Hello all! Before we get started on the chapter, itself, I wanted to call your attention to a little soundtrack I've created for this, as well as the rest of my fics published on this site! The link is included below, if you are so moved to give it a listen. All you'll have to do is remove the spaces, and add 'https' before the link itself (For some reason the site won't show it all if I include it in its entirety).

open . spotify playlist / 49bdFifZGMefGH8yQXFwo1

Enjoy this chapter, my angels! And please do accept my humble apologies that it took so long to post!

…..

(Hollywood, CA 2007)

I can barely breathe, the pain that ignites in my side every time I attempt to inhale very nearly crippling, though I do my best to tamp down on the whimper that wants so very badly to escape from between my parted lips. In mere seconds, one innocent remark has earned me a spot curled on the hardwood floor of the apartment, one arm curling around my torso on instinct while I struggle to catch a breath, and tears burn at the corners of my eyes. And although I know that I might be better served by simply remaining motionless as the shadowy figure looms over my prone frame, some small remnant of my already beaten down pride has me struggling to push myself upright, my eyes remaining fixed upon the floor until the sharp impact of the toe of Tim's boot connects with my stomach, and sends me crashing back down once more.

"You think you're pretty hot shit, don't you?" He growls, the pressure of his hand coming to rest upon my shoulder as he crouches down until I can feel his hot breath gusting against the skin of my neck, "You get one schmuck ready to be your agent, and you don't need me anymore—"

"That's not what I—what I said, Tim—"

"Sure as hell seems like it is."

"Well it—it's not," I persist, wincing as even the simple act of carrying on a conversation causes spasms to wrack their way through my chest, "I don't—I don't think that."

"Then prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it," Tim repeats, his hand sliding away from my shoulder so that he can reach for my wrist, and use that hold to tug me half-upright before going on, "Prove to me that you're not the lying slut I think you are."

Wincing again as I feel the hold his fingers have around my wrist tightening until I cannot even flex my fingers without experiencing pain, I scramble to come up with some means of providing Tim with the assurance he so desperately needs, my breath now coming in shallow gasps as I force my free hand to rest palm-flat upon the floor to steady myself while Tim still retains his vice like grip upon my other wrist. In spite of my desire to attempt regaining some control over this situation, I find that I am completely incapable of even looking him in the eye, at least for the moment, my gaze remaining rooted to the floor, regardless of how loudly instinct seems to scream at me that I do something—anything—to stop this entire ordeal in its tracks.

For his part, Tim seems to take my wordlessness as sufficient proof, at least for the time being, the sudden loss of his fingers constricting around my wrist causing me to falter as my newly freed hand joins its fellow, pressed flat against the hardwood floor. In seconds, the almost suffocating nature of his presence hovering over me disappears, while the hollow sounds of footsteps retreat away from me, and head towards the kitchen instead. And although I hate myself for succumbing to the relief that floods through my trembling frame, I am entirely incapable of resisting the flood of tears that follow Tim's departure, a low whimper passing through my lips as I finally abandon all hope of remaining upright, and sag back down to the floor instead. Unbidden, my thoughts turn for the briefest of moments to my parents—to my family, back in Charming, and to how they would likely react if they had any inkling as to what my life was like, now. But before I can become too distracted by such a thought, and the inherent shame that brings a flush to my cheeks in response, I force myself to focus on the simple task of attempting to sit upright once more, knowing that the longer I remain in one place, the harder I will find it to move later on.

From what little I can glean from the spasms of pain that tear through my torso with each breath, I can only surmise that Tim's harsh blows might just have broken a rib…

…

(Charming, CA 2008)

"Hey—you still want to try for getting secrets out of me?" I inquire, suppressing a grin as the guy I had been talking to before Jax's untimely interruption turns from his observation of the sparring going on in the ring, and faces me with an utterly stunned expression on his face, "I can walk away if that's too much for you to handle—"

"I—ah—no. No, it's not."

"You sure about that?"

"Hell yes," Juice replies, a startlingly wide grin transforming his features from apprehension, to something that seems far more welcoming than I think I truly deserve, "You sure Jax won't mind, though?"

"Honestly? He can mind all he wants. But he won't bother us again."

"Really?"

"Really. I took care of it," I assure, moving to stand beside my companion, while simultaneously allowing my shoulder to bump against his despite the fact that a part of me can hardly believe I am being so forward, "Can I let you in on a little known secret?"

"Sure."

"He's scared of me."

