Hello, new readers and faithful followers. Those of you who are familiar with my fiction will know that I have a terrible habit of starting new stories before just as quickly flittering away to other projects. I begged myself to not fall into that trap while binge watching Sons of Anarchy recently, yet here we are; the first chapter as I venture my way into yet another fandom. As I tend to do when first starting out a new fic series, I have been scoping out the other stories posted under the tag, and have noticed a running trend in the OCs. My OCs have a tendency to pick me, so in this case they also carry a few similar traits to pre-existing OCs – but I like to make sure my stories bring something new to the table, (or in this case, bring something new to Church). No promises, though. I'm treating this chapter as a sort of pilot. It's an intro to a number of concepts that I'd like to explore further as I weave my OC through the SOA storyline. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Series Content Warning: Rated M for language, graphic torture, violence, racial slurs, sexual situations and dark humor.

FRANKIE

The heavy thud of wood on wood echoed through the Chapel, sounding yet another unanimous vote on the escalating gun situation. Clay leaned back in his seat at the head of the table and breathed a contented sigh; things were all always so much easier when the club members were on the same page. Even Jax had been putting up less of an argument over things lately, though Clay was certain the kid only ever did that to test his leadership, waiting for the day he would finally take up the gavel.

Chatter began to build in the room as the members of SAMCRO felt the meeting drawing to a close, playful quips and the occasional burst of laughter thrown around as if to celebrate the increasingly rare moment of harmony amongst the group. Juice watched his president from a few seats down, quietly getting a read on the man's mood tonight. Clay had always been a reliable leader for the Sons, but his temper was notoriously erratic, and he was not about to put himself in the line of fire for something that could wait. But tonight things appeared to be in his favor. Clay was grinning as he smoked one of his cigars, eyes distant as he considered the next steps in this gun-running takeover. Well, it was now or never.

"Hey, guys. Uh, since we're all here, I thought I'd put something forward to the table."

He had to raise his voice slightly just to be heard above the raucous babble, but it didn't seem to make a difference. Clay's eyes had flicked over to him the minute he'd opened his mouth, curious what the newest patched member of the club had to announce – not that he planned on taking it too seriously. As the club's designated intelligence officer, Juice had a knack for hacking and gathering whatever information they needed, but he wasn't exactly an ideas man. As far as Clay was concerned the kid was good for grunt work, and his obvious abandonment issues made him faithful to his reaper-clad brothers – that was what really mattered. You didn't have to be smart to wear the reaper, merely loyal. Besides, it was usually the smart ones who stirred shit up, asking all sorts of questions and making 'suggestions' – people like Jax. And Clay sure as shit didn't need another one like him at the table.

"Guys, guys, quieten down, Juicy has something to say," Tig began, but he could barely contain his amusement at the idea of the pothead having something important to propose, laughter punctuating the end of his of his sentence. Juice waited patiently for the teasing to die down, but just as he seemed to have his brothers' attention, a comment from Chibs had them off again. Clay was quick to catch the flicker of doubt in the youngster's eyes. He had taken Juice into the club when the boy had nowhere else to go; sponsored him through his twelve months as a prospect. Though the lads liked to tease him as the baby brother of their tight-knit little family, the kid had a good heart, and he had to admit, Juice had brought them a few good propositions before. The club president raised his hand and the room quickly settled down.

"What is it, kid?"

Looking uncomfortable under the sudden flood of attention, Juice glanced around, a nervous smile playing at his lips.

"Uh, a friend of mine arrived back in town recently," he began, "I think you guys should meet them."

"Aw, Juicy, if you wanted to introduce us to your boyfriend, all you had to do was ask," Tig teased. Juice nodded to himself, as if expecting the comment, while chuckles sounded around him.

Chibs clapped him on the shoulder, encouraging him to continue, knowing how the teasing could dishearten the boy; the gesture reminding him that it was all in good fun.

"Who's this friend?" Clay said, leaning forward out of newfound interest.

"We grew up together. I trust them. I think they could be a good asset to the club, you know. Help us out when we need it."

