Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy.

Alexander "Tig" Trager was not a man of regrets. When shit happened, it just did. There was never any rhyme or reason to it. It just was.

But on a fine fall afternoon, an incident would occur that would spark the mother of all shit storms for the Sons of Anarchy, the repercussions of which could be laid squarely on the Sergeant-at-Arms' doorstep.

It was a relatively easy assignment, delivering a small shipment of MAC-10s bundled in several bedrolls to the President and VP of the Grim Bastards Motorcycle Club, T.O. Cross and Lander Jackson. The Bastards were allies of SAMCRO, the only friendly MC of several operating out of the city of Lodi. T.O. had contacted the Club to place an order for some hardware as there was an influx of other crews into Lodi and they needed the new merch in order to protect their territory. The Bastards were not interested in sharing their pussy and dope trade with anyone else.

Having spent the early afternoon making the run to Lodi with his Prospect, Bobby Munson's youngest son Tiki, the plan had been to head back to Charming after making the drop. They were on their way to the I-22 when Tig's stomach suddenly grumbled in protest.

Abruptly making a u-turn, Tig decided that it might be a good idea to pick up some grub right now, not really feeling like grabbing lunch from Nicky's Diner. "Hey, Prospect!" Tig yelled loudly in order to be heard over the roar of their bikes. "Let's make a pit stop!" It wasn't a request.

Tiki Munson nodded his head.

The 18 year old had been hanging around the Clubhouse since he started riding his father's old chopper at 16. Still, Tiki's chances of prospecting with the Sons were almost slim to none considering that he had been something of a sickly youngster. He had suffered with Asthma throughout his pre-adolescent years and, even though Tiki had managed to outgrow it, he still remained the runt of Bobby's kids.

At 16, however, Tiki hit a grow spurt and added six inches to his height and about fifteen pounds of muscle mass to his frame. Now standing at six feet, four inches taller than his old man, Tiki had grown into his cute baby face and had become something of a new favorite with the sweetbutts and croweaters at the Clubhouse. With thick curly hair like his father and a sexy smile, Tiki was a younger, much sexier and slightly less hairy version of his father. As Clay had put it to Piney, Tiki was very much like his father's idol Elvis Presley, minus a few hundred loaves of banana bread.

With his crazy red-headed rattlesnake of a mother threatening to run warrants on the entire Clubhouse, no one even dared to consider sponsoring Tiki. But even at sweet sixteen, Tiki had proven to be quite a babe magnet and the quality of the pussy hanging around the Clubhouse hadn't been this good since Jax Teller was a single man. Tig could spot talent when he saw it and, impressed by the boy's panty-dropping skills, promised to cut the kid a break. He offered to sponsor Tiki when he became legal, if he could talk his mother into being okay with it.

By the time Tiki had turned 18, he had managed to pick up a little bit of polish from hanging around seasoned bikers and Tig could see the potential in the boy. While his older brothers Aaron and Milo had decided that the Life was not for them, preferring to join the bounty-hunting side of the family along with Precious and her current husband, instead, Tiki embraced the Life eagerly. Precious, desperate to keep at least one of her sons out of the path of danger, tried to steer her youngest towards a career in office equipment repair. Somehow, Tiki wasn't buying his mother's speech regarding hard, honest work paying off in the long run, especially not when the starting salary was minimum wage. If he was going to work hard, then he wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labor while he was still young, making the life of an outlaw biker that much more appealing than that of an office grunt.

In the short time he had been prospecting, Tiki had proven himself a tough as well as smart kid, backing Tig up no matter what and learning the assembly side of SAMCRO's gun-running quicker than most. Never having sponsored anyone before, Tig took his responsibility with Bobby's son quite seriously, determined that the tough little nut would become a Son worthy of his top rocker under his watch or fold like a little bitch. With Tig, there was no gray area.

Tiki followed his sponsor as he pulled in front of a bar and restaurant at the end of Lodi's Restaurant Row. Barely one step above a dive, Tiki noted the sign hanging over the entrance proclaiming it "Tito's World Famous Empanada House & Bar."

