"Don't go setting fires when there's nothing to burn."
A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥
Tig Trager x Fem!OC...
Warnings: brief mentions of murder, the guy that got his ass shot in season one is also in this chapter, and Jax gets his very own warning too :)
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The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn't bring wisdom. It only brings weary.
John Teller was always so astute.
His judicious character befell his son, too. Jax had that same perceptive nature as his old man--everyone would comment on that.
To Isla, it was admirable. For Jackson Teller to be a man of such stature--to hold such a reputation--and to remain somewhat level-headed through it all, was only something she could commend.
She'd seen many of her father's friends crumble under the pressure of Samcro, unable to balance the weight of living with the responsibility and commitment to the club, and meet their unfortunate demise--in some not-so extreme cases.
But Jax was different. He'd always been different.
Maybe that wasn't so great, however.
"You're fucking insane, Isla."
"Not insane." She mumbled, sifting through the box of shitty medical supplies that Gemma had left atop the pool table last night.
"Just trying to patch this shit up so Hayes doesn't kick the fucking bucket before Jax gets back here."
Tig snarled. "But it might be infected, and the bullet is still in this dude's ass--"
Isla whipped her head to glare at the man, her eyes wide, forehead slick with sweat--and a little blood, too.
"Shut the fuck up."
"Isla--"
"Tig, with all due respect, unless you're gonna help, please get the fuck outta here."
"That's not gonna suffice," he pointed out, referring to the medical tape, ignoring her scolding.
She wanted to throttle him. Truly, Isla was willing to wrap her crimson-coated fingertips around Tig's neck and squeeze the absolute life out of that man.
"I know." Her lips kneaded together in frustration, watching her father dab an alcohol-infused pad on the wound. "But unless you've got any better ideas, then we're just gonna have to keep reapplying this shit."
"But the infection, Isla."
"But the lack of medical equipment, Tig."
He slapped his palm against the table and glared at her, pointedly. "Why've you gotta be such a bitch all the time, huh?"
"Watch it, Trager." Piqued, Chibs growled.
"I'm not a bitch all the time," she dismissed her father, wiping at her palm with a wet rag. "I'm actually able to control the way I act around other people."