"Help how?" Jax jumped in, suddenly curious about the mystery contact.

"Information, for one."

"Ain't that what we got you for, Juicy?" Clay asked.

"Yeah, but I mean, like, the kind of information that's beyond even me."

"You mean like basic literacy?" Tig joked. The younger member took it in his stride.

"This friend of yours some kind of rat?"

The moment Clay posed the question, despite the man aiming for a playful tone, Juice began to feel himself losing ground. There was an underlying edge to the man's voice that he didn't like.

"No, no. Uh, more like a mercenary."

That got their attention.

"You're friends with a mercenary?" Piney asked from towards the end of the table, narrowing his eyes at the idea of such an unlikely pairing. The boy nodded with a more confident smile, looking almost proud.

"Yeah."

"We're talking legit mercenary, though, right?" Tig butted in, "Not as in 'dresses up on the weekend for conventions' kind of mercenary."

Most of the men smirked at the reference to their hacker's geekier side of life, while Juice tensed his jaw. Tig just seemed to have it out for him today. He had made a tiny mistake on their last run together that had landed the older man with a Mayan fist to the face…but surely he was over that, even with the evidence of that foray into stupidity still darkening the patch of skin below his eye.

"No. More like 'trained in the US Marines, served in Afghanistan, and spent their last tour of duty stationed at Guantanamo'."

This sparked renewed interest in the veterans around the table.

"Guantanamo, eh?" Clay mused, puffing on his cigar. "What the hell were they doin' there?"

"Like I said. Information."

As men who had spilled their fair share of blood – both their own and their enemies' – this reply needed no further explanation. Guantanamo Bay was a place notorious for its 'unique' methods of gathering intel. Meeting someone with firsthand experience in the process could prove interesting, even if just for novelty's sake.

"Ain't that what we got Happy for?" Bobby said.

"Yeah, I think we've all got our ways of getting whatever information it is we're needin', Juicy Boy. Why should we be payin' some outsider to do it for us?" Chibs added.

Juice could see he was losing the crowd, but then he hadn't really been expecting much to begin with. As a club, they took care of their own business, only calling in outside help when absolutely necessary, and even then they already had a number of reliable contacts for that purpose. Finally, he gave a resigned sigh, nodding his defeat.

"Alright. It was just a suggestion. See if I couldn't get a little business thrown their way."

"You owe them money or something?" Bobby asked. Being the club secretary, the mere hint of a member's indebtedness sent up a red flag to him for a future problem.

"No, nothing like that," Juice assured him with an awkward smile, an eyebrow quirking in brief offence. "Just, you know, helpin' out a friend."

The oddly obligated nature of the kid's request had struck Clay in a similar manner. He exchanged a look with his VP. The last thing they needed on top of all their distribution problems was some petty beef over unpaid pot, or whatever the hell the kid had managed to get himself into. It would be better to check it out than let it rear its head during a less than opportune moment.

"Alright. We'll meet this 'mercenary' friend o' yours," Clay agreed, ignoring the sudden looks from his brothers around the table. Regardless of the outcome, he did enjoy swapping good war stories with fellow vets. Even their latest prospect, Half-Sack, after a single tour of duty, had passed on his share – the reason for his nickname seeming to be his personal favorite.

A new light seemed to spark behind Juice's eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah," Jax smiled, "Find out a time and a place, brother. Set us up a meet."

Even if it did turn out that he was telling the truth, and he really did have a dangerous ex-marine in his back-pocket, the club could always use another friendly contact in these uncertain times.

"This the place?" Clay called to Juice over the roar of their Harleys, as they closed in on a deserted-looking building. The property was set on an isolated stretch of land, the dirt road leading up to it so small they had missed the turn-off the first time. Juice gave his president a nod and they pulled up in front of the compound, removing their helmets as they kept an eye out for any trouble. Being who they were, it paid to maintain a certain level of paranoia when it came to meetings, especially in unknown territory, with unfamiliar folks.

"What did you say your friend's name was again?" Bobby asked.

