"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.
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Tig Trager x Fem!OC...
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Warnings: literally nothing besides gemma being gemma, zobelle appearing for a little while, and mentions of the usual SOA shit.
It was freezing in the clubhouse, now. So cold, in fact, Isla swore that she could feel her bones ailing beneath the bitter chill in the air, aching amidst the cool, uncomfortable breeze that swept through the building.
At some point during the night, Tig had mindlessly bundled her up in an orange and black Harley Davidson throw, too. Yet, despite the thick fleece blanketing her frame, she had still roused at an ungodly hour, completely gelid to touch.
She was convinced that a window, or perhaps a door, had been left open last night. The draft flitting through the dorm room was heinous, and Isla had started to break out into goosebumps.
Desperate for comfort—or, maybe, desperate to feel Tig's arms wind lovingly around her torso—Isla grumbled and rolled over, hoping to bump into his bare frame.
But an unsavory coolness met her fingertips before she even managed to process that Tig was nowhere to be seen, and two blue eyes flicked open to heed an empty space.
An unkempt, vacant spot beside her where he should've been. Isla's heart sank to the chasms of her chest, suddenly feeling deserted.
It still smelled like him, too.
Tig had fled the scene before she'd even had the chance to come around, and that hurt. Her chest was tightening at the thought of him potentially regretting last night, and she couldn't surmise what she should've done next.
If there was anything that she could've done, really.
Though, sitting and stewing in her crippling loneliness wasn't an option, this morning. Not when she had donuts to buy, coffee to drink, and one certain old lady's advice to attain.
As much as she hated the thought of the "I told you so" lecture from Gemma, Isla understood that she had to confide in somebody, now. Or else it would've eaten away at her, festered so deeply inside until she fucking exploded.
And she didn't want that. She felt as though she had kept too much from that woman, lately, and Gemma deserved a little bit of insight.
"Mornin'!" Half-Sack called out to her as she padded through the bar, still trying to secure both hoops in her ears. "You, uh, you want a ride home?"
She smiled, shaking her head. "I'm gonna take a walk, go grab a coffee and a couple dozen donuts. I need some fresh air."
"Oh, yeah. Don't blame you." He walked out from behind the bar—not particularly caring that she looked like hell after barely sleeping last night—and handed Isla the purse she'd left there.
With a simple nod, she thanked him.
"Did you want any? I can get you those vegan ones, again."