Swinging a leg over his bike, Tiki placed his helmet on the handlebars of his father's ancient Harley Davidson Fat Boy. The bike was pretty much on its last legs despite what his father said about it having a few good years left, but Tiki was glad to have it until he could afford to get a bike on his own.

"If you ask me, this place looks like a shit hole." He murmured under his breath. Unfortunately for him, his sponsor heard him.

"Nobody asked you, asshole!" The crazy-eyed biker with black curly hair pointed a finger at the boy-man. "Shows what you know. Just shut up and learn from the best. This place has the finest, most delicious empanadas and enchiladas you ever put in your mouth. I swear, the cook must have floated on his back here straight from over the border. Just opened up a few months back. Come on." Tig headed towards the entrance, with his Prospect falling into step behind him.

Once inside, Tiki had to agree. The establishment was actually slightly better than a shit hole. Slightly. It was pretty much a hole in the wall, but as with most holes in the wall, it wasn't the ambiance that mattered—it was the food and the drinks, which were prime and cheap. Tiki could tell that the older man was right on the money as the smells of spicy meat, salsa and beans and rice assailed his nostrils as soon as they walked in.

It was mid-afternoon, so most of the lunch crowd was gone, but there was a small mix of patrons at the tables, either finishing their meal or taking a beer break at the bar before returning to work.

Plopping himself down on a wooden chair, Tig took a quick glance at the menu before tossing it back on the table. A slight attempt had been made to try and make the dining section of the bar reminiscent of an old-fashioned Mexican-style restaurant. The plastic table cloths, cheesy centerpieces made of dusty silk flowers and posters of Mexican tourist spots against bright orange painted walls looked tacky, but Tig didn't come here for the sights.

Except for the sight making her way over to their table.

Tig raised an eyebrow. Eating some Mexican has taken on a whole new meaning cuz this bitch is looking pretty fuckin' good.

It was well-known among the SAMCRO patches that its SAA had an unfailing weakness for Latino heat, and today was no exception. Unfortunately for Tig, and his brothers, he was about to hook up with the wrong señorita.

Tiki slammed his knee into the groin of his opponent, following up with a left to his mid-section and a right hook to his chin. As the 6'4 man went sprawling, slamming into a wall, Tiki wondered how the hell he had gotten into this shit.

The argument, which quickly turned into a brawl, was raging out of control and Tiki had lost sight of his sponsor. Feeling someone grab his shoulder, Tiki used his right elbow as a battering ram and took them out from behind, and grinned as he heard the body hit the floor.

Good thing I managed to pick up a few pointers from watching bare knuckle fights in Galt with Pop.

Dodging out of the path of a chair that had been aimed at his head, Tiki barreled toward his new opponent, lifting him by his legs and throwing him over his shoulder.

We need to get our asses out of here before the fuckin' pigs show up, but where the fuck's Tig?

Finding himself right next to the entrance, Tiki whirled around when he was grabbed again. Ready to throw another multi-ringed punch, Tiki found his hand stopped in mid-air as the SAA'S hand clamped over it.

"Fun's over, asshole." Tig chuckled. "It's time to leave."

Both men sprinted out of the door, jumping on their bikes and sped off, leaving the bar in their wake.

Unfortunately, the fight was far from over.

What. The. Fuck!?

Jackson Teller, President of the Sons of Anarchy Redwood Original didn't have a clue as to what had happened, but he knew that it wasn't good.

The call had come in only ten minutes ago. It was unlike his SAA to call for help. The former Marine never had trouble handling his shit, but whatever had gone down in Lodi must have been bad for him to call his brothers to come to the rescue. Jax could only hope that they managed to get to Tig and his Prospect in time and find them both in one piece. Bobby wasn't expected back in Charming until Thursday and Jax didn't want to have call him back early from his gig in Tahoe with bad news about his son.

The convoy of twelve riders made an impressive sight as they sped down the I-22 heading to Lodi. As they turned around the next bend, Jax heard his VP shout. "There they are!"

