A/N

Welcome to the first re-written chapter of Beautifully Broken, thank you all for sticking with me and being so supportive. It means alot!

TW WARNING

Implied/referenced domestic abuse, assault, non/con, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation. Internalized victim blaming, anxiety, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, PTSD, self-harm, and low self esteem. These warnings are subject to change throughout the fic.

If any of these topics are triggering for you please continue with caution or skip on this fic!

"Fucking heap of trash." I snarl, clambering out of the faded red Jeep. Billowing white and grey fumes pour out of the front grill. It had overheated before, several times, but not quite this badly.

It could still be worse.

Lifting the hood and waving away the cloudy air helps somewhat.

Resigned to sitting on the side of the road for a few hours, I recline in the driver's seat and drum my fingers anxiously against my thigh.

A meaty black head lodges itself beneath my elbow. "Hiya Atlas," I murmur, rubbing the beast of a dogs head. Panic begins to build up, slowly but surely, in my chest at the potential danger of this shit situation.

Needing something to do besides contemplate my imminent torment, I unplug my phone from the cigarette lighter and try to figure out where in the hell I am.

It takes a few minutes but eventually I manage to decide that the nearest (small) town is Charming. For a minute I contemplate calling a tow truck. It would be a simple fix, but that simple fix would drain my already feeble funds. And I really can't have that. Especially if something is seriously wrong with the Jeep. It's overheated three times in the last two days, the radiator is probably destroyed.

So my best option is to hitchhike. It's still not a good option by anyone's standards but my alternative, sitting here, is far more nerve-wracking. I figure I can get Atlas in a motel and hopefully someone will give me a ride back to my car. Or I guess I'll be walking. A lot.

I begin digging through the luggage and start cramming the most important things into the backpack. My jaw aches dully where it's pressed into the seat.

Could be worse.

I wonder if the foundation's worn off yet. In this heat I wouldn't be surprised. I almost turn and tug the mirror down, just to check, to make sure it's still under control. The bigger part of me knows I'll see the same circular bruises, spread across my jaw and lower cheek.

I don't want to see them anymore.

A rumble sounds in the distance. Atlas perks up

Immediately my finger prods the mirror, adjusting it so I can see behind me better. Just in case.

The rumble increases steadily for a solid minute before the first motorcycle rounds the corner. Then another. And another.

Well shit.

I'm not sure how I knew they would stop. It's like a sixth sense. Except it feels a lot like fear, that kind of dreading fear that sits low in your stomach, thick and unyielding. The motorcycles, there's five of them now oh god five too many too-, pull up behind me.

Four of them stay behind the Jeep, but the one in the lead pulls up beside me.

"Car troubles?" He calls, tugging his helmet off and running a hand through shaggy shoulder length blonde hair.

He peers through the window and offers me a brilliant smile, all straight teeth and soft lips, the bit of blonde scruff around them adding to the allure. His eyes are a piercing light blue, framed with sturdy brows and unfairly long lashes.

However his attractiveness did very little to distract me from the unease of being alone with five, five's too many can't fight off five fi-, random men.

"Uh yeah, just overheated, I think." I climbing out of the seat and circling around to the passenger's side, Atlas huffing an excited bark. If I'm about to die it's not going to be sitting down, not again never again.

"Yeah?" Blondie asks tilting his head like a giant puppy. His eyes run over my jeans and loose dark green t shirt. Apparently he sees something he likes because his grin widens. He can't be older than twenty five. A black leather vest hugs his broad shoulders.

"Yep." I agree, shifting slightly from foot to foot. Trying to find a good balance, solid position.

"What's your name darlin'?" He asks, eyes zeroing in on my face, after his apparent appraisal of my body.

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes at his ogling, I offer a mildly irritated "Charlotte." What was the harm in telling him my name? Though I couldn't see it now, it would probably come back and bite me in the ass.

"Well, Charlotte" He drawls my name slowly, almost like he's testing it. "There's a town a few miles north. That's where we're headed. I own the mechanic shop." The others leave their bikes and stand in a loose semi circle around Blondie.

"And a tow truck." One of the others adds. He's vaguely bigfoot-ish. The only guy taller then Blondie, he has a massive dark brown beard and long tangled brown curls.

"I really don't think I need a tow. It'll cool down by itself in a while."

"I'm not leaving a pretty girl on the side of the road." Blondie chuckles, hands sliding down and patting his pockets, quickly finding the bright yellow pack of cigarettes he was searching for.

"What's your name?" I ask, partially because I don't want to call him "Blondie" to his face and partially because I want to change the subject. Deflection, deflection could work.

"Jax. Jax Teller." He says his last name with considerable weight, as if it's important. Like I should find it important.

"This is Ope." He gestures to previously dubbed bigfoot-ish man.