"Goes by Frankie," Juice replied.

From the end of the row, a laugh sounded from their Nomadic guest, who had joined them at Clay's request. He figured if anyone could evaluate the worth and legitimacy of a mercenary, it was the Tacoma Killer. Some of the men exchanged looks, but were quick to pass off Happy's sudden outburst as just another of his many eccentricities.

"Frankie?" Clay mused, "Italian?"

"I don't think so," Juice replied with a chuckle.

Clay glanced around, but the property was eerily still.

"Well, looks like your buddy, Frankie, is late."

Juice glanced at his watch. "Actually, we're early."

"How'd we manage that?"

The younger man simply shrugged and Clay sighed.

As the members sat back against their bikes to wait out the remaining time – some lighting up fresh cigarettes, others checking their burners and cells for any new messages or missed calls – their VP stepped away to survey the surrounding paddocks, boots crunching on the gravel driveway. It was quiet this far out; no noise or light pollution from traffic or row upon row of streetlights. A light breeze blew over them, warm even with the sun close to disappearing completely from the sky. Jax soaked up the rare moment of peace before something caught his ear.

"You hear that?" He had his head cocked as he took a drag from his cigarette. The faint sound of music drifted down to them from the other end of the compound. Drawing their sidearms out of habit, stamping out their cigarettes, they followed their VP towards the source of the noise, coming to a stop in front of a heavy, sliding side-door. The familiar song continued to sound from within, a steady bass beating as Jax signaled a count. On three, they pulled back the door and moved in. The warehouse itself was empty; spotlessly clean with the few boxes it contained stacked neatly onto metal shelves. The music grew louder as they neared the source, and they continued on to approach a second sliding door that sat deeper into the complex, this one made of a heavier, reinforced metal. Jax gripped the handle, glancing back at his brothers, then pulled.

A man sat tied to a chair in the middle of the room, the chair itself chained to the floor to avoid any tumbles or attempts of escape. The person standing in front of the man continued to run their blowtorch over the exposed skin of his sensitive inner forearm, the music blasting from the speakers around them barely managing to cover the sound of his screams.

Suddenly he became still and his head dropped forward, chin resting on his chest. The welder turned to them then, and switched off the torch, placing it on the table behind them alongside dozens of other interesting-looking implements. They took off their gloves and tossed them down too, before finally pushing their welding goggles back to rest on top of their head. At first the woman's eyes were dark and cold, her mind still set in the realm of torture, clearly annoyed by the interruption, then her gaze fell on Juice and her face lit up.

"Hey, Juicy Fruit!" she greeted over the blast of the speakers, giving a quick wave before removing the goggles completely and moving to turn off the music. Juice managed to draw his gaze from the man on the chair, his expression slightly horrified at catching his friend at work, then he bowed his head at the embarrassing nickname, unable to help the dorky smile her enthusiasm drew from him. His brothers turned their eyes in his direction.

"Something you forget to tell us?" Clay asked him quietly, nodding towards the blonde as she removed her blood-speckled apron and laid it down neatly beside her gloves.

Juice managed a sheepish look and turned back to his friend, who was taking in each of the leather-clad bikers as she approached. She stopped in front of him first, pulling him into a bear hug and pressing a kiss to his defined cheekbone.

"I thought I told you not to call me that anymore," he reminded her quietly, knowing all eyes and ears were on them.

"I know. So, how've you been, Juicy Fruit?"

He gave an exasperated look, but his telltale smile remained fixed in place. She returned the grin, noting the color that had crept into his cheeks. Clay saw immediately why he had been so adamant about them meeting her; the kid was absolutely smitten.

"And these must be your friends," she went on, turning back to address the other awaiting men. "The men of SAMCRO."

"That we are," Clay replied, attempting to break her gaze with an intimidating stare of his own, but she soon looked past him to the next man in line as if oblivious to his attempts to assert his dominance.

"You boys are a little early," she noted, checking her watch just to be sure. "I wasn't expecting you for another ten minutes."

