Chapter 7 : Inside the Walls
The party had found its rhythm.
Bobby's guitar work drifted through the smoke-thick air—an Elvis medley that had three croweaters swaying near the bar. Someone had turned down the jukebox to let him play. The man could actually sing, his voice carrying that rough warmth that made you forget you were in a clubhouse full of criminals.
I nursed my beer near the pool tables, watching the room breathe.
Half-Sack materialized at my elbow, gesturing with his bottle toward different corners. "Okay, quick rundown. Bar's obvious. Kitchen's back there—don't eat anything that's been sitting out. Dorm rooms down that hall, but you didn't hear that from me."
"And that corner?" I nodded toward where Tig had disappeared with two women.
"We don't talk about that corner." Half-Sack's face was completely serious. "Ever."
Fair enough.
The croweaters moved through the crowd like fish through water—practiced, purposeful. Some attached themselves to specific members. Others circulated, looking for openings. The hierarchy was visible if you knew how to read it: who got attention, who got ignored, who commanded the space just by existing in it.
Clay held court near the chapel doors, flanked by Bobby and a prospect I didn't recognize. Gemma circled the room, checking on everything without appearing to check on anything. Chibs played pool with a tall woman in a leather skirt, winning easily.
And Jax stood near the bar, talking to someone I hadn't seen before.
Big man. Taller than me, broader through the shoulders, with a beard that hadn't been trimmed in weeks. He wore a kutte with patches I couldn't read from this distance, but his body language screamed discomfort. Like he'd rather be anywhere else.
The door to the outside opened. The big man turned.
Opie Winston.
I knew him instantly—the haunted eyes, the way he held himself apart even in a room full of brothers. He'd just gotten out of Chino. Five years for a crime he'd committed for the club, abandoned by Donna who'd tried to rebuild their life in his absence.
Except Donna was still there. The show hadn't happened yet. The marriage was strained but intact.
And in nine months, Tig's going to shoot her in the head.
My grip tightened on the beer bottle.
Jax waved Opie over, clapped him on the back. The two of them talked—old friends, blood brothers. Jax gestured toward me. Opie's gaze tracked across the room, settled on my face.
I didn't flinch.
They walked over.
"Cole, this is Opie Winston. Brother back from Chino." Jax's voice was warm, but careful. Opie was fragile right now, even if he'd never admit it.
"Heard about you." Opie's voice was low, rough. "The mechanic who handles Nords."
"They handled themselves. I just helped the process."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "Jax says you're Army."
"Few years."
"Where?"
"Kandahar. Before it got bad."
Opie nodded slowly. Something shifted in his expression—recognition, maybe. One soldier acknowledging another.
"Chino teach you anything useful?" I asked.
"How to wait." He took a pull from his beer. "How to watch your back."
"Both good skills."
He studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it—but he didn't find a threat either.
"Clay likes you," he said finally. "That's not always a good thing."
"So I've heard."
Another almost-smile. He turned to Jax, said something I couldn't hear, and the two of them drifted toward the pool tables.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: OPIE WINSTON — WARY (10)]
The notification flickered and faded. I filed it away.
Half-Sack appeared again, impressed. "Dude, Opie actually talked to you. He doesn't talk to anyone."
"We have mutual interests."
"Like what?"
Like the woman I'm trying to save from dying in his arms.
"Staying alive."
---
The commotion started around ten.
Someone screamed outside. Then shouting, confused voices, the sound of running feet.
I pushed through the crowd, beer abandoned, instincts taking over.
A woman was on the ground near the parking lot—one of the croweaters, bottle blonde, early twenties. Blood pooled beneath her head, dark against the concrete. She'd fallen, hit the corner of a planter. Her friends were panicking, screaming, useless.
"Move." I dropped beside her, tilted her head to assess the wound. Scalp laceration, bleeding heavily but not arterial. Skull felt intact. "I need cloth. Clean cloth. Now."
Someone shoved a bar towel into my hands. I pressed it against the wound, applying steady pressure. The woman groaned, tried to sit up.
"Stay down. You hit your head."
"I'm fine—"
"You're bleeding. Stay down."
Half-Sack appeared. "I called 911. Ambulance is coming."
Good. I kept pressure on the wound, talking to the woman—keeping her conscious, watching her pupils for signs of concussion. The crowd had gathered, but they stayed back. Giving me space.
The ambulance arrived in under ten minutes. Blue lights swept across the lot.
The back doors opened and a woman stepped out.
Dark hair pulled back tight. Sharp eyes scanning the scene, cataloguing details before her feet hit the ground. She carried a medical bag with practiced ease, moving toward me with purpose.
"What happened?"
"Fall. Hit her head on the planter. Bleeding's controlled but she lost consciousness briefly."
"How long was she out?"
"Maybe thirty seconds. Responsive since."
She knelt beside me, hands moving efficiently. Penlight to check pupils. Fingers probing the wound. Questions to assess cognition.
"Good pressure application." Her eyes met mine briefly. "Military training?"
"Some."
"It shows." She turned to her partner. "Let's get her loaded. Probable concussion, need a CT to rule out fracture."
They lifted the woman onto a stretcher. I stepped back, hands sticky with blood, watching them work.
The ambulance doors closed. The woman in the uniform paused before climbing into the driver's seat.
"I'm Sarah. St. Thomas ER."
"Cole. TM mechanic."
She didn't smile, but something in her expression softened. Professional acknowledgment of competence.
"You saved us time on that response. Maybe more than time."
"Just did what needed doing."
"That's usually enough." She climbed in, pulled the door shut. The ambulance rolled out, lights still flashing.
I stood in the parking lot, blood drying on my hands, watching her go.
---
The clubhouse bathroom mirror showed a mess.
Blood on my shirt, on my forearms, under my fingernails. I ran the water hot and scrubbed until my skin was pink. The red swirled down the drain—someone else's blood, but my responsibility.
Sarah Cole.
In the show, she was never a major character. A face in the background at St. Thomas, maybe. But the outline had her marked as something more. My future, if I could build it.
And now we'd met. Not planned, not engineered. Just being in the right place when someone needed help.
Better than some elaborate introduction. Real moments mean more.
My reflection stared back—gray-green eyes, lines of exhaustion around them. Two weeks in this world. Already covered in other people's blood.
Welcome to SAMCRO.
I dried my hands. The shirt was ruined—I stripped it off, found a clean one in the lost-and-found behind the bar. It didn't fit quite right, but it would do.
The party was winding down when I emerged. The mood had shifted—the accident had sobered people up, reminded them that reality existed outside these walls.
Jax found me near the exit.
"Chibs told me what you did out there. Kept your head, kept her alive."
"Anyone would have."
"No." His voice was firm. "Most people panic. You didn't." He clapped my shoulder. "That matters here, Cole. Being steady when things go sideways."
"Thanks."
He walked me out to the parking lot. My bike waited where I'd left it, chrome catching the security lights.
"Get some sleep," Jax said. "Week's just starting."
I straddled the Softail, kicked it to life.
Sarah's face stayed with me the whole ride home. Professional, competent, real.
Find a reason to see her again. Natural. Don't force it.
The stars were bright above Charming.
I rode into the dark.
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