Chapter 10 : Routine and Restlessness
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — March 15, 2008, 11:30 AM]
The wrench slipped.
Steel bit into my palm, slicing deep enough to see white before the blood welled up. I dropped the tool, grabbed a shop rag, applied pressure automatically.
"Shit." Half-Sack appeared at my shoulder. "That looks bad."
"Just a cut."
"Dude, I can see bone."
I looked. He was exaggerating, but not by much. The gash ran from the base of my thumb to the heel of my hand, edges already going red and angry.
"I'll get it stitched."
"St. Thomas?"
"Unless you've got a needle and thread."
He laughed, nervous. "Gemma's gonna be pissed. We're already short-staffed."
"Gemma can bill me later."
I grabbed my jacket with my good hand and headed for the bike.
---
[St. Thomas Hospital ER — 12:15 PM]
The emergency room smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee. I checked in, gave the receptionist my insurance information—fake, but good fake—and settled into a plastic chair to wait.
Forty minutes later, a familiar voice called my name.
"Cole Ashford?"
Sarah Cole stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, professional mask firmly in place. Her eyes flicked to my bloody rag, back to my face.
"You again."
"Me again."
She led me to an examination room, gestured at the table. I sat. She pulled on gloves with practiced efficiency.
"Let me see."
I unwrapped the rag. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but the wound gaped when I moved my fingers.
"Wrench slip?"
"Yeah."
"You need stitches." She turned to gather supplies—suture kit, anesthetic, gauze. "Going to hurt."
"I'll manage."
The needle went in. I focused on the ceiling, counting tiles, while she worked.
"So," she said, not looking up. "TM mechanic. Support shirt I saw in your file says you're moving up in the world."
"Just helping out."
"Helping out." Her tone was flat. "That's what they all say."
"What do they usually mean?"
"Nothing good." She tied off a stitch, started another. "I've worked this ER for three years. I know what SAMCRO-adjacent looks like. The injuries, the stories that don't add up."
"My story adds up. Wrench slipped."
"This time."
We sat in silence while she finished. Seven stitches total, neat and professional.
"Keep it clean and dry. Come back in ten days to get them out." She stripped off her gloves. "Unless you end up here sooner for something worse."
"What if I just want to see you again?"
She paused at the door. "Then buy a coffee like a normal person."
"Is that an invitation?"
"It's a suggestion." She almost smiled. Almost. "Ask again sometime, Cole. When you're not bleeding."
She walked out.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: SARAH COLE — WARMING (22)]
I flexed my bandaged hand. Worth seven stitches.
---
[Teller-Morrow Rooftop — March 22, 2008, 9:30 PM]
The roof access was technically off-limits. Half-Sack had shown me the ladder two weeks ago.
We sat on the tar paper, legs dangling over the edge, watching Charming's lights flicker below. Two beers each, conversation drifting.
"You ever think about what you'd be doing?" Half-Sack asked. "If you hadn't ended up here?"
Rotting in a grave on I-5. Or whatever happened to the real Cole Ashford's body.
"Not really. This is where I am."
"Yeah, but like..." He gestured with his bottle. "Before the Army. Before everything. What did you want to be?"
"I don't remember."
"Come on."
"Seriously." I took a pull from my beer. "Some people know what they want from the start. I just... moved. One thing to the next. Ended up here."
Half-Sack nodded slowly. "I was gonna be an engineer. Before Iraq."
"What kind?"
"Mechanical. Wanted to design cars. Like, real design work. The kind of stuff that ends up in museums someday."
"What happened?"
"Roadside bomb happened." He laughed, bitter. "Lost more than my testicle out there. Lost whatever made me think the future was real."
We drank in silence.
"The club though," he continued. "That's different. These guys, they're not planning for some fantasy future. They're living now. Every day could be the last, so make it count."
"Sounds exhausting."
"Sounds honest." He looked at me. "Why'd you come here, Cole? Really?"
To save a woman from dying in her husband's arms. To stop a chain of tragedies that'll tear this family apart.
"Looking for something that felt real."
"Did you find it?"
I thought about it. The grease under my fingernails. The weight of the support shirt. The stitches in my palm from a moment of carelessness.
"Getting there."
---
[Charming Main Street — March 28, 2008, 7:45 PM]
The Nords were getting bolder.
I spotted them outside the grocery store—three of them this time, Aryan ink visible, harassing a Mexican family loading groceries into their car. The family kept their heads down, moved fast, drove away without incident.
But the Nords stayed. Watching. Marking territory.
I remembered the two I'd beaten outside TM. The tall one with the broken ribs, the short one with the shattered wrist. They'd promised retaliation. So far, nothing had come.
They're building to something. Waiting for the right moment.
I passed them without acknowledgment. Their eyes tracked me, recognized the support shirt, looked away.
At the diner, I grabbed a booth near the window. The waitress brought coffee without asking—I'd become a regular.
The radio behind the counter crackled with news. Something about federal activity in Northern California. ATF operations. Gun trafficking investigations.
My stomach tightened.
It's starting.
The show's timeline was approaching. Stahl would appear soon. The frame job on Opie. Donna's death. Everything I'd come here to prevent.
Six months. Maybe less.
I stirred my coffee, watching the Nords through the window. They'd moved on, drifting toward their bikes.
The waitress refilled my cup. "You look worried."
"Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit in this town."
She wasn't wrong.
I finished my coffee, left cash on the table, and headed home.
The radio news followed me out the door. Federal investigations. Tightening noose. The machinery of destruction beginning to turn.
Stay invisible. Stay useful. Stay alive.
The bike roared beneath me as I rode into the gathering dark.
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