' "You look..." "Beautiful, I know. Can we move on?" '
Amidst the shadows of the little town of Charming, this chaotic and dangerous scene steps in Giselle Telford, a woman dead set on escaping the shadows of her past to embrace an uncertain future...
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It's already morning in Charming. The kitchen is quiet—peaceful in a way that never lasts long around here.
Giselle's been up for a while now.
Breakfast with Abel is already done—he's a giggling tornado of syrup and cereal—and she's moving through the kitchen, barefoot, hair a little messy, wearing nothing but Jax's oversized SAMCRO tee that barely covers the tops of her thighs.
She hums under her breath as she wipes down the table, her mind already racing ahead to everything today's gonna throw at her.
She knows she's gonna have to meet with Frank and the others—this whole Aryan thing's not going away, and if what she suspects is even half true, things could get bloody fast.
And then there's the Hale situation.
The guy swore up and down he trusted her, said she was solid. Yet he kept shit from her. Lied.
That's not trust. But that mess can wait—it's not the biggest fire burning right now.
What really weighs on her is how she's supposed to keep all this undercover without letting her family in on it.
Lying to them isn't easy—especially not to Jax. But keeping them safe? That's the job.
Her train of thought derails when she hears the back door creak open. Gemma steps into the room, that familiar scent of Chanel and cigarette smoke drifting in with her.
"Hey," Gemma mutters, her voice rough like gravel but somehow still warm.
Giselle offers a sleepy, crooked smile. "Good morning."
"Baby with Neeta?"
"At the park," she answers, rinsing off the last plate and setting it aside to dry.
"Jax?"
"Cleaning out the garage," she says, a smirk pulling at her lips.
Gemma grunts as she lowers herself into a chair, letting out a long breath like her bones might snap if she bends the wrong way.
"You still that sore?" Giselle asks, raising an eyebrow.
"It's gettin' worse. I'm just so goddamn stiff."
Giselle sets down the dish towel, her expression shifting from amusement to concern. "You dry?"
Gemma lifts her head sharply. "Since when are you a doctor?"
That little mischievous grin returns to Giselle's face. "I've got my license and my knowledge, old woman. Just answer."
Gemma rolls her eyes. "Like the Mojave vagina."
Elle chuckles, shaking her head. "It's the stress. Your body's not producing enough estrogen," she explains "I told you we'd handle this. No need to drag the club into it. You gotta be strong, mamita."
