Okay . . . so i am officially like the worst walking case for ADD out there. I now have over seven unfinished stories-all still very much in progress and very much in my brain as I am constantly writing and fighting blocks-but what do i do? Start a whole new story for a whole other genre that I have never written in before. So, that being said feedback is welcomed reviews are awesome and i am a goober . . . Yeah. On with the show people . . .

I own nothing but my OCs and a very stubborn 69 Chevelle who eats me out of house and home in gas.

Complicated

Ripley Shaw had never really doubted her place within Charming. From the time she'd moved here as a small child with her mother and stepfather, she'd always been pretty sure of exactly where she stood. Especially with her Pops being a member of the local Sons of Anarchy charter. Needless to say, even now with no one but her and her estranged brothers, she was always surrounded by plenty of family and friends . . . All more than willing to protect her tooth and nail if need be.

Hell, she'd practically been raised with Jax and Opie before and after her Pops had passed-just a few meager months after her mother. When she'd left for school, they'd all seen her off, most coming to Berkley to see her whenever they had the time to do so. And now, after nearly seven years of school and graduate studies, she was back in Charming. Working in and around the area as a pathologist. Gemma had no qualms of letting everyone know she was welcomed anywhere SAMCRO was, Clay following along with his wife after she'd helped them cover up some minor DNA evidence for Tig and Opie almost seven months before. So it wasn't like her coming through the doors of T&M Automotive should've caused as big of an uproar as it did-seeing as she'd only been doing it since she'd moved back to town. How in the hell was she supposed to know that these idiots from Long Beach were here?

She quickly learned, however, as soon as she set foot in the garage portion of T&M. She'd just left work so her hair was still falling around her face in big, loose golden curls and her make-up was still done overly natural and glowing while her lips were a glossy nude pink. She hadn't had time to change out of her work clothes, so she still had on the navy herringbone men's styled trousers and bone white fitted tuxedo shirt with the burgundy and navy striped silk vest . . . as well as the pebble gray fitted blazer and alligator stiletto heels. She'd come here like this before and had never encountered anything other than the Prospect's extreme blush and Bobby's watchful eye on Tig and Chibs.

But today the whole place practically exploded when one of the guys with this other crew decided to try and play Casanova. Said guy, who introduced himself as Tumbler, had saddled up to her and started chatting away. Which would've been fine if Clay hadn't decided to look over at the exact moment he bent to whisper into her ear. And when he saw what was going on and tensed, Tig turned to see what was wrong.

Needless to say said guy was now sporting a rather nasty black eye and busted nose-probably his whole face- and Tig was standing in Clay's office with her, holding ice to his already swelling hand while the others finished their business tensely and quickly.

She glared at Tig as he paced, shaking her curls out of her face.

"What the hell was that about? Some macho display of manliness or something?"

Tig turned, glaring at her as he came to stand almost toe-to-toe with her. She knew what he was for SAMCRO, for Clay and Gemma. But right now she didn't really care.

"Just a friendly scuffle, Doll. Why? What do you want it to have been about?"

She rolled her eyes, falling almost bonelessly into Clay's chair. She shrugged out of her blazer, tossing it to the side and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to ward off the headache building. What in the world had possessed the man to do something so damn irrational? And what had kept Clay from stopping him? Dear lord, now she knew why her mother was almost always irritated with Clay and her Pops. The men in this club just didn't seem to damn think.

She sighed, slumping further into her seat and closed her eyes. Maybe if she slept long enough she could convince herself that this was all a really bad dream.

She heard Tig move and felt the heat emitted from Clay's ancient desk lamp being blocked as he settled himself on the surface before her. She sighed again, refusing to even crack an eye to look at the Sgt. at Arms. She'd already seen far too much of him lately as it was.

Tig was older than her by a good many years –more than she ever wanted to acknowledge aloud- but that didn't stop him from being brutally attractive. Especially with those bright baby blue eyes. Add that with his medium complexion, decent build and dark brown-black curls and you had yourself a very nice looking biker. It was the man's tastes sexually that kept her from ever seeing him as more than just an odd friend that was occasionally nice to look at and daydream about. She'd heard the stories and had to help brush some of his . . . tastes under the rug. Poor Opie had just been unfortunate enough to get sliced during cleanup and bleed a bit. But Tig had actually left the full deposit with the poor girl they were trying to not have linked back to the MC. The only thing she could say about it was that even dead the girl had been gorgeous . . . so at least he seemed to have tastes other than the normal Croweaters.

