1 SANDPIPER a Sons of Anarchy Story by Susan Fanetti
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SANDPIPER A Sons of Anarchy Story By Susan Fanetti/laughingwarrior The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. —from “Sandpiper,” Elizabeth Bishop Chapter 1: Chibs slammed his phone shut and stormed toward the clubhouse. He came up short. He wanted a drink—no, he needed a drink—but he didn’t want to go in there. Friday night. Place was crawling with ‘Eaters, and he was not in the mood. Dammit, Fiona. Dammit, dammit, dammit. That had been the latest—no, that had been the last—in a long series of bitter arguments with his old lady, who was rooted up to her righteous tight pussy in Irish soil. Jimmy O was dead, Kerrianne was grown and off at university—in medical school, for chrissakes—and still he could not get his woman to the States. He’d worked out a top-notch forged visa for her, cost him a bloody Queen’s ransom, and still nothing. Tonight, she’d finally said what was true. She’d made him face it. Fee, you’re me old lady. An old lady belongs with her man. Aye, Filip, she does. But I don’t. His wife, but not his old lady. Well, he’d be damned straight to hell before he divorced her. That much Catholic still ran deep in him. He stood in the middle of the T-M lot, angry and disconcerted, no idea what he wanted or where he wanted to be. Away. Drunk. That’s all he had. Fuck it. He’d go home, stop at the liquor store on the way. He went straight to his bike, ignoring Tig and Hap where they sat on the picnic table outside the clubhouse door, and took off, barely taking the time to strap on his helmet. -oOo- Still fuming, he stormed into Charming Package Liquor and headed straight for the Jameson. They kept the whiskey near the back of the store, and even that had him pissed off tonight. Christ, he was in a mood. He yanked a bottle from the shelf. 1 All he’d dealt with over the years—Jimmy taking Fee and him not being able to do shite about it, Jimmy raising his girl. All of it, and he’d stayed true to his old lady. Well, true in his heart, anyway. Christ, he was a sap. He’d sat on his arse all those years and let it happen. Sure, Jimmy was big news with the IRA, but he’d barely fought. Not for years. Finally slashing and killing that villainous son of a whore had been hugely satisfying. But the truth of it—the real, hard truth—was that, no matter how good the reasons, he’d sat by while Jimmy O’Phelan took his family. He hadn’t protected them—he’d thought so, but no. He’d told himself that by stepping aside he was keeping Kerrianne safe from the IRA and from Jimmy’s depravity. But that was a bag of shite. No wonder Fee was done with him now. He grabbed another bottle. He didn’t think one would be enough tonight. He turned and headed up to the counter. Just then, a woman yelled, “Dammit, please! It’s a local call! My cell is dead, and it’s important—like, life or death! Please! Be a human being and let me use the phone!” Desperation came off the woman’s voice in shards. A few rows of shelves separated Chibs from the front of the store, so he couldn’t see who’d spoken. He couldn’t hear Jonah, the guy behind the counter, reply, but he could tell the old man had said something, and it wasn’t what the woman wanted to hear. There was a metallic crash, and Chibs looked up into the round, convex surveillance mirror on the ceiling, to see long, golden hair and a long, loose floral dress; Jonah and his comb-over; and a spinning display of mini-bags of crisps—or chips, or whatever they were—lying on its side near the register. A lot of the bags had burst from the weight of the rack, which was in pieces. The woman was crying. Jonah, now, was yelling. “You’re paying for all that, you little bitch. If I have to take it out in trade!” In four long strides, Chibs came around the shelves and faced the scene. “Jonah.” Apparently, Jonah had forgotten Chibs was in the store, or he had never noticed. Now, he paled and took a step back. “Chibs. Hey.” Chibs walked up to the counter, stepping over the mess, and set his two bottles of Jameson down. Then he turned to the woman, who was getting control of her tears and eyeing him suspiciously. He pulled his prepay out and handed it to her. “Make your call, lass.” Her hands dropped away from her face, and she goggled at him, her eyes—deep blue, like sapphires—wide with shock. She had a spray of freckles over her nose and cheekbones. She was really quite lovely, despite the tears. Chibs’ eyes traveled downward. She was wearing a long, brown cardigan and a dress that looked like a big, flowered sack, so he had no idea if the body matched that lovely face. 2 “What?” He shook the phone a little. “Make your call. It’s alright.” She turned a bright, wide smile on him then—oh, really lovely it was—and took the phone from him. With a little nod toward the other side of the store, she silently asked if she could step away for some privacy. Chibs nodded and watched her go over to the chilled beers. He turned back to Jonah. “What d’we owe ya for the crisps—chips?” The old man looked at him over his trifocals. “We? Chibs, she’s just a drifter.” “How much?” He wasn’t in the mood to converse with the old fuck. He wasn’t sure himself why he was rescuing the damsel in the ugly dress, but he didn’t need to clear it with a sad case working second shift at a booze shop. “She broke the display, too. 200 bucks.” Not deigning to respond, Chibs peeled five twenties off his wad and laid them on the counter. “She’s even.” Jonah opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again after a good look at Chibs. After a pause, he found his balls and pointed to the bottles of Jameson. “What about the booze?” Chibs peeled two more twenties and set them down on the pile of bills. “Now I’m even, too.” He grabbed the bottles and turned away from the counter, almost clocking his distressed damsel, who’d come up behind him. New tears in her eyes and more worry on her face, she held out his prepay with a brave but faulty smile. “Thanks, really. That was so nice of you.” He took his phone and slid it back into his pocket. “No worries, lass. Everything sorted?” “Um, sure. I just have to—” She nodded toward Jonah. “No, lass. That’s sorted, too.” He smiled, and he saw her notice the scars bisecting his cheeks. She dropped her eyes as if she realized she’d been staring. “That’s—I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” “Welcome. You have a good night, love.” He took his fine Irish whiskey and headed out to his bike. There was an older station wagon, a Ford Taurus, mid-90s or so, parked in the lot near his Dyna. The back was packed to the roof. He put the Jameson in his saddlebags, and swung his leg over his bike. As he was putting his helmet on, his damsel came out and went to the beater Taurus. He watched, interested, as she opened the door to the back seat and leaned in. 3 There was a kid sleeping on the seat—a little girl. Chibs could see long, honey-blonde hair and a bit of a pink top. As he watched, his damsel fell to a squat just outside the car and put her head on the seat next to the child’s head. She was crying again. Clearly, big drama was happening over there. Drama Chibs didn’t need. He had plenty of his own. His best call was to head to his flat and proceed with his plan to drink until he forgot he’d ever known a woman named Fiona Larkin. He took off his helmet and dismounted. She didn’t notice him coming up on her, and when he bent down and put his hand on her back, saying, “Lass,” she almost leapt straight out of that ugly dress. “What do you want?” She stood and put herself between him and the little girl still sleeping, but beginning to stir, on the back seat. He hadn’t expected the belligerent tone. She was his damsel, after all. He’d done nothing but rescue her thus far. “Nothing. Just looks like you need some help.” “Well, I don’t. Thank you for what you did in there, but we’re fine now. Thanks, really.” She was tucked backwards between the car and the door, holding onto the door, protecting the kid like a mama bear. Chibs had had enough of a glimpse inside to know that they weren’t on a road trip. They were living in that station wagon. “I don’t mean to overstep, lass, but you look a fair stretch from fine.