Author's Note: This does follow on from some of my other fics - Casting Shadows, Getaway, Chasing Lights & Kill Shots. If you wanted to read it without bothering with them, I guess you could. Equally, if you want to go back and have that insight, that's the order they come in. Koz fans ... brace yourself. And as always, I'd love to know what you think!

Through Another's Eyes

One

A new patch to celebrate – one of the admittedly many things guaranteed to give the average Friday night party that extra kick and turn it into something to really remember. Or not, depending on the alcohol intake.

They all knew it and thrived on the thrill of anticipation. Everyone would turn out, from brothers to hangarounds, with even more preening than usual from the croweaters who flocked to the clubhouse. Especially for a night like this and the veritable coming-of-age of a second-generation Son.

For the women already gathered, eyeing each other like coyotes waiting to pick off the runt of the litter, it was all about showing off the goods. Barely-there skirts and sky-high stilettos, all tits and teeth and big hair. That was how to get the right kind of attention. But getting it was one thing, keeping it was definitely another. Sons were worth the effort though. Admittedly, some more than others.

Some were fast approaching being past it, clinging to shadows of their younger days like they clung to the throttle of the bikes they knew they'd soon have to give up forever. And when you don't ride, you don't vote and the patch worn with pride turned bittersweet might as well be a Boy Scout badge for all the clout it wields.

But others held power and that was a hell of an aphrodisiac – one that negated consideration for the aesthetics. Or lack thereof. From the president and vice-president, to the sergeant-at-arms and intelligence officer, even the goddamn secretary, they were prime targets.

And some had ... potential. The young upstarts looking to impress, perhaps follow in a father's footsteps. The prospects weren't worth more than making a note for the future – but those who'd just earned their top rocker ... They were the ones to watch.

Sure enough, when the chapel doors were thrown open and the newest fully-fledged Son strode through them with a fresh swagger in his step, more than two dozen eyes immediately shifted to linger on his tall form. As if as one, the predatory female gazes trailed from the tousled blond hair down the broad chest and inked arms, watching and waiting as his brothers welcomed him with hugs and hearty slaps on the back.

But, while they were biding their time, one woman was the first to step forward and no one dared try to deny her. In her perfectly tailored jeans, stiletto-heeled boots and immaculate white vest top, blonde hair framing her face in a stylish bob, she was every inch the old lady.

"No tears, mom," the newest Son warned, shooting her a roguish grin that brought a host of memories flooding back as he swept her into a hug.

"No tears," she promised, though her green eyes shone too brightly when she held him at arm's length to look at him properly. "Leo Kozik, your dad would be so damn proud."

"I know," he nodded. "This is his cut."

His mother traced careful fingers over familiar scars in the leather, but they didn't have time for that to hit her like it no doubt would later. His brothers took care of that, sweeping him away to ensure he made the most of the festivities. The drinking would come first, then it would be time for the girls to do their best to snare a suitable target before the party really got going.

"When I'm an old lady, no way is my man going to be spending Friday nights round here," one such hopeful croweater announced with a flick of her glossy dark hair, slamming down her glass in frustration at having been overlooked so far by her Son of choice.

"Can you even hear yourself, Mercedes? You weren't complaining about Paulie leaving his old lady home alone when you were on your knees for him in front of everyone last week."

"I was NOT!" the girl in question protested hotly. "I like to think I've got a little bit more class than you bitches."

"Oh, class, huh? That why you're called Mercedes? And here was me thinking it was just because everyone's had a ride ..."

But before the spat could blow up into a fully-fledged row, the old lady they'd all eyed enviously on her arrival was suddenly in front of them and the argument trailed into sullen silence. "Now, I know you're not thinking about spoiling my son's party getting your little claws out, girls," Tasha interrupted, with a dangerously deceptive smile on her face. "So how about you zip those mouths 'til they're needed for something other than talking and go see if anyone needs any more drinks, okay? Good."

They didn't dare so much as mutter their dissent under their collective breath as they did as they were told. Or at least they were headed in that direction, before Mercedes drew up short with a curse of disbelief.

"Uh, who the hell is that?" she demanded, staring across the clubhouse to where none other than Abel Teller was sprawled on a couch with a fresh-faced little redhead on his lap. "And what's she come as?"

Taking in the cutesy outfit, another of the regular croweaters quickly made the connection and started to laugh. "Jesus, she actually came back! That's the chick driving the dinky little sports car that broke down just outside. Abel went to play white knight and, hey, I guess he invited her."

The explanation did nothing to ease Mercedes' outrage and she all but stamped her foot her frustration. "Are you actually shitting me? Some sweet-as-pie little girl thinks she can waltz into this life because she breaks down in the fucking yard, like it's fate or some bullshit ... Hell, no. I'm gonna squash this shit."

"Whoa, simmer down, 'Cedes," came the warning. "You go causing trouble tonight and the only thing that's getting squashed round here is you – like a bug when Tasha or Tara finds out. You really wanna risk the wrath of the wife of the sergeant or the president? Or both?"

The raven-haired wannabe old lady was obviously winding up to throw a real fit, but instead forced herself to take a deep calming breath, adjusted the plunging neckline of her skin-tight dress, and simply rose above it. "Like it matters," she scoffed. "Bitch won't last five minutes. A break-down, what a fucking cliché ..."

"Cliché? Spoken like someone who's never heard Koz and Tasha's story. You do know that's exactly how they met, right? Twenty-something years ago. Oh yeah, real MC fairytale, those two ..."

to be continued ...