"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: smut, angsty violence, and a side of Isla that we've never seen before! enjoy <3
Even hours later, he could still feel it.
The rigid flesh, tightening beneath his palm. The unyielding grip on her wrist—undeniably too strained—just desperate to draw her back in, but jostling her instead.
His heart sank when Isla's face fell. When her eyes grew congested with tears, and all color drained from the glowing apples of her cheeks, Tig's chest tightened.
It wasn't anything that he did, he was certain. But it was something so innocent, so harmless, that triggered a clear memory of something malicious.
And it puzzled him, then. Because the feeling of his hands on her—something she vocally adored—shouldn't have inspired such a reaction. Especially when it was only meant to be gentle.
He pondered the thought, sipping on his beer.
As he watched his brothers charm Luann's girls with their incredible one liners and stupefying personalities, Tig simply wondered about his hot date.
Who had yet to show her face.
"You're not still hung up on what happened earlier?" Clay asked as he took a seat beside his dejected right-hand, silently hoping that Tig's mood had been a result of some other fervent force.
But, alas. The downtrodden Sgt. At Arms' one and only conversation topic—and train of thought, apparently—centred around Isla fucking Telford.
"She didn't get pissed at you for touching her." He asserted, taking a swig of his beer. "She ain't seen me and Gemma go at it like that before. Probably shook her up."
Tig grunted, knowing that there was most certainly some truth behind Clay's words.
"And she had an unwanted visitor today, who obviously left her a little," he rolled his eyes, "a little highly fuckin' strung—"
"She wasn't highly strung just 'cus he turned up. Or after you and Gem fought." Tig defended. "There was something else eating at her, but I just don't know what."
Clay reclined a little bit, extending his legs as he leaned backwards on the taught leather couch.
"Yeah, there was something else alright."
"What?"
"You." The President unintentionally confirmed the spitting suspicion that Tig had.
The one thing he had ruled out, too. Because he couldn't possibly be the reason why Isla was so fucking fraught. Right?
"Don't act like you didn't already know that."
He was so breezy, so nonchalant. It made Tig anxious.
"You flipped out on her, jackass." Clay took another pull from his Budweiser. He rubbed at his lips with the back of his hand, watching Tig's facial expression scream unease.