"Look, if you're in the middle of something, we can wait outside," Jax told her, gesturing with a quick jab of his thumb in the direction of the open door, looking over at the unconscious man still strapped to the chair. He had seen a lot during his time with the club, but the smell of cooked human flesh wasn't exactly pleasant, and he couldn't help but feel they'd intruded on the woman's work. Or whatever the hell this was supposed to be. Juice hadn't exactly been clear on the sort of services his friend provided.

"Nah, you're alright," she assured him with a friendly smile, as her gaze continued to move down the line, "He'll be out for another half hour or so." Something caught her attention at the end of the row and she moved passed them, coming to a dead stop in front of Happy. The Tacoma Killer stared down at her with cold, dark eyes and the other members stilled, sensing trouble brewing. Juice took a protective step in her direction, expression hesitant. No one ever approached the man like that, certainly not with that amount of confidence; his face alone usually had people crossing the street just to avoid him. The woman stared back for a moment, then reached out and grabbed the bottom of the white t-shirt under his kutte, pulling it up to reveal the cluster of smiley face tattoos on his torso. She glanced back up to meet his gaze.

"Someone's been busy," she said, breaking into a grin. The notorious executioner laughed as they embraced, clapping her on the back while the other looked on, astonished by the latest bizarre turn of events.

Clay cocked an eyebrow, exchanging a look with Jax, whose mouth was slightly agape. "Well that's…"

"Terrifying," Chibs finished for him, a deep, disturbed frown etched into his features. He glanced from the reunited pair to the chargrilled man in the chair and shook his head, turning away. He had played his part in all sorts of violence over his lifetime, but this wasn't exactly his kind of scene.

Clay glanced over at Juice, but it was difficult to tell if he was already aware of the apparent relationship between Frankie and the Nomad – the kid just looked glad to see her.

"You two know each other?" Tig asked, finally voicing the confusion of his comrades, eyes trained eagerly on the strange newcomer. If he had been asked to describe the ideal situation for meeting a new woman, walking in on her torturing a guy tied to chair while Peaches' Fuck the Pain Away played in the background probably would have fallen pretty high on the list. He didn't care if Juice was the one currently sticking it to her – the kid was easily intimidated, or if the Sergeant-at-Arms was feeling a little more generous, at least easily persuaded – but when you were considered the most fucked up individual in the club, you did not mess with the only other person that surpassed you in crazy.

"We've worked together a couple of times," she replied, throwing Happy an unsettling smirk, which he returned. "Small world."

"I guess so," Jax commented, exchanging another look with Clay.

"I can vouch for this one," Happy assured them. The old man rubbed his salt-and-pepper stubble as he considered the enforcer's recommendation. He looked back at Juice, and the boy offered an encouraging smile, hoping it masked his growing discomfort at seeing another man pawing at his childhood friend.

"Alright," Clay said, "So let's talk."

The remote diner she led them to wouldn't have been Clay's first choice for a sit down, even if it was surprisingly empty for a Friday night. After watching her fill a syringe from a small bottle of clear liquid and jab it into the neck of her cargo, they were left waiting on their bikes while she organized her own transport. The next surprise had come when she appeared out the front on a sleek, black Ducati – the zippy little machine earning mixed reactions from the seasoned riders.

"I know the owner," Frankie reassured Clay now, catching the club president's skeptical expression as they neared the establishment. She gestured to the empty parking lot. "The only thing keeping this guy in business is the hush money."

"You're paying this guy off?"

"Have been for a while now. I've started meeting all my clients here."

Clay frowned at the idea of leaving such an easy trail. "Don't seem too smart."

She turned back to look at him, smiling to cover up her flicker of offense at the comment.

"That I do that, or that I told you I do that?"

He smirked and cocked his head slightly, indicating both options were equally unwise.

"I've known Juice a long time," she assured him, "He vouched for you guys."

"Oh, well, in that case…" the president replied sarcastically.