She slumped even deeper in the chair. Who was she trying to kid? Tig would fuck anything with a pulse . . . and some things without one if his ramblings were to be believed . . . but he usually didn't even act like she was remotely female. Which is probably why his sudden attention put her so much on fucking edge. This was new territory . . . What game was he trying to play?

"What'd he say to you, Rip?"

Clay's voice brought her out of her thoughts, forcing her to open her eyes. She hadn't even heard him come in she'd been so intent on ignoring the way Tig was looking at her. She almost died however when she saw that not only was Clay almost nose to nose with her but Tig had moved and was wearing an even darker look on his face as he waited for her answer. Dear God . . . they were trying to give her a heart attack. She swallowed nervously, sitting a bit straighter before regaining her composer and turning to look only at Clay. She had no clue what the SAA's deal was but she refused to be rattled by it. The guy might've fucked a corpse before but she dealt with the dead on a daily basis. And he was not going to rattle her when that didn't.

No way in Hell.

"What does it matter, Clay? He's just some stupid kid from out of town trying to pick up some strange. Nothing I haven't ever seen done before . . . especially around here."

He glared, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her while Tig turned and practically stormed from the office. Clay sighed, reaching over to shut the door as the sounds of Tig's rampage drifted further from the garage and closer to the club house. Apparently that hadn't gone over too well.

"You are not a Croweater, Ripley. And definitely not a piece of action for some freaking boost out of Long Beach to add as a notch on his bedpost . . . You're old man was one of the Original Nine. And I made a promise to him and your mom that SAMCRO would be responsible for you. You're family, Rip. Blood. We just don't want to see you get hurt."

She sighed, shoulders slumping as she nodded to him. Clay knelt in front of her, holding her hands in his own as he spoke to her. It was so hard to remember, when he was being like this, that this man had probably killed more people than her Pops ever dreamed of. And despite everything she'd learned in school and in Berkley during her residency she couldn't fault him a damn bit. He never acted rashly and he kept them all safe. So she was more than willing to overlook the blood staining the hands that held hers.

"He honestly just asked me my name and what I was doing there, Clay. He didn't even get into his pick up line before Tig went apeshit on him . . . What was that about anyway? I mean, pushing him back or warning him off I can get. But full on Tig rage beatdown? Isn't that a little overkill?"

Clay sighed, shaking his head.

"I got no clue sweetheart. Tig is Tig and sometimes I don't even think he knows exactly what the hell he's doing. Just . . . know he's protective of you because of how much Gemma adores you. And you helped us with him earlier this year. You're SAMCRO all the way to that man. He's gonna be zealous in defending you."

Ripley nodded, slowly taking her hands from his as she stood and grabbed her blazer.

"Then I'll apologize for the good of the club and go on home. I was really just coming to aggravate Gemma anyway."

And with that, she grabbed her bag and turned, leaving the office quickly as she made her way towards the one place she really didn't want to be.

The clubhouse holding one very pissed off SAA.

Clay sighed, sinking into the seat Ripley'd vacated as Bobby and Piney walked in. He waved them in, rubbing his forehead as Bobby sat in the other chair.

"What the fuck was that?"

Clay looked to Piney, obviously not amused as he chuckled at Bobby's question. This was not a joking matter . . . this was serious. If he was reading this shit right Tig was about to open up a whole new can of shit for their charter. And he didn't know a damn way to stop him without alienating his right hand.

Piney smirked, nudging Bobby as he looked to Clay.

"How long till he comes out and asks her to be his Old Lady?"

Bobby paled, turning to Clay. Surely they weren't serious about this. Ripley was family but an Old Lady? And Tig's off all people?

"He's asked you? I mean we practically raised her . . ."

Clay frowned, not appreciating the tone to that particular sentence. He sighed deciding to start the damage control.

"Tig patched in when Rip was at school, Bobby. And he only met her in passing until she moved back here permanently. Would you rather see her with some lowly prospect? Or worse, a Nomad?"

Bobby shook his head as Piney rolled his eyes.

"Does she know that's where this is going?"

Clays shrugged, pulling a cigar from his cut pocket.

"No fucking clue. I doubt even he knows it, Old Man. He isn't exactly the most levelheaded guy out there . . . Way I figure he won't know until it's already too damn late to do anything to dissuade him."

Piney nodded, agreeing with that while Bobby looked between them.

"But what if he does?"

Clay shrugged, taking a long pull from the cigar.

"No clue brother. No fucking clue."