Chapter 2 : First Impressions
The gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled into Teller-Morrow's lot. Four bikes parked near the clubhouse, chrome catching sunlight. Three mechanics worked in the open bays—coveralls, grease stains, the clang of wrenches on metal.
Normal garage. Nothing criminal about a fan belt getting replaced.
I parked the Softail at the edge of the lot. Removed my helmet. The afternoon heat wrapped around me like a wet blanket.
A woman emerged from the office door.
Silver-streaked hair pulled back tight. Dark eyes scanning me before I'd taken three steps. Jeans, boots, a tank top that showed arms toned by years of work. Gemma Teller-Morrow. Matriarch. The queen behind the throne.
She didn't smile.
"Help you?"
Her voice carried across the lot, sharp enough to cut glass. The mechanics kept working, but their movements slowed. Ears tuned to the conversation.
I walked toward her, keeping my hands visible. No sudden movements. Gemma wasn't someone you surprised.
"Looking for work." I stopped six feet away. Respectful distance. "Heard you run a good shop."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Oakland. Couple guys said TM does solid work."
"Got names for these guys?"
"Eddie Martinez. Ran a chop shop near the docks until the feds shut him down." The lie came easily. Eddie was real—I'd read about him in a Sons of Anarchy wiki, some minor character mentioned in passing. "He said if I needed to disappear for a while, Charming was the place."
Gemma's eyes narrowed. "Disappear from what?"
"Nothing that'll follow me here." I met her stare. "Just need a fresh start. I'm good with engines, and I don't ask questions I don't want answered."
Silence stretched between us. A wrench clanged somewhere behind me. A bird called from the power lines.
Gemma's lips twitched. Not a smile—more like amusement at a bad joke.
"You got a name?"
"Cole. Cole Ashford."
"Got ID?"
I pulled the wallet, handed over the license. She examined it for a long moment, memorizing the details. Oakland address. Probably already planning to have someone check it out.
"You know what this place is?" She gestured at the clubhouse behind her. "What goes on here?"
"I know you fix cars." I kept my voice neutral. "Whatever else happens isn't my business unless someone makes it my business."
"Smart answer." She handed the license back. "Maybe too smart."
"I've learned not to be stupid."
Another silence. Gemma chewed her lip, calculating. I could almost see the gears turning—new guy, convenient timing, useful skills, potential threat.
She pointed at a pickup truck on the lift, hood open. "That's got transmission problems. Owner needs it by end of day. Fix it, and we'll talk about whether you've got a job."
I nodded and walked toward the truck.
Behind me, I heard her footsteps retreating to the office. She'd be watching. Probably making calls. Gemma didn't trust anyone she couldn't control, and she couldn't control someone she didn't understand.
Let her look. The background will hold.
Cole Ashford's history was thin but real. Oakland address, no criminal record, no family ties worth mentioning. The system had dropped me into an empty vessel—convenient for a fresh start.
I grabbed a creeper from the tool rack and slid under the truck.
The transmission was leaking fluid from a cracked seal. Basic repair, but time-consuming. Drain the fluid, remove the pan, replace the seal, refill and test. Two hours if I worked steady.
[SKILL DETECTED: MECHANICAL APTITUDE]
[PASSIVE ENHANCEMENT ACTIVE: +15% repair efficiency]
The blue text flickered in my peripheral vision. I ignored it, focused on the work. The system could boost my abilities, but I needed to prove competence without looking superhuman.
Slow down. Don't finish too fast.
An hour in, a shadow fell across the concrete.
"New guy?"
I slid out from under the truck. A young man stood there—early twenties, nervous energy, half a beard growing in patchy. He wore a prospect cut, the bottom rocker missing a full patch.
Kip Epps. Half-Sack.
"Cole." I offered a grease-stained hand. He shook it.
"Lowell usually handles the hard stuff, but he's out today. Gemma sent me to check on you."
