Title: Redemption Category: TV Shows » Sons of Anarchy Author

536 Pages·2014·2.78 MB·English

Title: Redemption
Category: TV Shows » Sons of Anarchy
Author: Happys Hitwoman
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M
Genre: Drama/General
Published: 04-07-11, Updated: 11-26-11
Chapters: 52, Words: 275,438

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Chapter One

In Amanda's case, death was all about relief.

It was a calming peace of mind knowing her father was in a much better place
than he was less than a year ago. But at the same time, all it did was widen the
gaping hole left in Amanda's life. Between never having known her mother to
walking out on her husband after she was given the "it's either caring for your
father or our marriage" ultimatum, all Amanda had now was herself – that and an
abundance of spare time that was formerly consumed with caring for her
cancer-riddled father in the home she grew up in. Now that time was spent
practically living day and night at The Quiet Garden – her built-from-scratch
flower shop conveniently located right on the corner to the entrance of the
Charming Cemetary.

Most of Amanda's business came from patrons stopping in for a floral token en
route to visit their loved ones in the cemetery behind her. Being surrounded by
the constant reminder of death numbed her a bit – even helped prepare her for
her father's passing. And knowing he was buried in that very cemetery gave her a
bit of comfort, thus her early mornings and late nights at The Quiet Garden was
her way of remaining close to him – if that made sense.

Flowers were comforting. Their shapes were gracious and their scents were
soothing. Surrounding herself with them every day was a strength to Amanda –
especially after all that she had been through. But the toughest part of her day
was not dealing with funeral parlors ordering the customary casket arrangement,
grieving individuals looking for a single, perfect rose to recapture the beauty
of life or even the occasional clueless, but well-meaning husband/boyfriend who
rushes in for a bouquet of anything before rushing home to celebrate the
birthday/anniversary he obviously forgot.

No, the toughest part was leaving the comfort of her shop for the small,
ranch-style house her parents always lived in, the home she was born and grew up
in until she got married five years ago and moved to nearby Manteca which was a
short, daily drive to and from her shop in Charming. The house was now hers, but
she still had a decision to make as whether to sell it. She was torn between
sentimentality and the painful memories of the past year. Until Amanda could
make up her mind, it made sense to stay. She was never going back to Barry –
that decision she made without waiver a little less than a month ago when he
showed up unexpectedly as she was closing up shop, angrily fisting the divorce
papers he had just been served. She remembered the conversation all too well:

"What the hell is this Amanda?" Barry demanded, thrusting the divorce papers at
her.

"Give them to your lawyer," she replied unaffected. "He'll figure it out for
you."

She continued with an arrangement of stephanotis and daisies as he continued to
stand there fuming, taking a bit of solace that Marge was hovering in the back
room where Amanda had asked her to stay as soon as she saw Barry pull up – not
that the sixty year old woman would be able to do anything anyway!

"Look, 'manda," Barry said. "It's all over, okay. You took care of your dad.
He's gone. Now it's time to come home."

She looked at him with furious blue eyes. "Take a look, Barry," she snapped at
him. "I am home. I didn't leave temporarily. I left permanently. You gave me an
ultimatum. You wouldn't even consider having dad spend whatever time he had left
with us. You made me choose."

"I thought you'd choose your husband," he spat at her.

"And as my husband, I thought you'd choose the right thing," she spat back.
"Instead, it just showed what a selfish, inconsiderate, non-compassionate prick
you really are. So…I chose the man who gave me life, who raised me without a
mother. And now you think because he's gone and out of the way that I'm gonna
come whistling back home to you and pick up where we left off. Screw you! Give
those papers to your lawyer so we can get this done and over with."

He shoved the papers in her face. "I'm not making it that easy for you," he
said. "This isn't over, Amanda. You're my wife. You're coming back to Manteca
with me."

"You couldn't drag me back kicking and screaming," she calmly said. "Now…get out
of my shop. If you have something to say to me, have your lawyer call mine."

Although in a fit of rage, Barry thankfully left – choking on the dust the tires
kicked up in the parking lot as he took off.

"I was this close to calling the cops," Marge said as she reappeared from where
she was hiding in the back.

"He'll get over it," Amanda confidently said. "He'll go back home, have a couple
of beers, calm down, sleep on it then realize in the morning that I'm not coming
back."

