Christopher Golden - Sons of Anarchy: Bratva

Jax Teller liked peace and quiet as much as the next guy, but hed learned the hard way never to trust them. Hed spent his whole life as part of the Sons of Anarchy motorcycle clubfirst as the son of its founder, then as a member, and now as vice president of its original charterand he didnt know any other way to live. Even when the club wasnt in the midst of trouble, there was usually some brewing.

Not today.

Just to have something to do, Jax reeled in his line, checked his bait, and then cast it back into the deep, churning river.

Nothing biting, he said, just to say something.

Opie Winston sat six feet away, broad back against a rock formation and a beer in his hand. Shortly after theyd come down to the river, Opie had driven a black plastic tube into the soft, damp soil of the riverbank, cast out his line, and slid the handle of his fishing pole into the tube. It wasnt fishing so much as drinking beer and shooting the occasional glance at the line to see if anything might be tugging at it.

Jax thought he was begging for the fishing pole to get dragged into the riverexactly what would happen if a decent-sized steelhead decided to take the baitbut Opie looked too relaxed for him to bring it up. In truth, the arrival of a thieving steelhead didnt seem very likely, considering that there had been two nibbles on Opies line in nearly three hours and that he had only bothered to reel it in a few times. His focus had been on emptying the cooler of beer theyd lugged down from the cabin.

Jax rose to fetch a fresh beer, doing his share to help lighten the cooler for the return trip. He propped his fishing rod in the crook of his arm to open the beer and took a long gulp.

Opie stretched and rotated his head, and the bones in his neck popped loudly. Either the fish are getting smarter or they can sense how unmotivated we are, he said.

Speak for yourself, Op. Im motivated.

Then youre doing it wrong, Opie said. Fishings a state of mind, Jax. Its Zen. If you wanted to finish the day with something to eat, we shouldve gone hunting like I suggested.

Jax settled himself at the base of a massive tree whose thick roots had been exposed by decades of erosion. When the river ran low enough for the ground between the roots to dry out, it made the perfect seat.

Huntings too much work, he said. We came up here to clear our heads.

Then why are you bitching about the fish not biting?

Jax drained a third of his beer. Things get quiet, I squirm a little. Need to break the silence.

He drew back on his fishing pole a bit to see if there was anything dragging on the line, but it moved easily, not even the ghost of a nibble. When he realized Opie hadnt replied, he turned to find his best friend studying him curiously.

What? Jax asked, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.

How many days do you think youd have to be up here before you could stop worrying about all the other shit?

Jax sipped his beer. Not sure I can count that high, brother.

They fell quiet again, only the sounds of the river and the rustle of the wind in the trees to disturb the silence. Opie had suggested the trip the day before, and Jax had surprised himself by agreeing. Theyd thrown beer and bait and a single bag of groceries into the back of Opies truck and made the drive up to the cabin. The place had been a private retreat for the club since the days of the First Nine, back when Jaxs and Opies fathers and guys like Clay Morrow and Lenny the Pimp had been laying the groundwork for what would become SAMCROSons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original.

As kids, Jax and Opie had run wild in the woods around the cabin, fished and swum in the river, and drunk beers theyd stolen from their dads. John Teller and Piney Winston had made their sons drink those beers until they threw it all upa bikers lesson. Sitting in the cradle of those old tree roots and watching the river flow by, Jax felt haunted by those days. They hadnt come up to the cabin on anything but business in years, and now he struggled with the weight of his responsibilities to Tara, to his sons, and to the club. Coming up here with Opie had seemed like a good idea, and hed enjoyed just breathing for once, but he could feel hooks set deep in his flesh, dragging him home.

He and half the club had survived months in prison and upheaval in their relationships with the Real IRA and the Russian mafiathe Bratva. Jax had been shivved in Stockton Penitentiary on orders from the Bratvas chief, Viktor Putlova. SAMCRO had managed to broker a peace with the Russians that lasted long enough for Jax and the other club members whod been sent up with him to get back on the street. SAMCRO had broken that peace at Opies wedding to Lyla. Putlova and his muscle were all dead, and the Sons had struck a new deal with the Mexicansthe Galindo carteland bought themselves a moment to breathe.

Jax and Tara had gotten engaged and announced it to the club. All shouldve been right with the worldhe told himself this trip to the cabin, a sort of mini bachelor party, was proof of thatbut the engagement had only deepened the fault line that splintered Jax himself in two. There was the man he wanted to be, and then there was the man hed been raised to be. SAMCROs business had always been illegal guns and now it included drugs, and hed promised Tara he had a plan to get himselfand his sonsaway from the club and the dangers that came along with it.

Hed promised. And hed meant it.

Sometimes, though, promises turned to quicksand.

Opies line twitched, bobbed, and then bent. Jax called his name, put aside his beer, and pushed himself up from the cradling tree roots, but Opie was already in motion. Hed seemed to be half-dozing a second before, but now he hurtled toward his fishing pole and grabbed hold just as it began to tilt and slide up out of the tube. Jax dropped his own fishing pole into the tube, thinking he might need to help.

Son of a bitch! Opie growled, whipping the pole back to set the hook in the mouth of whatever fish had been dumb enough to take bait that had been sitting in the river for three quarters of an hour.

Opie had a few inches and at least thirty pounds on Jax. With his beard and grim eyes, he looked intimidating, like the kind of man who would break a musicians wrists for playing the wrong songwhich hed actually done.

He looked ridiculous reeling in that fish. Jax couldnt help laughing.

Guess you met your match, he said, trotting back to fetch his beer. He stood on the riverbank and watched Opie dip the fishing pole toward the water and then jerk it back again, reeling quickly each time he did so.

Opie turned to sneer at him, but he couldnt maintain the anger and started laughing instead. He took a step toward Jax and the fishing line snapped, twanging as it ribboned back toward them like a spiderweb in a breeze.

Fuck it, Opie said.He hurled the fishing pole into the river, drew his gun, and fired off half a dozen shots in the general direction of the fish. As the echo of gunfire died away, the two of them stood and stared at the fishing pole as it bobbed along for a few seconds longer and then slid below the current.

Thats one way to fish, Jax said with a grin.

Opie turned to gaze downriver, brow furrowed.

Jax wasnt grinning anymore. Whats up?

That fishing pole was my old mans.

Jax glanced at the pole hed brought down from the cabin. Theyd gotten the rods and reels from a dusty closet. Most of them were rusty, and Jax had chosen the one that seemed the least deteriorated. If one of the fishing poles at the cabin had belonged to his own father, John Teller, he wouldnt have been able to pick it out from the others. But Piney was alive, and he felt bad about the loss.