She is an object of pity.

At first.

Shifty eyes under heavily lined lids follow the widow as she moves around the clubhouse. The favor she garnered with the club has protected her, but as the old lady of a dead president, her power is slipping away.

And crow-eaters can smell weakness.

She clears the clutter of another raucous night automatically, issuing sharp orders to bleary-eyed sweetbutts to move their asses and be fucking useful.

With exaggerated care, a little blonde gash drops an ashtray in front of her, sure to spread the mess with her lucite-heeled foot. The grin she gives Gemma is filled with bitter pleasure.

Your days are numbered, Old Lady.

Gemma returns her look evenly, the barest hint of a smile on her lips.

She knows a little something these whores don't.

And she always, always, lands on her feet.

They are careful and they are quiet. What Bobby and Piney and Tig suspect, they take great pains not to outright confirm. A quick fuck in the garage after close, a mindblowing blowjob in the woods just out of town on the way home. They have difficulty keeping their hands off each other.

"I love you," she whispers to the sky, as he kneels between her thighs. Stars incandesce behind her lids when he slides inside her and he murmurs his own fidelities against the damp hair of her forehead.

Strong arms anchor her to reality when the past threatens to darken her present.

"All for you, baby." He promises, and she believes him.

He stays in her bed more nights than not, hiding the bike in the garage and leaving well before dawn.

It's important, they think, to allow the dust to settle.

Acrid smoke drifts across the res as the bonfire burns just this side of out of control. There are 3 visiting charters and the party that results is hellish. There are bodies, booze, and dancing. Bare-knuckled brawls have been going for hours, each Charter offering up a member to bloody the others for honor.

Gemma watches from the periphery, as she has been of late. Scorn and outright disdain are common now among the sweetbutts and crow-eaters and Gemma has gone out of her way to stay under their radar.

They are fighting amongst themselves for the place John Teller's death has left behind.

As far as they are concerned, The Queen of SAMCRO is dead. Long live the new Queen, whoever she may be.

Clay, huge and glistening, beats a young prospect from Oakland to a pulp. The crowd roars when the prospect drops like a rock and Clay saunters back to his seat, Bobby Elvis and Piney smacking him on the back heartily.

His president patch is newly sewn, his cut resting on the back of the chair.

He is a challenge to every woman on the res; the eyes of fifteen different crow-eaters follow his intimidating silhouette.

He doesn't even notice.

Gemma moves around the outskirts of the party, her eyes sharp as she observes the crowd shift. Clay leans back, magnificent body glinting in the firelight, watching as two sweetbutts vie for his attention. His grin is slight, his eyes dark in the flickering shadows.

He is waiting for his Queen.

The blonde gash who has been shadowing him all night sidles closer, resting her hot palm on his jean-clad knee. Her eyes are blue-black in the darkness and her fingers roll up the seam of his pants and stop just shy of the bulge of his crotch.

When she senses no resistance, her hand moves rhythmically against him. She cannot see his eyes.

If she could, she would know they weren't watching her.

A rude slice of pain across her scalp causes the bitch to scream. Gemma's nails are twisted in her extensions and she yanks backwards with enough violence to have the young snatch tumbling to the ground. With lithe movements Gemma steps over the prone usurper to straddle Clay's thighs. His sure hands cup her ass and draw her into his lap.

It is to the whoops and hollers of the SAMCRO charter that Gemma drops her face to Clay's. Her tongue is bold and she draws it across his bloody lip, suckling until he hisses against her.

She bites playfully and earns herself a flat-handed smack to her ass. Her fingers curl in the hair behind his ears, pulling him even closer, marking her territory in a spectacular display. In one smooth movement Clay is on his feet, Gemma wrapped around him, rocking impatiently.

The boys watch with unbridled amusement, and Tig is forced to hand over a twenty to a grinning Bobby Elvis. They holler their encouragements as Clay carries his old lady out of the ring of light.

A trailer door slams behind the couple and this time they don't bother to be quiet. The entire structure rocks.

The mingled cries of the President and his old lady underscore the party raging just outside.

Point received, crow-eaters scatter; the search for a new target already begun.

There will be no shift in power this night, and a few unruly girls must find ways to make amends for their behavior of late.

Defeated, the blonde gash leaves the res and never looks back.

Long live the Queen.