"No way," Juice protests, amusement coloring his features as he shakes his head in response to my assertion, one hand lifting to rub against his scalp while he regards me with something not all that far from genuine surprise, "Jax?"

"We grew up together. Let's just say between him, and Opie, I learned how to handle myself really quickly."

"You—you knew Opie too?"

"That tends to happen when the club is your life," I inform, a slight furrow forming on my brow as I realize at the last possible second that I do not quite feel ready to disclose the exact reason behind my involvement with SAMCRO, no matter how certain I am that the truth will come out, eventually, "Those two taught me everything I know."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. And if you ever tell either one of them that I said that, I'll have to kill you."

"Fair enough," Juice acknowledges, a laugh escaping as he snags two beers from a cooler that I had only just noticed resting in front of the ring, and hands one my way after popping off the cap, "Does a beer go farther in buying more secrets than a cigarette?"

"As long as you promise you'll keep them coming," I quip, surprisingly at ease for the moment, despite how a part of me wonders exactly what I will be able to tell this man without risking the prospect of straying too close to the truth. In truth, I am well aware that my reluctance makes no sense. That I can trust this man about as much as I can any other member of this club when it comes to withholding judgment, and standing behind someone when it really counts. I know that he would never have been patched in, otherwise. But still, some part of me seems utterly rooted in the desire to keep as much about my past, both with SAMCRO and otherwise, in the dark, at least for now, the small sip of beer I manage in the time it takes to come to this conclusion only solidifying my resolve as I manage a faint smile for Juice's benefit, before quirking a brow and responding in the only way I know how.

"How does a beer for each question and answer sound?"

If nothing else, I can at least assure myself that I am capable of dragging the affair out for just long enough to garner the requisite time to concoct answers that are not all lies…

…

"Saw you talkin' to Juice earlier. That gonna become a thing?" Gemma asks, sidling up beside me while I look over the food table, and succumb to the urge to pluck one last chicken wing from the platter before I turn to face her head-on.

"If by 'thing' you mean friendship, then yeah. I guess it is—"

"You and I both know that's not what I mean, Peyton. You sure you know what you're doing?"

"Exactly what is it you think I'm doing?" I demand, my expression turning from one of cautious neutrality, to one more akin to open curiosity while I wait upon Gemma's reply. In truth, I really ought to have expected this inquisition, such as it is, particularly knowing that she has always been at least as protective of me as she is over Jax. But still, I cannot entirely seem to shake the small surge of aggravation that passes through me, regardless, my lips tugging into a frown for just a moment as I realize I am on the receiving end of one of Gemma's trademark appraising glances before she finally responds.

"Honestly? I think you're going out of your way to hide from something. And I hope you're eventually going to be smart enough to realize you need to tell me what that is."

"I'm not hiding from—"

"Save it, sweetheart. Your mama may not be able to tell when you're lying, but I sure as hell can."

"How?"

"How?" Gemma scoffs, watching me without wavering as I force myself to take a nibble of one of the chicken wings on my plate, and folding her arms across her chest with one corner of her lips turned up in an amused grin, "Because I've known you since you were in diapers, that's how."

"Technically, my mom has that particular claim under her belt, as well, Aunt Gemma."

"Yeah, but in my case, it goes a bit deeper than that. I think you know what I mean, sweetheart."

Unable to feign ignorance beneath the weight of the inscrutable stare that Gemma is giving me, I settle instead for managing a simple nod, whatever words I may have said sticking in my throat, and forcing me to swallow in an attempt to dislodge the invisible barrier that they seem to have prevented before Gemma can come to the wrong conclusion. I know that she will eventually succeed in her attempts at getting me to come clean. I know that as easily as I know my own name. And yet I find that I am all but determined to see to it that she does not achieve that goal just yet, my posture straightening just a bit as I attempt to match her stare with one of my own before I finally summon the wherewithal to reply.

"If you were to hazard a guess, what would you say I'm running from?"

"We playing a game?"

"From where I'm sitting, Aunt Gemma, you started this one all on your own."

"Maybe I did," My aunt admits, shaking her head in what I can only hope is resignation, while she moves just a bit closer towards me, and loops an arm around my shoulders to guide me towards one of the nearby picnic tables that are situated outside of the clubhouse, itself, "But we both know my thoughts aren't what will get you through whatever this is, baby girl."

"I know."

"Then you won't be offended if I decide not to give your little question the time of day?"

"I guess not."

"Good. I'd hate to think your time in the big city took away that thick skin you used to have."

