stand upright. She groans as his body presses into her back, grinning from the irony. She'd been so worried about Tristen, so completely and utterly at a loss of wits, and the odds are at this point that she'll never see her baby sister again. She sends out a silent prayer that her sister is okay, that she's the only recipient of this evil tonight, and she tries to regain her strength as her heels slip uselessly beneath her.

She's so weak in the knees that when the second punch collides with her cheek, she can't even can her breath. She feels the snap of her eye socket breaking, her body collapsing into the strong grip of her captor. All she hears is the man behind her, talking as plainly as can be into her ear.

"I need you give your father a message for us." He says calmly into her ear. "And we'll keep it short, since you probably don't have very long."

With the third punch, which hits her square in the ribs, a scream rips through her body unlike anything she's ever let loose before. She can't see straight anymore, the masked figure before her a blurry figure of black clothes and white rubber amidst the dripping blood. She can barely breathe and she registers that at least one of her ribs has been broken, her body slumping back to its defeated position. But the slap that follows is meant to wake her up, another torturous sob escaping her now bloodied lips.

"Tell your father to sell that land to Hale, and if you don't..." The man pauses, letting out a dark chuckle as he lets go of her body and allows it to sink onto the floor ."We'll come back and do this to you again...and we'll get your little sister, too."

What feels like a military boot slams against her side once more, and she feels two more cracks that sear like hot lightning. She cries out feebly in agony, barely able to get sound out as the world around her begins to fade to black. She smiles bitterly, her teeth coated in the red life force that's pooling internally. And she does something that even surprises her. She laughs. It starts out small, choked out snickers that make their way from her lungs. Her body heaves out laughter, the sound bouncing off her broken ribs painfully, and the men above her freeze in time. Brooke's smile is wide as she coughs up blood with her laughter, her hazel eyes opening to look at the blurry figures.

"The fuck's so funny, bitch?" Asshole One, the one that had been holding her, snarls in her face. He's close enough for her to smell the tobacco on his breath, and she knows he's leaned in enough for her to make her move.

Brooke spits a wad of blood straight in his face with a sneer, smiling viciously up at him. "You have no idea what you've just done...you fucking foolish piece of shit." She chokes out as the man recoils in disgust, and she has the balls to let out one last threat. "You're dead...you're all dead men walking because when Jax Teller finds you he'll fucking rip you limb from limb, so get your best shot in because it's going to be your last."

The men pause for a moment and her arms wrap around her waist to guard her ribs - and just in time. Her eyes slip shut when the next shot hits her, when the damage of their virulent attack snapping her wrist. It's finally enough to make her mind begin to drift away. She's holding on for dear life as they begin to savagely beat her, knowing that her body is breaking beneath their blows as her will slips.

Is this it? she thinks to herself as she feels the tears uselessly seep from her eyes. Is this the end of it all?

But somewhere in the madness, as the figures rip her dress off of her body like it's made of tissue paper, she hears his voice as clear as day.

"Hey there, darlin'."

She opens her eyes, and he's there beside her, a sprig of grass in his mouth and a devilishly handsome grin on his face. His hands are cupping her cheeks, his lips right beside her ear, and she swears on everything holy that she's laying in an field on the outskirts of Charming with a Dyna to her right and her man in her arms.

"Jax." She whispers, and she smiles at the face of her favorite ghost between the gore of their blows and the blood that stains her lips - but the world around her is no longer there. She can't hear anything but the brush of wildflowers against the tall grass, can't see anything for miles but the open air. Her world is far far away, and she doesn't question it for a second. "You're here..."

She knows what's happening, smells the sweat of their skin and hears the grunts of the men that hover above her as they rip her underwear from her body, but she can't feel it anymore. She's too busy curling into Jax's arms, the sound of his voice closing around her and bringing her to a place of peace. His strong hands replace that of her attackers, sliding down her back and pulling her in closer as she escapes the violence around her. "Course I'm here. I'm always here with you. You just keep me quiet 'cause you're too busy conquering the world."

Her eyes slip shut again as she feels his lips nuzzle her ear, and her fingertips reach for the leather cut that graces his chest. "It's been so hard without you here." She murmurs as she snuggles into his body. "Can you stay this time?"

Her mirage presses a delicate kiss to her forehead, his hand taking hers. His fingers lace with hers as cinnamon whiskey and nicotine smother her senses deliciously, the smell of the carnage all but gone. He hooks a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up as Jax gazes into her eyes with all the love in the world. He nods, giving her the half moon smile that she adores.

"I'm right here, babe." Jax replies softly, and she kisses him once more for good measure because she knows that this will be the last time she ever sees him like this. "I'm with you to the very end."

She hears the men begin to walk away, leaving her on the floor of her living room ravaged and half naked as one calls out over his shoulder to her with a vicious laugh, and her eyes slip shut one last time. As her attackers taunt her one last time, Brooke smiles at the thought of dying in the arms of her first love, and finally...she lets go.

"Have a nice night."