Frankie chuckled. "I have an understanding with the owner. He talks, he doesn't get paid. He doesn't get paid…"

"He loses his business," Jax finished for her, realizing why she had picked this particular establishment as her kind of temporary office. He nodded, appreciating the ingenuity behind the arrangement.

"And what happens if he gets a better offer?" Clay asked her.

"He knows what happens," she replied without emotion, "Besides, the pie here's pretty good."

Clay exchanged a look with his stepson, but Jax seemed open to at least hearing her out. They followed her inside, the ensemble of rough-looking men coming to a halt as they were greeted by a nervous man with dark, thinning hair.

"Hi, Frankie," he smiled, scrambling to grab enough menus for everyone, "Shall I push together a couple of tables for you and your, uh, friends?"

She fought hard not to laugh at his awkward behavior. Most of her clients were well-dressed business people looking for a bloody leg up the white-collar ladder; well-behaved and mild-mannered, not looking to draw any attention. The few motorcycle clubs she had helped out – the Tacoma branch of Sons, for example – normally preferred meetings within clubhouse walls, or on the sides of long, deserted stretches of road.

"Yeah," she smirked, "For my friends. Thanks, Dick."

Once they were seated and had given a round of orders – mainly for coffee, since they didn't expect to be staying too long; Juice, Bobby and Piney taking up her recommendation for the pie – Frankie took the opportunity to glance around at each of the men once more. An important part of her job was getting a good read on people, and the signals she was currently receiving from each person were almost deafening. She hadn't missed, for example, Clay's very obvious attempts to intimidate her, used to it from her many male clients, as well as a number of her female ones. It came with the territory, particularly as a woman, with the clients finding it necessary to test her; have her prove to them why she might be better able to achieve the things they could not. It was behavior she had expected from the president of the club.

The vice president was another easy read. His responses so far, in both speech and body language, had appeared almost purposely opposing of everything his superior said or did, a sign of a prince eagerly awaiting his crown. She was certain if she was to say something to gain favor in the old man's eyes, the blonde-haired heir would question her intentions, even if all his responses so far had been pretty positive towards her.

Next was the Sergeant-at-Arms. Now he was an interesting one. He had an odd energy about him, mixed with a laid-back attitude that seemed an obvious cover for a man overflowing with insecurities. He had a gaze that lingered, as if challenging whoever it fell upon, waiting to see if they were worth the trouble of his interest. She had been carefully feeding that behavior over the course of the night. He tore his eyes away from her briefly when Dick reappeared with a tray of coffee, setting them carefully on the table, making his final stop between Tig and Clay. Both men cast irritated looks at the man for invading their space, sending him scuttling back to check on the status of the pie.

When Tig finally looked back at the woman next to Jax, he found her quietly observing him.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, "You don't like Dick?"

Something flickered behind his eyes, perhaps an instinctual need to meet the suggestive comment with some form of violence, but this was quickly subdued by a renewed fascination. Without even looking, she could feel the grin on Juice's face, and when she finally did glance at him, he simply shook his head, refusing to meet her gaze, knowing it was all it would take to make him crack. Tig had already had it out for him the past few days, and the last thing he needed was to give the crazy asshole a reason to fuck with him further; he was one laugh away from two roofies in his morning coffee. His smile finally died a little as Tig glanced at him, fading to a mere curl of the lips. Before Tig could return fire for the remark, Clay leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the smooth wood of the table, chin resting on clasped hands, not really sure where to begin with her. He glanced down at Happy, who was gazing steadily at his mercenary acquaintance, and received another nod of approval from the expressionless man.

"Our boy, Juice, here, tells us you're a vet."

She nodded, glancing around at the men whose attention she now held.

"Yeah, ten years in the corps. Two tours in Afghanistan. Honorably discharged," she added with a smirk, for good measure.

Clay gestured to the long, thin scar that ran from the corner of her right eye down to her jaw as she took a sip of her coffee. "Gift from the sand monkeys?"

She nodded, lowering her mug. "Earned two purple hearts for my service."

She side-glanced at Juice, reading his insistence that she be completely honest, warmed by the hint of pride in his smile.