That was almost a month ago and, since then, Barry had followed through with his
threat to drag the divorce out, hoping to get Amanda to come to her senses and
rethink it. But she already decided that she'd wait however long it took for
Barry to come to his senses and just admit defeat.

Amanda switched the desk light off in the tiny back office and walked out to the
front counter – gasping when she saw how dark it was becoming outside. She
hadn't realized how long she had lingered in the windowless office booking her
daily sales and preparing the deposit for tomorrow. Then again, she did this
just about every day – stalling as long as she could to avoid going back to her
family home.

She picked up a note left for her on the front counter and smiled. 'Your lunch
is still in the fridge – make sure you eat. See you tomorrow – M'. Marge was not
only semi-retired with a botanical knowledge that knocked even Amanda off her
feet, but she hovered over Amanda like a mother hen making sure she ate and
didn't over-do it. No matter Marge's good intentions, Amanda always managed to
do the opposite.

Before closing up the shop for another day, Amanda went to the tiny fridge and
grabbed a bag with her untouched lunch in it which Marge brought back for her
almost six hours ago. It was now going to be her dinner. One last stop was to
the glass doors which housed a stunning variety of florals. But Amanda kept it
simple and chose a single gardenia – her favorite – before locking up, en route
to make one more stop before going home. Not many people would venture to the
cemetery at night – the creep factor alone would chill someone at the mere
thought of it. But Amanda didn't mind. She didn't believe in ghosts and spirits.
The quiet of the cemetery wasn't as unnerving as the quiet of her family home.
She wanted a little private time to spend with her dad and this time of the
evening, when dusk was slowly blending into night.

Who else would be at the cemetery at night?

~X~X~X~~X~X~X~~X~X~X~~X~X~X~~X~X~X~~X~X~X~~X~X~X~~X~X~X~~X~X~X~

In Happy's case, death was all about payback.

Fifteen excruciating days he spent mindlessly tending to whatever club business
Clay had allowed him to partake in. Being his charter's go-to hitman made him
the obvious choice for whatever unspeakable acts the club had to engage in under
the cover of night. But in his recent state of mind, with the anguish of his
loss, with his night's spent emptying the contents of fermented amber liquid
into his gut in an attempt to numb his mind and body and calm the raging beast
which had made his brothers practically walk on eggshells around him, Clay knew
his unquestionably loyal brother was a ticking time bomb. That rage might do him
well when it came to taking someone down without conscience or emotion, but it
also opened him up to mistakes. Mistakes Clay couldn't afford.

Mistakes Happy knew would occur if he so much as attempted to try to venture
back into his normal routine – a routine that, up until six months ago, only
involved himself.

Six months ago. That was when he and Opie waited outside with the bikes while
Jax and Tig ventured inside some hole-in-the-wall bar to grill the owner about
someone they were trying to track down and eventually teach a lesson to. Happy
had gotten off his bike to stretch his legs, walking up and down the sidewalk,
peering inside the individual shop windows along the way.

That's when he first saw Bekka Sinclair.

Staring through the window of the edgy clothing boutique, she was unboxing
merchandise and putting them on hangers, her tall, lithe body wrapped in a
sheer, peasant top, fringed denim shorts, and tan knee-high boots – a mass of
honey colored hair twisted up in a clip while a few stray pieces sexily framed a
heart shaped face with alluring hazel eyes and a mouth that was perfect for one
thing he had in mind. Gunfire couldn't get Happy to stop staring, a thought that
made him clench his fists. He was a man of self-control who never went long
without the company of a woman, but the mere sight of this woman knocked him on
his ass. Even as he thought that, she turned and saw him staring at her through
the window. Their eyes never strayed from one another's. She never moved towards
the door, nor did he make an attempt to enter. It wasn't until he heard Opie
call after him did Happy regain his senses and remembered where he was and why
he was there. He abruptly turned and left, cursing himself for letting his guard
down over a bitch.

But once after hours came and business was done, he didn't forget. Hopping back
on his bike, he took off from the comfort of his clubhouse and the comraderie of
his brothers back to that boutique, feeling victorious when he pulled up in
front just as she was exiting and locking up for the night. Again, they just
looked at each other, her face sporting a smile – his sporting a cocky arrogance
over her reaction. He still remembered their first words as if it were
yesterday:

"You got a man waitin' at home for you?" he had asked her.