Oh shit, Jax thought as he saw his brother and the Prospect heading towards them on the opposite side of the highway with what appeared to be a pack of about eight Harleys on their asses, each one of them sporting ape-hangers, about a quarter of a mile back.


Heading for a break in the highway, the SAMCRO convoy managed to swerve onto the opposite side and caught up with their brothers.

"Tig! What the fuck happened? Why are the Mayans lookin' to crawl up your ass?" The SAMCRO President shouted.

"Not Mayans! Calaveras! Take care of the Prospect! I got this!" At that Tig slowed his bike down enough to fall back behind his brothers, swerving around to face the oncoming traffic and the Calaveras. Dodging the cars, who were trying to get out of the path of the mad man riding towards them on the wrong side of the road, Tig pulled out his Glock firing it several times in the air as a warning. Instead of fleeing, the Lodi-based MC decided to return fire, with several bullets narrowly missing Tig as they flew by.

"These bitches can't shoot worth shit!" Tig laughed. "Time to show 'em how it's done!" Firing into the convoy rapidly gaining on him, the former Marine sharpshooter shot three times and wounded three riders, the last of which spun out of control and slammed into the divider, before the rest of the CL crew scattered like roaches.

Tig grinned. "Keep running, bitches!" He yelled as he spun his ride around and headed back towards Charming.

"Do you want to tell me what the fuck just happened?" Jax growled, his arms folded as he eyed his SAA when he walked into the Main Room of the Clubhouse.

Rather than answer the question, Tig took a look around. "Is the kid all right?"

Piney, who was sitting in his customary seat at the bar, turned to face him. "Yeah, he's okay. He's got some minor bruising. Chibs is cleaning him up in the back."

Hearing that Bobby's boy was all right, Tig turned to his President. "We kind of ran into a little trouble. It was no big shit." He shrugged his shoulders.

"No big shit? So this is normal everyday shit for you?" Opie retorted. "It's business as usual having a puppet MC like the Calaveras practically escort you back to Charming by chasing your ass down the fuckin' highway?"

"Did this have anything to do with the Bastards' shipment you were supposed to drop off?" Jax asked.

Tig rubbed a hand across his face. "No, man. The shipment's fine. T.O. got his merch. Me and the Prospect just stopped to grab some food in Lodi and things got a little twisted, that's all."

"A little twisted? I don't think so." Jax's nostrils flared. "Church. Right now."

As the patches settled down around the Redwood table, their President's eyes glowered as he fixed them on his SAA. "So, how the fuck did things get 'twisted'?"

Tig's first thought had been that he was going to end up with a nice slice of dessert to go with his meal as he had watched the waitress approach their table.

The petite beauty, with smooth brown skin, a nice rack that emphasized a very tight and very curvy body, and a mass of wavy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail was right up Tig's alley. And if her smile was anything to go by, she liked what she saw as well.

Tig was by no means a "pretty blond pussy" like the SAA of the Tacoma charter, but he knew he was no slouch either. In spite of the fact that he was pushing 53, at 6'2 and 195 pounds, the former Marine and current SAMCRO SAA kept his body in top condition.

Especially the ten inches that this hot little Mamí has her eyes on.

There was something undeniably attractive about Tig Trager's deep blue eyes, wildly crazy hair and trim black beard and soul patch. With his leather kutte over a form-fitting black short-sleeve t-shirt, black jeans, black steel-toed boots, and the sterling-silver Reaper rings on his fingers, he made an impressive figure. And he knew it too, as all the eyes in the restaurant had fixated on him the moment he had entered through the bar.

Tig was a man's man, and although you could see the wildness behind the eyes, women who liked bad boys had a hard time resisting dropping their thongs for the outlaw biker.

Propping a plump ass on the heavy table, the pretty little Latina gave Tig a flirty grin. "Hey Papí. I don't think I've ever seen you in here before."

"Hi, Doll. I've been in here a time or two, but I haven't seen you around here either."

Shit, man, the waitress thought. He's fuckin' hot.

