Fuck.

He was such a fucking idiot.

He had convinced himself that this seemingly half-baked notion of hers to head all the way to Illinois for fucking med school had been a pipe dream, some passing whim that had been conceived from all the shit that her father had put her through. He had believed that their relationship, his fucking crow printed above her ass that her love of low-rise jeans and midriff-bearing tops displayed to the world, would be enough to keep her ass firmly rooted in Charming; at least in the fucking state, for crying out loud.

But no. Things had been a little too off-kilter, a little too uncertain, and little Tara Grace Knowles had packed her goddamn bags and run; she had turned tail just like the coward she was. Just like his mother had told him she would.

Turning out of Charming onto the highway leading north, his mind had been set on riding his Harley right to her door, dragging her ass onto the bitch seat - where it fucking belonged - and hightailing it back home.

Whatever shit there was to pay for that, with either his mother, the club, or his Old Lady herself, could be dealt with when they were back within the town borders - preferably when her ass was passed the fuck out from him pounding it into the goddamn mattress.

But even as he sat there, with the engine that was roaring beneath him echoing his inner turmoil, he began to see the glaring flaws in his plan.

Here he was, steadily eating up the miles that lay between them, and where was she? In fucking Chicago.

She had called him, barely an hour ago now, asking him to let her go; the city lights had drawn her in and Charming was a diminishing candle flame behind her. It was no match for what she had been offered. He wasn't enough to make her even consider coming home.

She wanted a future, she said; she wanted the white picket fence, the nine-to-five, the two point five kids, the 'hi honey, how was your day'. She wanted ordinary, she wanted boring; she wanted safe.

He could see it now. His brunette beauty ripping off her latex gloves as she left some unknown operating theatre, having saved some nameless life, and wiping her hand across her forehead: a smile on her lips and a ring on her finger. She would arrive home to find her faceless kids waiting up to tell her about their piano recital or grades in a test, her equally nondescript husband with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, whipping up some gourmet meal that they had seen demonstrated on some cooking channel that one time. He would hand her a glass of her favourite Pinot Grigio, lay a vanilla kiss on her lips and chivy the kids off to bed. After eating, she would poke her head around her children's doors to see her little angels sleeping soundly, before climbing into bed and turning out the light.

No more make-out sessions behind the garage at Teller-Morrow that always seemed to lead to more, or mind-blowing sex against his bike down by the streams. She wouldn't be flying down to the hospital for a shift on the back of his bike, clinging onto him for dear life, that gorgeous smile on her lips as her hands found their way under his kutte. No more Friday Night Bashes, watching her put some gash in their place, his dick hardening as she slammed that infamous right hook into their face. No more screaming matches that made him want to kill her and fuck the life out of her at the same time.

No. Doctor Knowles would be driving some eco-friendly, family-sized car into work, bought for her by the yes-man that had met her at the altar. She would temper herself down to fit into some tiny little box that could be easily stacked, just the way that everyone who inhabited such a city was. She would convince herself that she was satisfied from the hours of mindless, vanilla pounding, that she suffered through by faking, blindly claiming that it was how all sex was. Gone would be that wild gleam in her eye and the way that her hair whipped around as she turned on her heel and stalked away from him, her ass swaying teasingly as she went.

But that was what she wanted.

He had finally reached a stretch of road that lay empty, no passing cars or surrounding houses to be seen.

He opened up the throttle, the engine beneath him firing up into life, ripping and roaring at the asphalt. Unbeknownst to him, his mouth opened wide as an animalistic howl tore from his chest, unchecked tears flooded down his face. But it was the pain - the motherfucking pain that resided in his chest, biting at his lungs, his ribs, his very heart - that he recognised.

All of a sudden, the road wasn't enough. The wind that caressed his face, taking with it the breath out of his lungs and the feeling in his face; the power of the machine beneath him, pouring its life energy into his ride; the beckon of the road ahead, the call of the unknown, the promise of adventure. None of it was even comparable to what he was missing. Fuck. Even the constant threat of the skin-tearing asphalt wasn't enough for him to keep his bike in check.

He felt it. That tiny glitch in his front wheel; the split-second falter as everything held in the balance.

And then he was tumbling. Head over heel, motorcycle over head. Falling and rolling, leather and denim and flesh tearing; aluminium and steel denting.

He came to a screeching halt on the hard-shoulder; his helmet was askew on his head, his bike still tangled up in his legs, trapping a thigh underneath its weight. He could feel the burn of fresh blood caressing his skin and the overall dull ache of such an impact.

But he couldn't bring himself to move. He couldn't bring himself to care.

Nothing that he had left to go home to would compare with the knowledge that such a girl was his - his and nobody else's. The comfort in waking up with her warm tight body wrapped around his, her hair tickling the end of his nose. Nothing could compare to things he had sworn that he hated, like that flash in her eye before she launched into a lecture, or that stubborn streak that caused her to fight him on absolutely every front - sure, he kind of liked it when they were alone, but it had shown him up in front of his brothers one too many times.

And now she was gone. Gone to live that colourless life in some insipid suburb, surrounded by equally dreary, workaday Joes and bog-standard Janes.

But she had sworn that it was just what she wanted. And what little Tara wanted, she always fucking got.

He could feel the rumble of a group of Harleys for miles before he could hear them. A pack of black clad bikers flying down the asphalt towards him, a herd come to collect their own. A beautiful murder of crows.

Jax didn't remember the journey home; he was pretty sure that he had blacked out as they shifted the bike from his leg, the pain on his broken and battered body suddenly becoming too much to handle.

He woke in his old bedroom in his mother's house, with his best friend at his bedside. Opie Winston was seated in the rickety old wooden desk chair that had definitely seen better days, with his feet propped up on the edge of the bed frame, the hole-ridden toes of his socks just visible from where Jax lay.

Moments later, his door creaked open and his mother appeared with two steaming mugs of coffee. There was a grim determination in her eye. She set the two mugs down on his bedside table, edging around Opie, making sure not to wake him. She then crossed to her son's other side, perching on the edge of his mattress and cupping his swollen cheek in her hand.

After a moment of appraising his face and unconcealed injuries, she looked deep into his blue eyes.

"That gash is done," she said. "You hear me?"

He nodded painfully, his skin resisting to the stretch.

She narrowed her eyes. "Somebody hurts your baby, you don't forget."

He nodded again and attempted a smile.

But as always, she saw right through him. "It's been months, Jackson. No calls, no messages; she decided to go and she's gone." She stroked a hand through his hair. "It's time to pull yourself out of this funk, baby. Find a nice girl; one who understands you, understands this life."

He nodded again and she seemed to understand that he was done talking about it, so she stood and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Her words had relit the fire in his chest; but somehow, the flames were burning a different colour.

Yes, she had left him, with no word or promise of her return; and no, she had never understood his desire to wear the leather that his father had donned before him. She had contested him on absolutely everything he loved, attempted to change him and told him into something that she could present around the circles that she was currently working her way in to. They were as different as oil and water; the stains from his grease-ridden fingers would never clean out of her pristine shirts and the blood that he sometimes wore home as a badge of honour would only serve to piss her off as he tracked it in through her house.

They could never work - and in that moment, he wasn't entirely sure why he thought they could. He was better off with some leather-clad biker bitch who knew her place in the ranks. That was what was best for everyone.

Tara Knowles had wanted out; who the fuck was he to stop her?

He decided not to pay heed to the tiny spot in the corner of his heart that still believed that she was the one.