She walked over to him, curious of this mysterious stranger she caught staring
at her this afternoon and excited that he had returned. "If I don't?" she
questioned back.

He scooted forward on his seat, nodding his head behind him. "Then get on."

"I have a car."

"I'll bring you back to it."

"But I don't even know you."

"We can fix that."

She then looked at the patch on the back of his cut. "You're with that
motorcycle club in town."

"See, you know me already," he mused. "Name?"

"Bekka Sinclair. You?"

"Happy."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that it?"

"For now. Get on."

She did – without question or hesitation. That was six months ago. Since then,
the bitch seat on his bike had her name on it and the bed he slept in had her
sweet body in it. It took him time and patience to bring her around, to get her
used to his life and lifestyle, to slowly educate her on the club and his place
in it. And she accepted everything about him, learned when to ask questions and
when to just let things be. Over the course of those six months, Happy realized
that Bekka was made for this - that she was a natural – a realization that hit
him so hard as to what the next step was he had to make. He knew he was never
gonna let her go, so he knew the right thing to do – something that went against
his better judgement since he prospected – and that was to put his mark on her.

That decision he made fifteen days ago when he picked her up on a Saturday
afternoon after she closed up shop early to take her to this quiet little ink
joint in Lodi. She had jumped on his bike, not wanting to wait a moment longer,
nor did he. He loved the bitch so much is scared the shit out of him.

But they never made it.

A dark, colored sedan going a little too fast around a bend on a mountainside
caused Happy to swerve and lose control of his bike. They both were thrown,
Happy being dragged about fifteen feet as he hung on while Bekka went rolling
towards the edge of the mountain. Once Happy crashed, he didn't care about the
pain, the cuts or the bleeding – all he cared about was Bekka. Screaming her
name, he limped his battered body over to her where she lay prone on the side of
the road, her head twisted in a sickening angle signifying she had broken her
neck. The only sound that could be heard on the road that night was Happy's
unearthy scream of anguish which would've scared off a pack of coyotes.

Fifteen days ago that all happened. And now fifteen days later, Happy's crouched
down in front of Bekka's still-fresh grave in the Charming Cemetary – staring at
her headstone, replaying that horrifying day over and over in his mind, seeing
that car come out of nowhere, never having stopped nor slowed down enough for
him to get a plate number, going over to Bekka and seeing her beautiful body
scraped and bleeding, her lifeless hazel eyes still open, the look of fear still
frozen in them with her head swiveled to an almost ninety degree angle. The
image burned in his brain made him want to vomit.

But all he could do was rock back and forth as he stared at her name on the
headstone, her birth and death year testifying to her short twenty eight years
on this earth, blaming himself for causing this. If he had just stuck to his vow
to never take an old lady, if he hadn't let her get to him, if he hadn't allowed
her to make him fall hard for her – hell, if he never went back that night six
months ago and took her for an exhilarating ride only to bring her back to her
car and leave her with an exhilarating kiss – none of this would've happened.
There was a reason a man like him wasn't mean to have a permanent bitch – he
hadn't the emotional ability to handle if something happened to her on his
watch.

But something did. And now his beautiful, twenty eight year old girl is dead,
lying in a casket buried beneath earth so fresh grass hasn't begun to grow upon
it. He couldn't take it. He couldn't deal with it. For fifteen days he was
practically useless. Clay didn't trust him with anything that required him to
have self control and he didn't trust himself. Without the qualities which made
him who he is practically damaged, with his woman dead and his club's faith in
him wary, Happy didn't see much choice.

With a stone set face, ice in his veins and nerves of steel, Happy removed his
gun from his shoulder holster and cocked it back, loading a bullet in the
chamber before putting the cold steel of the barrel right under his chin.

~X~X~X

At her father's grave, Amanda laid the one perfect gardenia down at the base of
his headstone after stripping away some of the dead grass and weeds. She knelt
on the ground, the feeling of the cool grass penetrating her jeans and weaving
through her toes after she removed her shoes. She closed her eyes, hoping to
hear her father's voice giving her some advice, some words of wisdom on what to
do to handle that ornery soon-to-be-ex-husband of hers.