"And one Distinguished Service Cross."

Clay's brow furrowed. How was it that Juice had managed to keep this woman from them for so long? A decorated, ex-marine-turned-mercenary; he was starting to feel it had to be some kind of ruse, some trick to get money out of the club.

"What was that for?" Tig asked, carrying an expression similar to his president, dismissing her earlier transgression.

"I was awarded that and one of the purple hearts together. Cleared out a hospital building on my own after intel pointed to a bomb drop. Our transport hit an IED on the way up, I was the only one mobile enough to carry out the remainder of the mission. Shrapnel took a good chunk out of my stomach, nearly took out my eye, but I was a lot luckier than the others. And there were a lot of kids in that hospital. Bomb threat turned out to be a hoax in the end." Her gaze shifted and grew distant, recalling the lives lost that day due to the shoddy intel.

"How'd you end up at Guantanemo?" Jax asked, intrigued by each new detail she revealed. This was certainly not what he had expected to come from the meet-up, least of all to be hearing it from a woman. She brushed her cropped, blonde hair back behind her ear and her eyes flicked over to meet his.

"I trained as a medic, originally," she explained. "Juice tells me you guys run an auto-repair shop?"

The men nodded, brows furrowed as they wondered what that had to do with anything.

"So if you know how to put an engine back together, it would be fair to say you also know how to take one apart?"

The air seemed to go out of the room as her meaning hit them.

"I guess that was the logic behind the transfer. Stuff I already knew, I just had to reverse the procedures. I picked up a lot during my time there. By the time I made it back to the States, I had offers from a whole bunch of government agencies looking for someone with my particular skillset. But I've never much liked working out of the government's pocket. So I set up on my own. Went a little off the grid."

"Gonna take a guess that Frankie ain't your real name, then," Clay said.

"No," she chuckled, "Just a little nickname I had bestowed upon me. I've even had a couple of clients start calling me 'Frankie the Cleaner', but personally I think it makes me sound like a rejected Sopranos character."

There were a few chuckles around the table; some hesitant, with suspicion yet to dissipate in a few of the members. She glanced at Jax and threw him a little smirk she knew would feed his ego, receiving one in return that confirmed her theory.

"Hey, we know a Frankie, don't we?" he asked Clay, fingering his napkin, one arm thrown casually over the back of his chair.

"Frankie Diamonds?"

"Yeah."

"Italian?" Frankie asked.

"As the Pope blowing a cannoli," Clay confirmed, and she quirked an eyebrow as if to say 'point made'.

"So what is it exactly that you do?" he went on, "I mean, that's why we're here, right? You think you got something to bring to our table."

"In other words, cut to the sales pitch," she replied.

He shot back a dark smile. "Exactly."

"I use the term 'mercenary' because it's familiar to people, but the services I provide are much broader. Since I've been back, I've built up a vast network of contacts over many different spectrums of the community. I've got eyes and ears where I need them, when I need them. And when all else fails, I find that my more refined skills can just as easily get me whatever information either myself or my clients need. I can find people…or I can make them disappear. I can deconstruct a crime scene just as easily as create one. And most importantly of all, I do it all without ever leaving any way to implicate myself, or my clients. My personal guarantee."

"You know, condoms companies go on about guarantees too, yet somehow I still got two daughters," Tig said.

"Helps if you actually wear them," Chibs quipped from across the table, and Tig laughed. The Scotsman was another fairly easy read for her. He was quiet compared to the rest, the kind to sit back and get a read on a situation before jumping into action. His eyes had a careful intelligence about them, and she pegged him as the mediator of the group – the checks and balances set between a borderline-tyrannical leader and his boundary-pushing stepson.

"Helluva pitch," Clay commented as he stared at her, testing her resolve. It didn't seem like there was much that could shake her, but then after everything she had seen and done, it wasn't hard to see why. He glanced at Bobby, knowing full well that her services probably wouldn't come cheap, and that it was something the club couldn't really afford – not right now, anyway.