"Tig, Chibs, and Happy." I look at each one in turn. Ope nods. Tig, a man in his early forties with dark brown curls and a goatee, gives me a wide, almost predatory grin. I take a half step back, don't like that look that looks trouble, pain, bad look. Chibs glares at him, an exasperated thing born out of long familiarity, before smiling at me softly, "Pleasure."

He has a thick Scottish accent and his black hair is peppered with silver. The most dominant feature on his face is his scars. One on either cheek. They curl up into a gruesome smile.

As someone who has experience in the scars department I can tell that they're old, but so deep the hope of fading as long since crumbled.

My hand does an awkward half wave entirely of its own free will, the hell was that you fucking idiot, and I turn to the last man. Happy. What the hell kinda name is "Happy"? It really doesn't fit him. He stares, it's more of a glower really, intensely at me. Alrighty then.

Happy has a shaved head, decorated in tattoos, and a lean but muscular build. His features are sharp, paired with small dark eyes and a near snake like mouth. He looks like the type who bites when you get too close.

They're all wearing leather vests with the same logo on the back, a skeletal grim reaper and the words " Sons of Anarchy". So they were a gang. Of course I was surrounded by a gang. Why fucking not, honestly?

"Nice to meet you all." I finally say, though it comes out more like a question. A question answered by easy laughter.

"How about you hop on," He motions to his bike, "and we'll get everything fixed up?"

"I don't have any money." I admit, sheepish laughter breaking past my lips. Why the fuck would you laugh Jesus Christ you stupid bitch.

Jax shakes his head dismissively, "That's fine. It's on the house."

"I really can't accept that."

Charity was a hard no. No matter what. It didn't matter if someone promised they wanted nothing in return. It was all lies. Everyone craved something. Jax's hand is in that lovely hair of his again. I think it's probably longer than mine, at least the same length. "And why's that?" Jax asks, but his tone isn't accusatory, just politely curious.

Atlas gives a low throaty whine, unsure what to make of the strange men. The feelings mutual bud, I think tiredly.

"My dog." I gesture to the slobbering heap of fur. "I can't leave him, he'll get too hot in the car." I cross my arms over my chest and try not to grin in triumph. I've won and they know it.

"That's a nice looking dog," Tig says with a low whistle, "What the hell is he?"

"Little bit of this, little bit of that." I shrug. Secretly, I can't help but be a bit pleased that someone noticed what a handsome boy he is.

Jax takes a lazy hit of his cigarette, contemplating. "Okay, we'll send the truck back and you two can ride in the cab." He raises an eyebrow, daring me to object. I scowl slightly. I can't think of any excuse. At least this way I won't have to be away from Atlas at all.

"Alright" I relent "That'll work." Gonna regret it gonna regret it so bad.

With a pleased expression on his face turns to Ope. For fucks sakes what is with these people's names?

Maybe it's a gang thing. Maybe they're all code names. "Call Half-Sack and have him bring the truck." Jax orders quietly. For a second I think they are actually messing with me. The wariness and confusion must've been evident on my face, because Jax shakes his head and offers an exasperated "Don't ask."

Ope digs a phone out of his pocket and begins dialing. "You guys go ahead, I'll wait here with Charlotte."

Oh no oh nono.

"What?" My arms uncross and swing lightly at my sides.

"Hm?" Jax stops whispering to Chibs and looks at me. "You're staying here? With me?" Jax looks at me if I'm more then a little crazy. He's not wrong you know. Crazy, voices in your head right now, crazy.

"Yep." A playful wink, "We're not gonna leave you without protection darlin'."

If my thighs press together a bit tighter, it's not my fault. It's his and his damn winks and his smirks and his stupid fucking SoCal drawl.

"That's not - I mean you don't have to do that." I hate him a bit now. For doing this. I hate him for being his stupid cocky self, for being so fucking helpful, mostly I hate him because I like him.

Jax doesn't deign to respond and continues muttering to Chibbs. My chest tightens again, a harsh knot just above my heart. I don't want to be left alone with him. Not with any of them but especially not him.

He'll ask questions. I can tell, he's dying too and the only reason he hasn't already is his preoccupation with his friends. Once they're gone, so is my buffer.

But I have a minute, I remind myself, to fabricate all of the necessary lies. The trick is to add as much truth to them as you can. And to leave them straddling the line between the cliched and the extraordinary. I've discovered that is where the realism lives.

To about standing there and staring at them, I grab the water bottle and little plastic bowl that serve as Atlas's drinking station. He may have just finished off the bowl but it's hot enough that he's panting again.

"We good?" Jax asks loudly. I glance backward as I hold the bowl under Atlas' frothing mouth. Everyone but Jax has gotten back on their motorcycles. As they grumble their consent, he gives a brisk mocking salute. The bikes roar to life in a smooth fluid motion that seems damn near synchronized. And then they pull away.

Leaving Jax, Atlas, and I alone.