"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...
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Warnings: violence, usual SOA shit.
She had never felt so wretched in such a pretty dress. So slovenly wearing her favorite color, the hue that brought out the specks of green in her irises, and the blush that perpetually splashed over the pert apples of her cheeks.
It was a rotten notion, this. Suddenly loathing the outfit that she loved the most, the outfit that Tig had complimented—fucking praised—a mere twenty minutes ago. But that was before Isla had made such a fool out of herself.
Discomfort had barraged her, it struck her hard until it was her only real prevailing emotion. Until she felt the stifling skin of her thighs exposed as the white cotton rose to the middle of them, and she padded from her car, toward the doorway of Gemma's office.
She hated feeling so uneasy, so perturbed in a place that she knew to be like home. Around the people that she had been raised by.
Isla held the right strap of her backpack with one hand, while the other tugged on the piped hem and brought it toward her knees. She let out a soft, uncomfortable sigh.
Her first day working alongside Gemma was not supposed to start like this.
"Good Morning." With a completely fake smile, Isla greeted as she padded into the office. "Where's your sidekick? I have some goodies for her girls."
"Mornin', baby." Gemma smiled back, taking a break from immersing herself in one of the garage's many repo lists.
They seemed to monopolize her days, now.
"I don't think she has any plans to swing by today."
"Oh, well." She frowned, but placed her backpack atop the plush couch regardless. "I guess I'll hand this over to Luann when I see her next. Or, I'll leave it here so she can take it when she eventually comes in?"
Gemma nodded. "What's in the bag?"
Briefly, Isla looked over at her. Her words remained poised, though her features screamed discomfort.
Her worry, the tensity after her accident, was uncomfortably perceptible. It was written across her face, scribed into the unwonted melancholy that had slowly started to chip away at the wall she had worked so tirelessly to build
Isla knew her, though. She understood every last one of her idiosyncrasies, the most minor of Gemma's mannerisms that many would struggle to pick up on, and she was aware that her pain was deeper-rooted than simply what was floating its way to the surface.
What had caused such woefulness, she was uncertain. But the grief was striking her deeply. It was beating away at her bones, hastily destroying each and any semblance of lucidity she had managed to cling to.
Isla cleared her throat. "Just some cute lingerie I never wore. I figured that she could use all the supplies and outfits that she can get her hands on, and these either didn't fit me or I just ended up hating how they looked."
