The Scotsman - Chibs Telford Fanfiction
Welcome to Chapter 4 ♡ This one is a little bigger, hope you enjoy it ♡ I'm still learning how to make this whole thing aesthetically pleasing, so... bear with me, hehe.
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EARLY MORNING LIGHT shines on your face and wakes you up, but it takes a minute to register that you're not at home. Blinking slowly, you contemplate all that went wrong in the last couple of months — just an avalanche of terrible calls. You're often standing right at the edge of the abyss with an insatiable itch to jump right into it.
Your new life is waiting downstairs, but you don't feel ready to embrace it yet.
In desperate need of a shower, you glance around the room. It's neater than you expected. Everything seems to have a place, from the clothes draped over a chair to the classic books arranged on top of a dresser. The thin layer of dust on the furniture suggests that this room hasn't been used in a while, though.
There's a locket necklace on the nightstand, and you are drawn to it. There's a baby picture on the left side, and on the other side is a name: Kerrianne. You sit back down on the bed and stare heavily at the smiling baby.
You have been so consumed with your own self-pity that you didn't even consider that these men might have an actual life outside of the club. A family. Chibs got shot at to protect your life, and maybe he has a kid, perhaps even a wife, waiting for him at home.
You put the necklace back where you found it.
A strange sense of disappointment washes over you with the thought of him having someone. You shouldn't care about that — you can't let yourself care. You shouldn't even be here.
After a warm, head-clearing shower, you change into a lacey blue cami and the same low-rise jeans from yesterday. Comfortable enough for the time being.
Your hand closes around the door handle. With a long breath, you fill your chest with air and pull the door open. The hallway is quiet and empty, but there's light noise coming from downstairs.
And just as you reach the last steps, you're met with piercing blue eyes. Tig, if you remember correctly. He's in the kitchen, shirt with buttons undone and messy bed hair, putting himself a cup of coffee.
"Mornin' sweetheart,"— He greets you. You don't really know how to feel about him, especially when his eyes glaze over your figure with no real effort to be discreet. — "Want some coffee?"
Scouting the room, you see empty bottles scattered over the tables and floors. On the couch, Bobby is fast asleep, one leg thrown over the cushion and an arm draped over his face. A prospect you haven't met yet is sweeping the floors, a rag tossed over his shoulder that he uses to clean up the tables.
"Yeah," — You answer in a low tone, not wanting to wake anyone up. Tig places a steaming coffee cup in front of you, and you thank him with a small nod.
"Don't worry about him," — He says, pointing his chin towards Bobby and going around the kitchen area to sit on a barstool. — "Bobby sleeps like the dead and snores like a dog."
He taps his palm over the seat next to him, silently inviting you to take it. The gesture seems harmless enough, so you accept it. He flips through the paper in silence while you nurse your coffee.
"Where's everyone?" — You choose to break the silence with a question. You can't help but let your eyes instinctively search the room for a certain someone.
Tig shrugs. — "Home. Some are still upstairs. Some are out working for the TM."
Home with their families or working a regular day job — it all sounds so casual and normal that you almost forget they're dangerous outlaws.
But then you don't. Not when your apartment was torn to pieces by guys like them. You don't even want to think about what would've happened had you been home.
"What's your story?" — Tig pulls you away from those thoughts.
A wrinkle forms in the center of your forehead. — "I'm sure you know my story," — You mutter. — "I'm sure I wouldn't be here if you didn't."
He shows a half-smirk, shaking his head. — "No. I just know you got in bed with the Mayans. But I'm curious to know why and how a small little thing like you got tangled in this mess."
You avoid looking at his eyes — it's clear he doesn't trust you and is suspicious of your intentions. It makes you feel uneasy and vulnerable to know he's trying to read through you.
It's an uncomfortable feeling. Your mouth opens, but you're not sure what to say. As if to rescue you, the clubhouse's door opens, and Juice comes in with two laptops under his arm and a backpack full of tech equipment.
"Hey," — Juice says, putting down the gear over a clean table and starting to set up what seems like a work station. Then, he looks over at you like he's waiting on you, one eyebrow raised. — "How'd you like to make yourself useful and earn your keep?"