But Amanda heard something else instead, as her head jerked in the direction of
the sound of metal clicking.

As always, please review. Love to know what you think so far.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Two

Amanda never once feared the cemetery at this time – not the light of day, but
not the dark of night either, but that sound sent a chill down her spine.
Putting a hand on her father's resting place, she pushed herself up, kicking her
shoes aside to walk barefoot towards that sound – the cool, late November air
adding to her chill. She knew she was alone – or, at least….she thought she was.
It didn't sound like a snapping twig or a branch swaying in the soft breeze
beginning to form as the sun began to go down. She didn't hear anything after
that, no footsteps, no voices – nothing.

Walking slowly past the rows of several tall headstones and columns, she froze
at the sight of a man crouched in front of a grave. He was slightly hunched
over, but could tell he had some height to him if he stood up. His tattooed left
arm rested across his left knee, his bald head tilted slightly back as if
looking towards the heavens. The main thing that stood out was the patch on the
back of his leather vest – he was one of them – a member of that motorcycle club
in town – the Sons of Anarchy – the reaper patch flanked between the top and
bottom rocker seemed appropriate considering they were in a cemetery. She
figured he was too caught up in his grief to realize someone was watching him
from afar and wondered if the metal sound came from him. If so, what was….

Amanda sucked her breath in when the man pivoted his body slightly to the left,
allowing her to see the gun he had pointed under his chin.

He was going to kill himself.

"Don't!" she softly called out. She couldn't help herself. The words just
blurted out without a chance to think she may startle him thus causing him to
pull the trigger.

Happy turned towards her with lightening speed, the look in his eyes when he
realized he was not alone and had been caught in this predicament made the hair
on the back of her neck stand up. All Amanda could do was back away as he
dropped the gun by his side and stood up. She was right – he did have some
height to him.

"Get…out…of…here," he seethed in a voice which sounded more like a growl.

Amanda should've run. She should've turned on a dime and high-tailed it back to
her car. But what if this man succeeded in his mission once she left? Shouldn't
she try to do something to stop him? Could she come back to the shop tomorrow
morning wondering if his body is lying in here with half his face blown off?
But…what if he's too distraught? What if he decides to turn the gun on her in
his grief?

Even as these questions filtered through her brain, all Amanda knew was that
she'd seen enough death in the last year. From watching the cancer slowly eat
away at her father's sixty two year's young body, to the numerous customers who
frequented The Quiet Garden buying flowers with one hand while wiping tears away
with another, to the upcoming death of her own marriage. If there was a way she
could stop this man from committing the most grievous sin, even buy him one more
day to think about it – then it would be worth the risk.

"Please," she gently said, holding a cautious hand out in front of her.
"Whatever you were going to do, don't do it."

Happy slowly walked over towards her as he slowly backed away, almost tripping
over a headstone directly behind her. "I said…..go away," he angrily seethed.
"Or else."

Amanda gulped as her nails scratched across the top of the headstone. "Or
else…..what?" She didn't know where the courage came to ask that.

This time, he walked over to her a little faster, giving her little time to
skirt around the headstone blocking her legs. "Or else," he continued, putting
the gun to his temple. "You can stay here and watch."

"No," she choked out, shaking her head and backing away. She then broke into a
sprint back to her car. "I'm calling the police."

"Shit!" she heard him blurt out followed by heavy booted footsteps pounding the
soft earth of the cemetery floor. He was chasing her. And when he caught her,
she figured he was going to kill her. What had she done? She was just trying to
show some human compassion – something she had been without the last year of her
father's life – especially from her husband. But this man obviously didn't want
to be saved from taking his own life, nor did he want the cops involved.

"Okay….I won't…." Amanda panted as she ran, even as she heard him gaining
ground. "I won't call. Just…..don't….."

But it was too late. Happy had gotten close enough to clamp his hand down on her
shoulder and pull her face down to the ground –ironically right at the base of
her father's grave – before straddling her from behind.

"Keep your mouth shut about this, bitch," he sneered close to her ear, waving
his gun at an angle where she could see it. "Understand?"

