The Life of a Biker's Daughter

This Is My Home, Not Yours

"I take it you aren't taking me to my car?" I cross my arms against my chest as we pass the storage place I am keeping all my belongings. Gemma does what she believes is best for the ones she loves, despite what they want.  It's frustrating and amiable.

"Sweetheart, if you are back for good, as you say, then you might as well rip the band-aid off now. You gotta let the boys know you are back," she tells me as she turns on the street the Teller-Morrow garage is on.  Gemma is right, there is no reason to prolong the inevitable.  Why does she have to be right?

"Fine," I groan, "At least let me go through the back door to the apartment so that I can change.  No one needs to see me in a blood covered shirt.  The last thing I want is for the boys to worry about me."

Even though Gemma is wearing sunglasses, the way she scoffs tells me she is rolling her eyes.  "Honey, you are SOA's little girl.  They never stop worrying about you."

We drive into the lot of the Teller-Morrow garage.  There are motorcycles everywhere, meaning the boys are here and not out on some job.  As soon as we park I am out the door and walking toward the side of the clubhouse, where the back door is, praying it's unlocked.

"You have fifteen minutes to change, and then I am dragging your ass to see everyone," Gemma shouts after me.

I open the back door and see no one is in the hallway.  Sneakily, I tiptoe to the apartment's door. When I get in there, I hear the shower going.  A hot shower sounds perfect right now, but I am on a time crunch.

I try not to make too much noise while I cross the room and rummage through my bag.  I pull out a cream v-neck and a pair of black, frayed shorts. The shower water turns off, and I know I don't have much time left to get out of here.  I slide out of my sliders, put on fresh underwear, a bra, and my shorts.  

The bloody SAMCRO t-shirt hits the floor just as the bathroom door opens.  Shit.  Thankfully my back is to the door, so he can't see my bandage. 

"Casey?" Jax chuckles. "What are you doing?"

There he goes using my full name again. Damn this man.

Without having to look at him, I can tell you Jax has one of his charming smirks on his face. Thankfully, the bandaging on my stomach doesn't reach around to my back.  No nagging questions if he can't see how bad my injury is.  Pulling the v-neck over my head, I turn to him.

"I slept here last night.  I came in too late to go anywhere else," I answer as I study the shirtless, soaking wet man.  His hair is slicked back, and there are beads of water on his chest. 

"Don't you have an extra key to JJ's house?  He sleeps like a rock, and he wouldn't have cared if you stayed there," Jax says, obviously not buying into my lie.  He bends over to pick up his shirt I had thrown on the ground. 

"Jax, it's not clean!" I try to snatch it out of his hands, but Jax is too quick.  When he sees the amount of blood on his t-shirt, his blue eye widen, his fist bunching up the material.  

Gemma said she told her boys that the doctors were checking my stitches I had gotten from a drunken fall.  Nothing too serious, doctors just wanted to make sure the wounds weren't infected.  If that were the case, I wouldn't be so desperately trying to hide his shirt.  Jax isn't stupid, and he's caught onto this fact. 

"Something you want to tell me darlin'?"  Jax looks at me, his jaw clenched.  Oh, so that is what it takes for him to break out of our awkwardness, me getting injured.

"That shirt may be ruined?" I say, attempting to keep my face blank of a guilty expression.

Jax drops the shirt and jerks forwards, grabbing the end of my v-neck.  I grab hold of his wrists tightly.  I am not stronger than him, but he stops to stare me dead in the eyes.  He wants to hear the truth, not get it out of me by seeing what's under my shirt.  Too bad my lips are sealed.