You blink twice and then straighten up. This is your chance to get out of that conversation. — "I'd like that very much, actually," — You chirp, honest and quick, walking toward him. — "Might as well keep myself busy. What do you need?"
Juice keeps a tight posture and a serious face, but his eyes are soft when he looks at you. Something about his aura makes you feel he has a good and kind nature underneath all that leather.
"I need a lot," — He exhales while running a hand over his almost-bald head. — "Like... a whole fucking lot. My hands are full. I need to set up new security systems for our businesses, especially for Diosa in Stockton." — You sit next to him and study what's happening on his screen. He looks down at you for a second, a hint of tease in his expression. — "I figured you'd be the perfect person to help me, considering you broke into and tore down the last system."
You feel comfortable enough to roll your eyes at him, arms crossed at your chest. Your fingers are itching to tackle the keyboard. — "Are you gonna keep throwing that in my face all day?" — A half-smirk creeps up on his face while he types. — "I didn't tear it down, I maneuvered around it. That was my mistake. And by the way, pay attention because I don't give out compliments often; it was actually harder than I expected. It was tight. But I guess I'm just that good."
It's Juice's turn to roll his eyes, but you notice him fighting against an actual smile. He slides the other laptop toward you, and immediately, your hands gently slide over the keys in anticipation.
"Just get to work, smartass."
You and Juice fall into a comfortable work rhythm. It's a race against the clock when it comes to security, but the greatest mistake is often carelessly rushing into it, so you strive to keep a steady pace.
The job is not hard in itself, especially with two brains concentrated on the task, but it takes a lot of programming, testing, and tweaking. It's a game of strategy and logic — almost like a puzzle.
All the pieces have to fit flawlessly for it to work. For a system to be secure, you need to foresee and prepare against every breach and error possible. And that takes time and patience.
"Didn't think I'd see ye up this early."
You freeze for a quick second, and then you glance over your shoulder. Chibs stands behind you and to your right, hands in his pockets, hair brushed back. There's something disarming about the way he looks at you: like he's trying to figure out what version of you he's seeing this morning.
"I was put to work," — You shrug.
A faint smirk curves the corner of his mouth. — "Aye, Juicy Boy's good at collectin' favors."
Juice doesn't look up from the screen. — "Don't blame me, brother. She's as good as they come."
"Is that so?" — Chibs' gaze flickers to you.
"Ah, what can I say? We all have our talents," — You try him with a small smile, and you swear there's a hint of warmth in his eyes when he walks past to grab himself a cup of coffee.
༊
By late afternoon, you've made good progress and have gone through some of the main key points Juice had laid out for the job. Hours flew by, and you didn't even notice. You never do when you're deep in that zone — you just want to reach the peak.
You double-check your work one last time before shutting off the laptop. Juice is half-asleep on the couch, a joint between his lips, saying something about food and dinner.
The rest of the club is rolling into the clubhouse. It soon turns into a sea of leather, as you understand there's been a patch over of a club into SAMCRO. The place is certainly getting ready for a party as booze starts getting passed around.
A woman has taken over the kitchen. Gemma, Jax's mom. She greeted you with a "hi baby" when she came through the door, recognizing you from when you were a child, but there was a careful, dark twist in her expression when she eyed you.
Everyone was always terrified of Gemma and her presence. But not your mother. They clashed so much and so often that they actually ended up turning friends. Not after Richie's death, though.
Mom became no one's friend after that loss.
There are also a lot of women around. Some are barely wearing any clothes, parading their beauty and assets around with confidence. You heard the guys refer to them as "crow eaters".
The noise builds around you — laughter, music, the sound of bottles clinking. A guy is drinking shots out of a girl's bellybutton, one hand deep in her panties, while she laughs.
You're on your fourth drink. The heat of so many bodies pressed into the same space makes you feel claustrophobic. You laugh at something Kip says, but it's hollow and rushed.
Leaving your empty glass on the counter, you weave your way through the crowd. You cross through the side door, and a wave of cool night air brushes over your flushed skin.
"You're not planning an escape, are ye?" — Chibs says behind you, his voice low and calm. "I'm too drunk to run after ye."
"No running," — you say softly with a shake of your head. — "Just needed some air... and a little less testosterone, you know?"