"I just started working here a couple of weeks ago. My name's Luisa." Taking a quick peek at the package Tig was sporting, she had a smirk on her face. "I can see that you're hungry, Papí, but I can only help you out with what's on the menu."

Tig grinned and winked at the young woman. "Well, I guess I'll have to settle for the food. For now." Quickly giving her his order, Tig watched as she turned to the Prospect. She looked bored as she answered several of Tiki's questions regarding the menu. Not bothering to give the smiling younger man the time of day, Luisa jotted down Tiki's order. Giving Tig a quick wink, the waitress made a show of sashaying her ass to the kitchen to place their order.

Tiki tried to hide his amazement at Tig's successful flirting, but the older man caught on. "What?"

Having been around the Club during SAMCRO-family sponsored functions since he was kid, Tiki felt that he could push the envelope with his sponsor, and let it fly. "Dude, you're like, what, twice her age?"

Tig grinned at the Prospect as he drank his beer. "Shithead, don't you know that age ain't nothing but a number? Being my Prospect and all, I guess it's time I dropped a pearl of wisdom or two on your ass on the subject of bitches. Lesson number one: you don't have to be some pretty boy biker to get them to drop their panties for ya. You just need the right skill set."

Tiki barely managed to keep his eyes from rolling. "And that is?"

"It's a combination of what you say to get these bitches wet and the only number that really matters in the grand scheme of things: the size of your dick. If you're a small-dicked bastard, I'm sorry, but I got nothing for you. If you're gifted in that department like me, once you learn how to lay that pipe just right, they keep coming back for more." The older man counseled. "Guaranteed. On a side note, after you fuck a bitch and she says to you that size don't matter, what she's really telling you is that she's had bigger, so don't even waste your time and move on."

Dipping a tortilla chip into some spicy salsa, Tiki threw his head back and laughed.

"You're laughing, but what you should be doing is writing this shit down. It's not every day you get to see a master at work." Tig flashed him an evil grin.

"Oh so, you seriously think you're gonna hit that shit?" Tiki countered.

"I don't think nothing. I know. Watch and learn, my young Padawan. Watch and learn."

Tig thoroughly enjoyed his meal and spent an equal amount of time eating and flirting with Luisa, as Tiki sat astounded at the older man's prowess. When she brought the check, Tig pulled out a roll of bills big enough to choke a horse to pay for their meal.

Standing up, Tig took two steps right into Luisa's personal space. Handing her the check with more cash than was needed to cover the bill, he grinned as he heard her gasp and saw her pupils dilate. Tiki watched as his sponsor bent down and whispered something into the waitress' ear, nearly falling off his chair when she took Tig by the hand and practically dragged him towards the corridor at the back of the restaurant leading to the restrooms.

"Motherfuck!" Tiki laughed as he ran his hand through his own unruly curly hair. "He's actually getting some."

With the exception of the guy tending bar who was shooting the breeze with another waitress, Tiki was the only other warm body in the place. Sipping on another beer, Tiki raised his eyebrows and shook his head when, about half an hour later, his sponsor returned to the table. The man had a shit-eating grin plastered on his face and was followed by a rumpled but sexy Latina who had obviously given him a ride and a half.

"Maybe you come back again, huh, Papí?" Wrapping her arms around his waist, Tiki rolled his eyes as he watched the woman nearly suck the tongue out of Tig's head.

Now I'm gonna have to fuckin' bow to the Master.

Pulling her lips away from Tig's with a wet sucking sound, and with Tig's back towards the entrance of the bar, Luisa was the only one to see the group of men as they entered. Suddenly, Tig found himself being slapped hard across the face and shoved back so that he slammed against another man, as Tiki quickly jumped out of his chair.

As he spun around, Tig heard Luisa crying hysterically and saw that she had thrown herself into the arms of one of the men. Men, he noted with a smile, who were wearing kuttes of the Calaveras MC.

"Hector, Papí, thank God you here. This puto bitch just mauled me."

Hector Salazar, the President of the Calaveras MC, shouted. "You let that puto touch you?"