"Trust me. It's still there. Thick as ever," I promise, forcing a faint smile to my lips as I take the proffered seat at the picnic table, and Gemma moves to take the seat opposite me in next to no time at all, "Dare I ask how things have been around here?"

"How much time have you got?" Gemma retorts, reaching over to pluck at a piece of the muffin I had placed upon my plate, and popping the morsel into her mouth to chew and swallow before going on, "Same as ever—just with the added twist of a knocked-up junkie to keep things interesting."

"Knocked up junkie? Who's the genius that thought that was a good idea?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Who didn't—who didn't tell me what?" I stammer, dropping the piece of the muffin I had torn off for myself back onto the plate while my eyes blow wide in response to Gemma's quirked brow, "No. No, tell me it's not—"

"Jax? Yeah. He and Wendy got hitched, fell out, tried to reconcile, and then next thing I know there's a bun in her oven."

"Shit."

"That is exactly what I said," Gemma states, reaching into her jacket pocket for her lighter and cigarettes, and managing to extract and light one in what seems to be just a manner of seconds, before taking a drag, and exhaling a puff of smoke in one fluid motion, "He really didn't tell you?"

"No. He neglected to mention a damn thing about Wendy or any of it," I reply, one hand lifting to tug through tousled hair while the other comes to rest, palm flat, upon the grained wood of the picnic table in the same motion, "Jesus, Aunt Gemma—"

"I wouldn't sweat it, sweetheart. You know Jax isn't one for heart-to-hearts."

"I know that, but this? You'd think he'd have the stones to tell one of his best friends that he was going to be a dad, for Christ's sake."

"Maybe he just didn't know what to say."

"Right. And I'm the Pope," I retort, aware that my words have come out far too harshly, considering Gemma is hardly the reason behind Jax's apparent secrecy, and yet finding myself completely incapable of rectifying the situation in the wake of the obvious sting that his lack of confession leaves me with, whether he willed it to be that way, or not, "This is kind of huge, Gemma."

"I know that, sweetheart."

"Then why the hell wouldn't he tell me?"

"Maybe he was waiting on you to start being a little more forthcoming, yourself."

Sighing as I realize, albeit reluctantly, that Gemma probably does have a point, there, I find that it is not long before I am shoving my plate of hardly touched food to the side so that I can lean forward with both elbows on the table, and my head held firmly between both hands. This most recent revelation, coupled with my lingering apprehension over how best to eventually explain my sudden return to Charming in the first place has rather effectively stolen my appetite, the pit of anxiety that is roaring to life in my stomach making it all but impossible to even look at the food I had snagged without nausea following not long thereafter. And perhaps because of my current distraction, I find that I am jumping while my pulse skyrockets in response to the slight touch of Gemma's hand coming to rest upon my forearm, while Jax's voice simultaneously reaches my ears from his newfound position plopped beside me on the picnic bench.

"Hey—you good? Or is all that beer finally getting to you?" He jokes, the gravelly laugh that leaves him almost immediately after his remark prompting me to drop my hands away from my temples, my eyes narrowing as I force myself to look him in the eye.

"No. I'm not 'good', Jax. When the hell were you going to tell me about Wendy and the baby?"

If the look that crosses his features in this moment are any indication, he appears just as stunned by my sudden question as I was hearing of the news from his mother just moments before…

Whether it is truly mature of me or not, I am at least able to take some small amount of satisfaction from that expression, in spite of the fact that I am still more than just a little hurt that he was not the one to tell me, to begin with.

…

(Hollywood, CA 2008)

Frozen in place in the wrought iron chair on the patio of the small coffee shop, I stare, open-mouthed, at the woman seated across from me, even in the face of her utterly nonplussed expression that she is giving me in return. I cannot have heard her correctly—the prospect of what she suggests I do to rectify my current situation at home seeming completely preposterous, regardless of whether or not a small part of me had honestly started to yearn for the idea almost as soon as the words had left her mouth. But her steady gaze, coupled with the not so subtle weight of the package she has just handed me seem to indicate that I did not, in fact, mishear, my heart thumping erratically in my chest as I quickly stow the package inside my oversized purse, and wet my lips before summoning the ability to speak once again.

"Are you insane, Kelly? This—there's no way in hell what you just gave me is legal."

"Keep your voice down, would you? I'm aware!"

"Then why the hell would you give it to me?" I persist, my voice dropping to a terse whisper while I lean across the table after casting a glance at our surroundings to ensure no one was close enough to overhear, "Unless, of course, you're trying to get me thrown in jail."

