Chapter 9 : The Audition
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — March 1, 2008, 8:15 PM]
The party was different tonight.
Same clubhouse, same music, same smoke curling toward the ceiling. But the crowd had changed. Suits mixed with kuttes. Pressed shirts beside leather vests. Men who looked like they'd never touched a motorcycle standing next to men who'd kill for one.
I circulated along the edges, beer in hand, watching the ecosystem operate.
Chief Unser held court near the bar, face flushed, laughing too loud at something Bobby said. Two weeks ago he'd eyed me on the street like a suspicious cop. Tonight he was three sheets to the wind, uniform unbuttoned, pretending he belonged with outlaws.
The arrangement. SAMCRO keeps drugs out of Charming, Unser looks the other way on everything else.
A businessman I didn't recognize was talking to Clay, gestures animated. Something about zoning permits. Clay nodded along, expression patient, the look of a king granting audience.
Gemma moved through it all like a shark through still water. Touching arms, whispering secrets, keeping the machinery running.
[OBSERVATION MODE: +10% SOCIAL PERCEPTION]
The notification flickered. I let it work, cataloguing faces, relationships, the invisible threads connecting everyone in the room.
"You're thinking too loud."
Jax appeared at my shoulder, fresh beer in each hand. He offered one.
"Just watching."
"Watching what?"
How the sausage gets made. How power flows through rooms like this.
"How it all fits together."
Jax smiled—that knowing look he got when someone said something smarter than expected. "Most people just see a party."
"Most people aren't paying attention."
"And you are?"
"Always."
He clinked his bottle against mine. "That's gonna make you useful or dangerous. Haven't decided which."
"Your mom said something similar."
"She's usually right." He drifted away toward Opie, who'd claimed a corner booth and was nursing a whiskey like it had personally offended him.
I kept circulating. Listening. Learning.
---
Unser made his move around ten.
The chief stumbled toward the exit, keys jangling in his hand. His face had gone from flushed to sweating, and his steps traced a zigzag pattern across the floor.
Nobody moved to stop him. The club members were focused on business. The civilians didn't know their place. And Unser was too proud—or too drunk—to ask for help.
A cop leaving a biker party, plastered, in uniform. The headlines write themselves.
I intercepted him three steps from the door.
"Chief. Let me call you a ride."
His head swung toward me, eyes struggling to focus. "Who the hell are you?"
"Cole. We met on the street a couple weeks back."
"Don't need a ride." He tried to push past. I didn't move.
"Your wife would probably disagree."
Something in his face shifted. The mention of his wife cut through the fog, found whatever was left of the responsible man underneath.
"I'm fine to drive."
"No sir. You're not."
We stood there for a moment, two men in a doorway, the party swirling behind us. Unser's jaw worked. Pride warred with survival.
Pride lost.
"Back room," I said quietly. "Coffee and a phone. Nobody has to know."
He let me guide him through a service door, down a hallway, into what looked like a storage space converted to an overflow room. I found a chair, sat him down, went to get coffee from the kitchen.
When I came back, he was staring at his hands.
"How'd you know about my wife?"
"Small town. People talk."
"Yeah." He took the coffee, didn't drink it. "Camille worries. Says I spend too much time with the wrong people."
"She's probably right."
His laugh was bitter. "Son, everyone in Charming spends time with the wrong people. The only question is which wrong people."
I found the phone on a side table, dialed the number he gave me. Camille answered on the second ring, sounding tired and unsurprised.
Twenty minutes later, a sedan pulled up outside. Unser handed me his keys without being asked.
"Give these to Clay. He'll get my car back tomorrow."
"Yes sir."
He paused at the door, really looking at me for the first time.
"Cole, right? The mechanic who fought those Nords."
"That's me."
"You're smarter than you look." It wasn't exactly a compliment. "That's dangerous in Charming."
"So I keep hearing."
He walked out to meet his wife. The sedan pulled away.
I stood in the empty back room, keys in my pocket, processing what had just happened.
Unser owes me now. A cop who owes a favor to a SAMCRO-adjacent civilian.
The system pulsed.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: WAYNE UNSER — GRATEFUL (35)]
I pocketed the notification and went to find Clay.
---
He was in the chapel with Bobby, door cracked open.
I knocked once, waited.
"Come."
The chapel was smaller than it looked on TV. Redwood table, carved reaper, leather chairs arranged for democracy that rarely happened. Clay sat at the head. Bobby to his right.
I handed over Unser's keys. "Chief needed a ride home. His wife picked him up."
Clay turned the keys over in his hand. "You handle that yourself?"
"Nobody else was moving."
"And you didn't think to get someone? One of us?"
"Didn't seem necessary. Quiet problem, quiet solution."
Bobby made a sound—something between a grunt and approval. Clay's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted.
"Sit down, Cole."
I sat.
Clay leaned back, fingers steepled. "Bobby and I have been talking. You've been here, what, three weeks?"
"About that."
"In that time, you've handled Nords, run errands, saved a woman's life, and now you've just prevented our arrangement with the local PD from becoming a very public embarrassment." He paused. "That's not mechanic work."
"No sir."
"You want to be more than a mechanic?"
The question hung in the air. The answer would change everything.
"I want to be useful."
"To who?"
To the people you're going to destroy. To the woman who'll die in Opie's arms. To everyone who doesn't know the tragedy that's coming.
"To the club."
Clay studied me. Bobby studied me. Two men who'd seen everything, survived everything, deciding whether I was worth the investment.
"We've got a system," Bobby said finally. "Hang-around first. Then prospect. Then, if you earn it, full patch. Most guys take years."
"I'm not most guys."
"No." Clay's smile was thin. "You're not."
He stood, extended his hand.
"Welcome to the family, Cole. You're an official hang-around as of tonight. That means you can wear the support shirt, attend some events, help out when we need it. You're not a prospect yet—that requires a vote. But you're on the path."
I shook his hand. Firm grip, eye contact, the ritual of men sealing agreements.
[RANK ACHIEVED: HANG-AROUND] [+100 EXP | +75 REPUTATION] [LEVEL UP: 2 → 3]
The notifications cascaded. I pushed them aside, focused on the moment.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Clay released my hand. "Being close to us isn't safe. People get hurt. People die. You sure you want this?"
People are going to get hurt anyway. At least this way I have a chance to stop it.
"I'm sure."
"Then we'll talk soon. Bobby'll get you sorted with a shirt." He nodded toward the door. "Party's still going. Enjoy it while you can."
Dismissed. But not diminished.
Bobby walked me out, handed me a black shirt from a closet near the bar. White letters on the back: SONS OF ANARCHY SUPPORTER.
"Wear it with respect," he said. "That shirt means something."
"I know."
He clapped my shoulder once and headed back to the chapel.
I stood alone in the hallway, support shirt in my hands.
Two weeks. From stranger to hang-around in two weeks.
The timeline was ahead of schedule. The pieces were moving faster than expected.
Now comes the hard part. Now comes the waiting.
I walked outside, past the party, past the parking lot, into the cool March night.
The stars were bright above Charming. The same stars that had watched over this town for a hundred years, indifferent to the violence and betrayal and love that played out beneath them.
I didn't ride home. I walked, shirt tucked under my arm, processing the weight of what I'd just accepted.
Three months until the show started.
Nine months until Donna died.
Eighteen until Half-Sack.
The clock was ticking.
I walked until my feet ached and the clubhouse was a distant glow behind me. Then I walked some more.
You're inside now. Inside the walls. Inside the family.
Now you have to save them from themselves.
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