"Ah, actually, she didn't just let me touch her. She let me fuck the living shit out of her in the stall of the women's bathroom." Tig smiled a cocky grin. "Twice. She's a fuckin' freak, man. I guess it's like I told my friend here," Tig nodded at the wide-eyed Prospect. "A real man knows how to lay his pipe just right, but I guess you haven't been taking care of business, ese."

"That's a fuckin' lie!" Luisa screeched. "He shorted me on the tip, but said he would make up for it and then grabbed me and stuck his tongue down my throat!"

"I'm going to cut you from ear to ear, you fuckin' piece of shit. Then I'm going to hack your kutte to pieces." Salazar threatened.

Salazar looked into the crazy blue eyes of the man standing in front of him as Tig held his kutte open and said, "Come and get it."

"Personally, if I had been alone I would have taken on all of them, but I had the Prospect. Although I do have to say, Bobby's boy handled his shit, but I thought it was best to get him out of there before the Sanwa sheriffs showed up. I didn't expect the CL to give chase though, so that's when I called you. Jax, it was so totally that bitch's fault, man."

Jax looked at his SAA and shook his head. "You just had to rock her world, didn't you? You just couldn't have lunch and called it a fuckin' day!"

Tig shrugged. "Hey, once upon a time, playa, you knew exactly where I'm coming from. I don't just like pussy, brother. I love it, especially when it's free." He grinned. "Don't hate the player 'cuz you're no longer in the game. Don't hate. Appreciate."

At that, all the brothers around the table started laughing and hooting.

Sitting at the opposite end of the table next to Piney, Clay Morrow finally managed to get his laughter under control as he noted the unamused expression on his son-in-law's face as he eyed his SAA.

I've been there, done that, and got the fuckin' t-shirt to prove that shit. Tig is a sick son of a bitch.

At the birth of his second grandchild, Clay had made the decision to permanently turn the gavel over to Jax. It had not been easy, but it had given the old crusty biker the opportunity to get the surgery he needed in order to regain the use of his hands and allow him to have a seat at the table again. Retiring had also given him the opportunity to enjoy growing old with his wife and doting on his grandchildren. In some ways, it was a relief not having to deal with the many problems and responsibilities of holding the gavel. Now that burden was on the current President.

I'm so glad I don't have to clean this shit up. Clay leaned back in his chair and took a pull on his cherished once-monthly Cohiba cigar that his President allowed him to have at the Club under the radar and slowly exhaled. "So, what kind of damage are we looking at here?"

Tig sighed. "I shot three of their guys, just winged them, but one of them spun out of control and hit the divider. It didn't look too good, man."

Jax sighed as he ran a hand through his slicked back hair. Although only still in his early 30's, the outlaw biker's hair was starting to show signs of the stress he was under as leader of the Club, his blond hair sporting a light sprinkling of silver.

And some of those gray hairs had Tig's name all over them.

Jax Teller had a love/hate relationship with his Sergeant-at-Arms. Jax valued his service and counsel greatly. Tig had transitioned better than Jax thought he would when his father-in-law had stepped down. He protected his new President in much the same way he had looked after Clay Morrow, and it was Tig's tendency to veer off into the crazy that convinced Jax he was safe with Tig watching his back. But he was a hardcore biker who sometimes disregarded JT's mantra, Brains Before Bullets. So every once in a while, Tig would manage to get the Club into some collective shit, sometimes by shooting first and asking questions later, and other times by letting his dick do the all the talking.

The last close call had been two years ago when their gun assembly warehouse located between Charming and Modesto was burnt down to the ground. The SAA had been banging two of the illegals they had been using to assemble their merch. Unfortunately for them and for the Club, they died in the fire and were subsequently discovered by Deputy Chief David Hale while he was investigating the scene.

Hale worked hard to tie the Sons to the warehouse as well as the deaths and would have scored a direct hit too when the Lodi Forensic Team ran a DNA on the Tigger juice sloshing around in the bellies of both women. Lucky for Tig and the Club, Jax had managed to come up with a plan that enabled them to get to the bodies first and were able to get rid of the evidence under Hale's radar.