"I'm trying to save your life, Peyton. The least you could do is show me some damned gratitude," Kelly returns, her rouged lips pursing into a frown as she folds her arms across her chest, and leans back against the ironwork of the chair to regard me with what I can only describe as abject disappointment apparent in every facet of her gaze, "The guy's done enough damage to you to last a lifetime."

"And he's also done me a hell of a lot of good."

"Oh really? Give me one example of that, that hasn't cost you a hell of a lot of pain at the same time."

"Kelly—"

"I mean it, Pey. Give me one example. Just one, and I'll lay off and pretend this whole conversation never even happened."

My brow furrowing as I scramble to give her the answer she wants, I find to my own disappointment that I cannot seem to come up with a single example of how Tim has helped me without a subsequent memory of how he has caused me pain, as well. It's telling, of course, though I'll be damned if I am willing to admit to such a thing out loud. And so, I opt for doing the only other thing I can think of, in this moment, my fingers straying to the slight bulge that my new package has made against the fabric of my purse for a moment before I reply.

"He's had a hand in every single audition and gig I've ever had."

"Bully for him. As I recall, you're the one that rocked every single gig that he found for you. That was you, and your talent, Peyton. Not him."

"But he helped."

"Jesus, Pey, do you even realize how damned delusional you sound right now?" Kelly demanded, a worried frown passing over her features as she takes note of my wince in response to the hardness of her words, though she does not do anything in particular to temper them, regardless, "You're stronger than this. All I'm trying to do is get you to start acting like you know that as well as I do."

"And what do we do if it all blows up in my face?" I argue, placing my purse upon the ground between my feet, and exhaling in an attempt at relieving some of the tension that seems rooted to my shoulders no matter what I do to get rid of it, "He could just as easily turn it all around on me, and convince anyone who'll listen that I'm unhinged."

"It won't come to that."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Because you're not the first woman that's had to take drastic measures to get away from a relationship. And you probably won't be the last. You need to trust me, Peyton. I wouldn't give you anything you can't handle."

Unable to do anything other than nod in recognition of Kelly's words, I settle instead upon the task of downing the rest of my coffee in one gulp, the hand that is not holding the Styrofoam cup clenching into a fist in an attempt at masking the tremble that seems so inherent that I hardly even notice its existence. If asked, I honestly doubt I could come up with a suitable explanation for my relative nonchalance over something that is so indicative of trauma that it isn't even funny, especially since I would be the first in line to persuade any of my friends to get the hell out of dodge as soon as they could, if the situation were reversed.

Somehow, though, when faced with the situation as my own personal problem, the same logic does not seem to apply.

As if she can sense my growing anxiousness, Kelly abandons her pose of distant indignation in mere seconds in favor of leaning across the table that rests between us to reach for my hand, the gentle squeeze she gives by way of providing encouragement prompting me to look her in the eye, in spite of all of the indicators that scream at me to abandon this prospective 'project' before it can land me in even hotter water than I am in already. I can tell she is truly behind me, in this. That I have her in my corner, even if no one else will ever think of joining her there. And although I am still not entirely sure about my capability of pulling off what she seems to want me to do so intently, I find that I am also unable to ignore the slight sensation of strength that comes along with the feel of her hand squeezing my own, a sigh escaping as I glance down at the table top for just a moment, before gathering the confidence to speak.

"So—we have the first step of the plan."

"We do," Kelly confirms, pulling her hand away from my own, and sending me a smile that is almost predatory in nature, despite the fact that for the most part, I know that such a thing is about as out of character for her, as it is for me, as well.

"Now all you have to do is come up with the proper time to enact it."

Whether I care to admit it or not, her words have me almost convinced that what we are planning actually has a chance to succeed…

…

Hello, angels! And welcome (finally!) to a brand new chapter in Peyton's tale! I am so, so very sorry that it has taken so long to get this out to you, and that it probably seemed likely that I had abandoned this story altogether. But I promise you, that is nowhere near being true! I have absolutely no intention of abandoning any of my stories currently in progress, so even if updates seem few and far between for some, I will eventually circle back! Scouts honor!

As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story so far (and special thanks to last chapter's reviewers: Anna, and BloodforInk)! I am beyond appreciative of your kind words of support, and I truly do hope that you all enjoy this chapter every bit as much as you seem to have enjoyed the rest of the story so far!

Until next time, dearies…

MOMM