Amanda knew it was futile to struggle against him. "I won't….I promise," she
said before pressing her face towards the ground under her. Daddy, please," she
softly sobbed, clutching at the single gardenia. "Please help me."

With that, Happy got up off her, allowing Amanda to turn over and scoot back to
her back was flush against her father's headstone. She wiped her eyes and calmed
herself down as she dared to look up at him. He hovered above her, his gun still
clutched in his gloved right hand, his head tilted to one side as he regarded
her with a puzzled look. "Who you talkin' to, girl?"

She huddled her arms around her body and looked away from him, her eyes coming
in contact with the engraving on the headstone. "No one," she lied.
"Just…..don't hurt me."

Happy crouched down so that he was eye level with her as she tucked her bare
feet and jean clad legs underneath her, trying to avoid eye contact with him. He
looked at the name on the headstone – 'William Carson' then back to the woman in
front of him who was crushing the stem of a white flower in her hand. He then
straightened up and holstered his gun. "Get out of here," he said, turning to
leave. "Ain't no place to be this time of night."

"Never was a problem till now," she replied.

He halted and turned, giving her a warning look before motioning in the
direction where she had found him. "What you saw over there, never happened – we
clear, girl?"

"Yeah. And is it never going to happen – again?" she boldly asked.

Happy pointed a finger at her. "Ain't none of your business. Just mind your own
shit and stay out of mine."

As he walked away, Amanda couldn't help herself. He was obviously so grief
stricken that he couldn't take living anymore. "It gets better," she called out.
She was rewarded with him giving her an audacious look, which she ignored. "It
does. With time. Trust me."

Happy took two steps towards her. "One, I trust no one. Two, it's only gonna get
better once the fucker responsible is in my hands; three, if I want advice I'll
ask for it and, four…..I ain't got time."

"Which was why you were gonna kill yourself?"

"I said forget about it!" he yelled, causing Amanda to wince. "Listen, girl. Get
up and go home. Pretend this was a bad dream," he said walking away before she
heard him mutter. "That's what I've been doin'."

And with that, he was out of sight. Amanda slowly made her way up from the
ground, working the kinks out of her leg. She couldn't make him out in the dark
the farther he got away, but she did make out the sound of a motorcycle starting
up, revving up and eventually taking off.

She put her shoes back on and gathered her things to head back to the car, but
curiousity got the best of her first. What or who made this man so distraught
that he was willing to take his own life? She slowly made her way over to the
headstone she found him in front of, her bleary eyes able to make out the
engraving – 'Rebekkah Sinclair: 1982 – 2010'. Amanda bit her lip. This woman was
only twenty eight years old – only four years younger than she was. She
instantly wondered how she died and figured it had to be something so tragic
that this biker wasn't able to handle. And there was someone responsible. Was
she killed…..murdered, perhaps? Judging from the whisperings around town of what
the Sons of Anarchy have their hands in, she wondered if this girl was a target
– that maybe she suffered a fate which was meant for that man.

Whatever it was, she had to have meant a lot to him to want to take his own life
rather than learn to deal with his grief. At least Amanda knew her father was
sick and eventually that sickness would take him. She had time to prepare. She
surmised this Rebekkah was taken suddenly and without warning.

And that this man obviously must've loved her deeply to want to end it all
because of it.

She swallowed hard and walked back to her father's grave, bending over to pick
up the single gardenia she laid there. Without hesitation, she walked back over
to the young woman's grave and laid it at the base of her headstone.
Straightening up, Amanda remembered what that man had said about finding the
fucker responsible. She hoped it was possible, if only for justice for Rebekkah.

Not to mention for his own sanity.

X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X

Back at the clubhouse, Happy backed his bike in to line up perfectly with the
others before removing his helmet and dismounting. He knew his brothers were
worried about him – had been since Bekka was killed – and all they wanted to do
was make sure he was okay. The best way to do that was to leave him alone and
try to deal with this the best way he knew how.