"Transmission seal. Nothing complicated."
Half-Sack crouched beside me, peering at the open pan. "Yeah, I've done a few of those. Pain in the ass when the gasket sticks."
"Haven't gotten there yet."
He nodded, rocking on his heels. Eager for conversation, starved for someone who'd treat him like an equal. The full patches had a way of making prospects feel invisible.
"So you're from Oakland?"
"Lived there a couple years." The lie was becoming automatic. "Before that, nowhere special."
"I'm from Nevada. Came out here after..." He trailed off, glanced at his crotch. "After Iraq."
Right. The testicle.
"Rough deployment?"
"IED." He shrugged with practiced casualness. "Lost some things. Found some others. The club's been good to me."
"How long you been prospecting?"
"Eight months. They're voting on me soon. Maybe." He didn't sound confident.
I slid back under the truck. "What's the holdup?"
"Need to prove myself, I guess. It's not like patching in comes easy. You gotta earn it."
"Makes sense."
Half-Sack lingered, shifting his weight. "You thinking about prospecting? Eventually?"
"Just got here. Worry about the job first."
"Smart." He laughed, a little too loud. "I gotta get back. Gemma's got me running errands all day. But hey—if you need anything, I'm around."
"Appreciate it."
His footsteps retreated. I tightened a bolt, listening to the garage sounds settle back to normal.
Half-Sack would die in eighteen months. Cameron Hayes, mad with grief over his son, would stab him in the chest while trying to kidnap Abel Teller.
Unless I stop it.
The wrench slipped. I caught it before it clattered against the frame.
Focus. One thing at a time.
I finished the transmission repair in just under two hours. The truck ran smooth, no leaks, no grinding. I cleaned my hands with a rag from the tool bench and walked toward the office.
Gemma intercepted me at the door.
"Lowell checked your work." Her voice was flat, unreadable. "Says it's solid."
"Had a good teacher."
"You've got a week." She handed me a folded TM work shirt. "Show up at eight, leave when I tell you. You cause problems, you're gone. Clear?"
"Crystal."
She stared at me for a long moment. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it.
"There's a motel on Third Street. Monthly rates. Tell them Gemma sent you."
"Thanks."
I turned to go. Her voice stopped me.
"Cole."
I looked back.
"People come to Charming for a reason. Most of those reasons aren't good." She tilted her head. "What's yours?"
To save people you love from dying. To stop the tragedy before it starts.
"Just want to work."
She didn't believe me. I didn't expect her to.
But she let me walk away.
---
The sun was setting when I finished my first day. Orange light painted the garage bays, turning chrome into gold. The mechanics had gone home. Half-Sack was sweeping the lot.
I found a spot behind the dumpster, lit a cigarette I'd bought from the gas station. The smoke tasted like ash and regret.
A stray dog appeared from the shadows. Mangy thing, ribs showing, one ear torn. It sniffed the air, watching me with suspicious eyes.
I pulled a piece of jerky from my pocket—leftover from the gas station stop—and tossed it over.
The dog ate fast, ready to run. When the food was gone, it looked at me again, then slipped back into the darkness without acknowledgment.
No loyalty earned. Just a moment.
The rumble of Harleys drew my attention. Three bikes pulled into the lot, headlights cutting through dusk. The riders parked near the clubhouse—cuts visible, patches gleaming.
Jax Teller led them. I recognized the blonde hair, the confident stride. Behind him, two others—one with facial scars, one built like a linebacker.
Chibs and Bobby.
They didn't notice me in the shadows. Walked straight into the clubhouse, laughter echoing behind them.
In three months, everything changes. Donna dies. Opie breaks. The betrayals start piling up until there's no one left standing.
I crushed the cigarette under my boot.
One week to prove myself. Then a year to earn trust. Then a chance—just a chance—to change what came next.
The clubhouse door swung shut.
I walked to my bike, helmet in hand, and started the long search for a place to sleep.
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