"I'm guessing you charge on a job-by-job basis?" Bobby asked, using his fork to scoop up his next bite of pie as he looked over at her. The man had a similar way about him as the Scotsman, carrying the weary wisdom of age and experience, only without the same amount of sharp intellect. He looked like the kind of man to begrudgingly agree with their leader's decisions, if only to keep the peace.

"Not really a 'flat-rate' line of work'," she replied, and he nodded.

"Well, we ain't exactly in dire need of your services right now," Clay told her, doing his absolute best to try and crush any preconceived notions she might have had about receiving handouts simply for knowing a member. "But we'll keep you in mind."

"And as a show of good faith, I'll even do the first job free of charge."

"Well, ain't that nice," Clay replied, his tone still carrying that hint of sarcasm.

"Always nice to have friends who come with benefits," Jax joked, flashing another charming smirk.

Frankie chuckled before exchanging a quick look with Juice, who was finishing up the last of his own dessert, then she gave Clay a humble smile and a nod, effectively bringing the little business meeting to a close. Before they all stood up to leave, she slid a card across the table with her contact details, which Tig was quick to snatch up and pocket. She shook hands with each of the members as they passed as a show of respect – Juice remaining close by to keep an eye on any unfriendly interactions – then turned to Tig, whose gaze she could still feel honed in on her like a scoped rifle. She checked her watch. Her awaiting cargo would be on his way back to the realm of consciousness.

"Well, since dinner's more or less taken care of, you're more than welcome to head back with me for the show," she offered them.

"I think we're good," Jax chuckled, running his hand back through his golden hair, smirking at the look on his Sergeant's face as Tig seriously considered her offer.

"We got places to be," Clay reminded him, tipping her a slightly-sardonic nod.

Juice glanced over at Happy. As a Nomad, the man had no obligations to go with them. He only hoped he didn't take Frankie up on her offer. It had come just as much of a surprise to him that the two knew each other, and sensing their familiarity, had felt a spike of jealousy shoot through him. He made a mental note to ask her about it when they saw each other next, which he was hoping would be soon. They still hadn't had a proper catch-up since her return to the West Coast, and they'd only really chatted online or by text while she moved around overseas. He had forgotten how much she could make him smile. Being around her took him back to those simpler days of their youth. Her company had always been like a hot shower after a long, hard day on the road; something that never failed to sooth him.

"So, what did you think of the pie?" she asked, throwing an arm around his shoulders. She gave a quick salute goodbye to Dick, who looked more than a little relieved to see them all go, then followed the others towards their bikes.

"Not bad," he smiled, enjoying the weight and warmth of her touch. "Bobby makes these organic muffins, though. Best thing you'll ever taste."

"Still with the health food, huh?" she teased, rubbing the back of his smooth, shaved head.

"Right?" Tig interjected as he took a seat on his bike, "I keep telling him shit ain't gonna make him live any longer."

"You still smoke, right?" she asked. Juice nodded, eyes rolling, knowing exactly where she was going with that, and she just laughed. She pressed a kiss to his temple, and stepped back as the men started up their bikes. "Hey, dinner tomorrow night, okay? My place."

Juice gave a dopey grin at the suggestion. "Sure."

"I'll text you the address."

Clay looked over at them, waiting for them to be done with their little farewells.

"Alright, I'll be seeing you."

Tig's hand went to his pocket, confirming that her contact details were still tucked safely away.

"Yeah, I'm sure you will. I never did get a chance to taste that pie."

"Subtle as a flying brick, this one," Chibs commented, and Juice just shook his head as he clipped on his helmet, a little uncomfortable about the way Frankie laughed and returned the other man's playful gaze. She made her way over to her own bike, clapping Happy on the back on her way past, and gave a brief wave of her departure before zipping off into the night.

After a long night tossing and turning, plagued by thoughts of Frankie shacking up with some of his club brothers, Juice found relief in the form of a text the following morning – one from the very girl that seemed to have renewed her residency in his thoughts after that first simple peck on the cheek. He smiled down at the short message.

So, how'd I do?