The Club had narrowly escaped the long arm of the law that time and Jax didn't want any more close calls. After a period of nothing but trouble, including the Stahl/RIRA mess, the Club had settled down into a pattern of routine business for the four years that Jax had been sitting at the head of the table. Flare ups happened every so often, but that was the nature of the beast. That shit was easily managed, but now with the Calaveras pissed off at the Sons, Jax wasn't sure what the ramifications would be. SAMCRO could easily squash a bullshit MC like the Calaveras, but they had nothing to prove. In Jax's mind, however, that's what made the CL so dangerous. They had more to gain by starting a war with the Sons, namely, street cred.

"The CL is nothing more than just a glorified group of runners for the Mayans. They have no connections, no affiliations and with Alvarez intent on keeping the peace over the last few years, I can't see him declaring war on us because one of the CL got spread all over the I-22. For now, let's table this shit." Jax advised. "We'll keep an ear and eye out on Lodi, maybe get the Grim Bastards to run a little Intel for us and get them to keep tabs on the CL, but hopefully it won't come to anything."

"Sounds good to me." Happy replied, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "Besides, I wanna hear more about this chica Tig banged."

"Hey, forget that shit. There's something more important to be discussed and that is the state of health and well-being of every patch at this table." Clay interjected. "Since we're all gathered together, I feel it's my duty to remind you about the Taste of Charming festival. Every single one of you better be at that fundraiser on Saturday unless, of course, you want a size nine high heel boot up your ass." Clay warned as he finally stubbed out the nub of his cigar.

Chibs cocked a doubtful eyebrow at him. "You coming?"

Clay, the long-suffering martyr, sighed. "Only if I wanna keep my balls."

Buckhead, also known as Sam Crow's Corner, was one of Charming's smaller middle class neighborhoods. Located in the west end of town, it was once the site of farmsteads, ranches and orchards that were bought by housing developers after the second World War and subsequently turned into picturesque neighborhoods that had a classic Americana look and structure.

About two years after their twins were born, Opie and Donna Winston finally moved out of the small one-bedroom house they had rented and purchased a three-bedroom home in the neighborhood. The one-story house, although more than 60 years old, had met the needs of the Winston family for a number of years.

After having to deal with Tig's bullshit by going on an unplanned "protection" run, Opie was looking forward to kicking back with his family and relaxing. Pulling up to his home, Opie parked his bike in the driveway next to the family's mid-sized SUV. Pulling off his helmet and placing it on the bars of his bike, the late afternoon sun made the 6'4 biker's reddish brown hair gleam in the sun as he strode towards his modest home.

Before he reached the door, it flew open to reveal his daughter Ellie, who threw her arms around father's waist. "Hey, Daddy." She smiled up at him.

"Hey, Pumpkin."

It was a time-honored tradition that Opie had with his kids for them to welcome him home each day. Although his son was outgrowing it, being totally engrossed in his XBox 360 or hanging around with his friends, Opie could always count on being met at the door by his daughter.

Physically, at 11 years old, Ellie Winston looked more and more like her mother every day, with sable-colored hair, blue eyes and a beautiful wide smile. The only physical trait Ellie managed to get from him were the red highlights in her hair and his height, as she was steadily catching up to her brother, turning into a lanky pre-adolescent girl almost overnight.

Walking into his home, Opie hung his kutte on the coat rack by the door. With his daughter's arm around his waist and his around her shoulders, Opie allowed his nose to lead him to the tantalizing smells coming from the kitchen.

"Hey, your Mom's cooking today." Opie said, pleasantly surprised. "She must've read my mind cuz I really wasn't feeling pizza tonight."

Ellie wrinkled her nose. "Yeah, I like pizza and all, but I love Mom's cooking more."

Coming into the small kitchen, Opie leaned against the doorway as he watched his wife working some culinary magic on the stove. With her shoulder length hair pinned up haphazardly off her neck and wearing nothing but a simple t-shirt, jeans and barefoot, her toes sporting pink nail polish, Donna Winston didn't look a day over 25.