That earns you a low chuckle from him. — "Aye. Fair enough," — You both stare at the empty parking lot for a moment, the cast of the bikes shining under the moonlight. Then, his tone shifts. — "How're ye holdin' up?"
"Define holding up."
He gives a small hum and takes a sip of the drink. — "This shit is a lot for anyone. Even someone who hides it behind that smart mouth of yours."
You smirk faintly. — "I'm fine. Somehow, I always manage to make it through to the other side."
"Aye?"
"Yeah," — You glance over at him, leaning back against a picnic table and watching him as he does the same, standing beside you. — "My life has always been a collection of bad calls. Wrong moves left and right. A whole scrapbook-worth of 'what the hell was I thinking' moments."
He says nothing, just listens to you.
"And now I'm here. Drinking with the people who could've killed me yesterday and with a target still strapped to my back. So, yeah. I'll just add it to my long list of fuck-ups."
You're turned slightly sideways now, watching his profile. His hand is once again buried in his pocket while the other hugs the neck of the beer bottle. He meets your eyes, and a slow-burning flame grows between you — you know he can feel it too.
"We all have our sins," — he says, low and deliberate.
Your pulse kicks, the heat creeping up the back of your neck. The soft night breeze carries the faint scent of his cologne, smoke, and whiskey. His presence feels close enough to touch, but he hasn't moved an inch.
The alcohol heightens your courage and disarms your inhibition. You take a small step toward him, enough to blur the space that safety demands. His eyes flicker to your mouth, and in a slow move, you reach his arm with your hand and softly tug on the leather of his cut.
"There's always room for one more sin, isn't there?"
Your whispering voice does something to him. He tilts his head and puts the beer down on the table. — "Careful, darlin'," — he says, words issuing a loaded warning. — "You're getting into dangerous territory now."
A smirk curves on your lips and you lean closer. — "Here's the thing about me, Chibs. My one true sin. I crave danger."
His jaw flexes, the struggle evident — loyalty and desire warring in the furrow of his brow. Then he shifts closer, slow enough for you to feel the gravity of it, and then suddenly rounds your waist with his strong arm, pulling you to his warmth.
You huff in surprise, palms pressing against his chest, and a shaky breath escaping through your parted lips. His hand finds the side of your face, rough thumb tracing the corner of your jaw, calloused skin against softness.
He's not kissing you — he's testing your courage. But his rough touch feels like a kiss, a promise of more hanging between breaths.
༊
Weaving back through the crowd is torturous. He waited outside for a couple of seconds to give you a few steps of advantage, but knowing he's following you increases the burning pit in your stomach. Having his eyes on you is hotter than anything you've ever felt before — there's something almost predatory about it, and your twisted mind loves it.
You barely get into his room before he's on you, pressing you harshly against the door, his beard scruff scratching against your neck as he kisses your skin. Your hands tangle into his hair, and you pull him into a kiss.
Long, intense, and thirsty.
A thought gnaws at you from the back of your mind, and you're forced to confront it. — "Wait," — You whisper against his lips, pressing your palms back against his chest to push him away just enough to look at him. You're both out of breath, but there's something in his eyes that says he was waiting for you to break this up. Like you failed his test. But he's certainly not expecting your next question. — "Are you married?"
You want to sink into the floor and cringe to death, but your morals, although poor in most cases, wouldn't let you ignore the elephant in the room. The girls downstairs might not care about getting involved with married men – they're outlaw bikers, maybe not the greatest husbands anyway – but it's a boundary for you.
Chibs tilts his head to the side and wets his lower lip, a hint of amusement growing on his expression. — "Been separated for more than a decade."
You honestly feel relieved about that answer.
"Good," — You breathe out.
"Aye?" — Chibs hums, a smirk now planted in his mouth as he leans forward again, closer to you, and plants his palms against the wood of the door, one to each side of your head, closing you in. — "Anythin' else you'd like to know before we get to it?"
You roll your eyes at him, but there's a red tinge of embarrassment on your cheeks. — "Shut up," — You mutter before clawing at his leather cut and pulling him roughly back to you.
He's stronger than you physically, of course, but he lets you manhandle him for a moment before gripping your waist with rough hands and kissing you deep again.
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