He stepped inside, not making eye contact with anyone to encourage pats on the
back or inquiries about his welfare. And everyone inside complied – letting
SAMCRO's newest member go to the bar to get something to help him cope with yet
another long night of restless sleep ahead of him. Even the thought of fucking
his frustration and grief out of his system didn't appeal to him. He had tried
that a few times after Bekka was buried with a couple of the hangarounds, but
all he could do was keep his eyes squeezed tight the entire time while he
pounded them punishingly, not caring about their protests – picturing Bekka's
beautiful face, her wild honey hair dancing down her back to where it teasingly
tickled the top of her bare ass as she flung her head back whenever he pulled up
on her shoulders to thrust into her from behind. Bekka craved that position and
Happy loved it as it was an absolute, complete total surrender of her body to
his – a sort of sexual trust.

But in the end, that trust could only be backed up in bed as he couldn't protect
her out of it. As many times as he convinced himself he couldn't have done
anything about what happened – that he couldn't have stopped that car if he
wanted to – he still felt like a failure. If he just had better control of his
bike, if he didn't allow them to both go over, if he just let go and held onto
Bekka when they fell instead of being dragged with his bike, maybe he could've
cushioned her body from the blunt force of slamming into the side of the
mountain, causing her neck to break.

A double shot of whiskey poured before him went down his throat to quick and
easy – doing absolutely nothing to negate all the 'ifs'. Another wouldn't
suffice – nor would two or three. "Gimme the bottle," he told the green prospect
behind the bar who was all too willing to do whatever he had asked considering
what he was going through. But he knew he couldn't go on like this forever. That
woman in the cemetery said it would get better with time, but he knew better.
And like he told her, the only way he'd be able to sleep at night without the
aid of alcohol was to avenge Bekka's death.

Happy held the bottle handed to him by the prospect, took a deep breath then
handed it back. "Nevermind," he said, slamming it down on the bartop. He knew
that if he was going to find the asshole who caused their accident, he had to
have his wits about him. He had to be sober. He had to be smart. He had to be
strong – both inside and out. He wallowed in his inconsolable grief for two
weeks and it was time to remember who he was, what he was and the
responsibilities of the patch he wore that he neglected so badly these last
fifteen days.

It was time for payback.

He spun around and eyed Bobby at the other end of the bar enjoying and unusual
fare of coffee and something freshly baked. "Where's Clay at?" Happy asked him.

Bobby nodded over to the double doors of their meeting room. "Goin' over next
week's run details with Jax and Tig."

Happy nodded and headed over, passing by a tight blonde who held a pool stick
out to him. "How about unwinding with a game?" she asked.

"Not now," he bit out, knocking once on the door before being called in. Inside,
Clay, Jax and Tig looked up at their brother who has been little more than a
walking zombie for two weeks. But this time, Happy had a more confident, sure
look about him, which his brothers seemed to notice.

"You look like a man on a mission," Clay told him.

Clay would never know about the mission Happy was going to undertake in the
cemetery not even an hour ago. Until that woman snuck up behind him and stopped
him. He was so set, so sure of ending his life until she came along. Only now
that he's still standing and breathing did he realize what a pussy move that
would've been. He hated himself for considering suicide – hated it even more
that some stranger saw him attempt it especially with his cut on. He'd try to
locate her again just to press his point

His dark eyes quickly glanced to Jax and Tig before settling on Clay. "Need to
talk when you're done."

There was a spark of hope in Clay's bright, blue eyes as he saw it as a good
sign that his 'ready-to-blow-at-any-moment' enforcer came out of his shell of
grief and wanted to talk. He looked to Jax and Tig for confirmation to which
they both shrugged in unison. "I think we're set," Jax said, seeing Happy's
wanting to talk to Clay a little more important than going over a strategy for
something they've pretty much got down to a science."

"Me too," Tig agreed.

"A'ight," Clay said, nodding them to the door. As Jax and Tig exited, they
briefly met Happy's gaze, giving their grief-stricken brother a comforting pat
on the back of the shoulder before leaving. Once the door was closed, Clay took
his chair at the head of the table and leaned back, clasping his hands behind
his head. "Floor's all yours, brother."

Happy stood flush against the table, his fingers resting on top of it, thinking
of what he wanted to say. Words weren't his strong point. He was a man of very
few, but whatever ones he chose to speak, he made sure they were effective.
"Despite what happened, I let this club down," he began. Clay immediately sat up
in his chair to which Happy put his hand up to stop him from trying to convince
him otherwise. "These last two weeks, I've been useless. I know you passed me