Chapter 17 : Coffee and Consequences
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — May 9, 2008, 11:30 AM]
Friday arrived like a complication.
I had prospect duties scheduled all day—van maintenance, supply run, afternoon guard rotation. No time for personal errands, and definitely no time for coffee dates with nurses who deserved better than what I was becoming.
But Sarah had texted. And if I stood her up, there wouldn't be a second chance.
I found Bobby in the clubhouse, going over paperwork. He looked up when I knocked on the doorframe.
"Need something, prospect?"
"Two hours personal time. This afternoon."
His eyebrows rose. "Personal? That's not really a prospect word."
"I know. But I'm asking anyway."
He set down his pen, leaned back. "Must be important."
"It is."
"Give me a reason."
I considered lying. Making up a doctor's appointment, a family emergency. But Bobby had a nose for bullshit, and honesty had gotten me this far.
"Woman. Not a croweater. Someone I met before I prospected."
His expression shifted—amusement cutting through suspicion.
"A woman." He laughed. "Well, shit. Here I thought you were all business."
"Mostly am."
"Two hours?"
"Should be enough."
He considered it. I could see the calculation—prospect obligations versus human needs, club discipline versus the understanding that men were men.
"Fine. Two hours, starting at 1:30. Be back by 3:30, no excuses." He pointed a finger. "And don't make me regret it."
"Thank you."
"Thank me by not screwing up tonight's run." He returned to his paperwork. "Now get out of here and go clean something."
---
[Main Street Coffee — 2:00 PM]
I arrived on time, kutte still on.
No time to change, no opportunity to present a different version of myself. Sarah would see Cole Ashford the prospect, not Cole Ashford the civilian.
Maybe that's better. No pretense.
She was already there, seated at a corner table, coffee in hand. She saw me enter, watched me cross the room, her expression carefully neutral.
"You made it."
"Said I would."
I sat across from her. The table was small—our knees almost touching beneath it.
"Nice jacket." Her tone was dry. "Very subtle."
"Didn't have time to change. Prospect duties."
"Right." She wrapped her hands around her cup. "The glamorous life of organized crime."
"Something like that."
The coffee shop hummed around us. Other customers typing on laptops, couples chatting, the barista calling out orders. Normal life happening while we navigated something far from normal.
"I grew up here," Sarah said. "My whole life. I know what that patch means."
"What does it mean?"
"Violence. Drugs. Guns." She held up a hand, stopping my protest. "Don't bother denying it. Everyone in Charming knows the deal. SAMCRO keeps the town clean—their version of clean—and in exchange, everyone looks the other way."
"That's the arrangement."
"And you're part of it now. Or will be, if you make it through." She studied me across the table. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why join something like this? You're not stupid, Cole. You're not some desperate kid with no options. So why choose this life?"
Because I know what's coming. Because I'm trying to save people you don't even know. Because without a seat at the table, I can't change anything.
"The club is a family. Found family, maybe, but family." I chose words carefully. "I spent a long time without one. This is the first time in years I've felt like I belonged somewhere."
"That's a nice speech."
"It's not a speech. It's the truth."
She sipped her coffee, still watching me. "My father was a mechanic. Worked at TM for ten years before he retired. He told me about the club—how they operated, what they did, who they were."
"What did he think of them?"
"He respected them. Feared them too, a little." She set down her cup. "But he also said something I never forgot. 'They protect their own. Whatever else they are, whatever they do, they protect their own.'"
"He was right."
"Maybe." She leaned back. "Here's the thing, Cole. I'm not looking to date a criminal. I'm not interested in being some biker's old lady, waiting at home while he does God knows what with God knows who."
"I'm not asking for that."
"Then what are you asking for?"
The question hung between us.
"A chance," I said. "To show you who I actually am. Not the kutte, not the prospect bullshit. Just me."
"And who are you?"
A man from another world. A ghost wearing someone else's skin. A desperate fool trying to rewrite a tragedy.
"Someone who's trying to be good in a complicated situation."
"That's vague."
"It's honest." I met her eyes. "I won't pretend the club is something it isn't. But I won't pretend I'm something I'm not, either. You asked if I was a good person. I don't know. But I'm trying to be."
Sarah was quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," she said finally. "Here's the deal. I'm not ready to date you. Not officially. But I'm also not walking away."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we keep having coffee. We talk. I watch who you are when you think nobody's watching." She smiled—small, guarded. "Let me see the real Cole Ashford. No pitch, no agenda. Just the person."
"That works for me."
"Good." She stood, gathering her things. "Next week, same time. Don't be late."
She walked out. I sat there, coffee untouched, processing.
Not a date. Not a rejection. Something in between.
Progress is progress.
---
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — 3:41 PM]
I was eleven minutes late.
Bobby was waiting in the garage, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Traffic?"
"Traffic."
"Uh huh." He studied me for a moment. "She worth it?"
I thought about Sarah's honest eyes. Her directness. The way she'd set terms without cruelty.
"Yeah. She is."
"Good." He uncrossed his arms. "Now get back to work. We've got a run tonight and the bikes need checking."
I got back to work.
That evening, cleaning the clubhouse after dinner service, Half-Sack found me grinning.
"What's with you?" He dropped onto the couch. "You've been smiling all day. It's weird."
"Good coffee."
"Must have been amazing coffee."
I didn't elaborate. Some things were worth keeping private.
But the smile stayed.
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