"Something smells real good. And looks real good, too." Opie practically leered at his wife's plump ass, his most favorite part of her anatomy. Wrapping his arms around Donna from behind, he nuzzled her neck, tickling her with his beard.

Donna grinned as she felt her husband press up against her. "Down, boy!" She whispered and half-giggled at her old man's antics. "We're not exactly alone."

"Aw, man! Are they at it again?" Harold Kenneth Winston Jr. groaned as he entered the kitchen. "You guys have a bedroom for that, ya know." The 11-year old boy, standing at over 5½ feet, rolled his eyes as he opened the refrigerator door for a snack before dinner.

"You know," Donna advised over her shoulder. "Your butt doesn't pay the mortgage, sport, so you don't get a vote."

"Besides, if I didn't love your Mom so much, you and your sister wouldn't be here." Opie advised as he kept nipping on his wife's neck.

"Okay, that's waay too much info, Dad, even for me." Ellie rolled her eyes.

"Well, maybe you two should go set the table and leave us to it." Donna turned around to lock lips with her old man, as both kids groaned aloud.

"C'mon, Elle. Uncle Bobby's right. Sometimes, there's some sh—crap you can't unsee." Kenny muttered as he grabbed the dinner plates sitting on the edge of the counter, with his sister following behind him into the dining room with the glasses and utensils.

Pulling away from his old lady, Opie grinned down at the petite women. "Damn, I think that's an all-time record for us clearing a room."

"Yeah, I know." Donna stuck her hands in the back pockets of her husband's jeans and squeezed. "And it's a good thing, since this kitchen is so damn small."

"Hmm, is that another hint that we need to move?" Opie pulled her away from the stove and plastered his wife against the counter.

"So you picked up on that, huh?" She grinned up at her husband as his huge baseball mitt-sized hands squeezed her ass. "You know it's time, honey. As a matter of fact, I ran into Britt Adams today." She started.

"I can tell. Cute toes." Opie grinned.

"Yes, I managed to find some down time today to get my feet done and ran into her at Gina's. She said that she had a couple of interesting places on her books that would be perfect for us. And guess what? One of them is in Crestwood."

Opie cocked an eyebrow. "Really? In Jax's neighborhood?"

"Uh huh. We could be in a house large enough for my two giant men and that much closer to our BFFs. And with Piney's health not being the best lately, I think it's time he moved in with us, especially if the property Britt has is as good as she says. It has one of those mother-in-law apartments attached, which would be perfect for him." Donna pulled out of her old man's embrace to retrieve the two large roasted chickens she had already carved and was keeping hot in the oven and directed her husband to dish out the garlic mash potatoes into a large bowl, along with the vegetable medley and the hot rolls.

"Okay, so now this home cooked meal makes perfect sense." Opie snarked as he headed towards the dining room with the food.

"You're such an ass!" Donna threw a dish towel at his head.

"Hey, you married me, so what does that make you?" Opie shot back.

"Ope?" She growled softly. "It would be good for all of us, especially after your Dad's last stint in the hospital."

Piermont "Piney" Winston was known to be a pretty stubborn old coot, and over the last year, his health was starting to fail. Ignoring the advice of the one doctor Opie had finally managed to get his father to see, Piney continued with his hard living, hard drinking lifestyle. As he told his son, "I'm too old a dog to change. The only thing killing me is how much you and your pretty little wife nag."

But after his last visit to the hospital two months ago, Donna had been steadily dropping hints that Piney needed more care and attention than he had been getting from his son and how near impossible it would be to move the older man into their small house. Piney was set in his ways and needed his own space.

Realizing that his old lady was right, Opie turned back to face her and gave her a shit-eating grin. "Then call Britt tomorrow."

As his old lady squealed her excitement, Opie grinned as he appreciatively watched a bra-less Donna bounce up and down.

Shit, not only is making my old lady happy pretty easy to do, but it has its perks, too.