Author's Note: So this is the sequel to Ink and will probably lose some meaning if you haven't read it. Set in Tacoma, Washington and Belfast, Northern Ireland, it picks up in the weeks directly after where Ink left off - but the first few chapters will jump over a period of months to basically catch up on where everyone's at.

The big storylines set to carry over are, in no particular order, the fall-out facing SAMTAC after the death of their president Lorca, how Kozik handles the return of Lorca's ex-communicated daughter Taylor - and with a baby, no less - and, of course, tattoo artist Callie and Happy are already well and truly under each other's skin, but will Callie will make a new life for herself in Belfast or will their paths cross again ...

Hope you enjoy this and I'd love to hear your thoughts! Torrie x

Addiction
If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls.
-Henry Rollins

Prologue

Tacoma, Washington, USA

Twenty-nine charters scattered across the States and around the globe, from Anchorage to Arizona, Belfast to Brisbane. Twenty-nine charters, hundreds of patches, all ultimately his responsibility. It was a hell of a weight for one man to bear. He'd always known that, but sometimes the weight sat heavier on his shoulders than others.

And he'd never felt it more than as he sat at the head of Tacoma's empty table and held the gavel of a dead man in his hand. The arthritic heat in his knuckles burned feverishly, still paying for the long, hard ride from home. It had been a journey only made all the tougher for knowing the carnage that lay at the other end.

Sinking back in his chair, Clay Morrow heaved a weary sigh and shook his head, still struggling to comprehend just how the proverbial had been allowed to hit the fan so spectacularly. Much as it pained him to admit it, he wasn't a young man anymore. He couldn't help but long for his own bed, his old lady, and a shot of something to relieve the worst of the stiffness in his fingers.

Unfortunately for him, it looked like only one of those three options was going to be doable any time soon. Recognising the extent of his suffering probably better than he allowed himself to, Gemma had packed a kit with a few loaded syringes into his bag. And, while he'd groused at the time, relief had now definitely kicked in that his wife refused to be swayed in showing such foresight.

He had enough shit to deal with without wasting time being distracted by his damn hands and their slow betrayal.

SAMTAC had always held close ties to Redwood, despite the distance - providing extra muscle as and when, whether it was for straightforward protection or to help with the gun running. Some of the charter's highest ranking members had at one time or another been patched SAMCRO. Kozik, Happy, Bowie back in the day.

The news out of Washington had hit hard in California. The death of a president was always a blow and the mother charter had turned out in force for the funeral. But for Clay, the only one as yet who knew the dark truth of it all and who had stayed on with just Jax, Tig and Chibs, the devil truly was in the detail.

At the short, sharp rap on the chapel door, he wiped a hand over his eyes and looked up. "Get in here," he said, lacking the energy to really make it an order.

For a long moment, he surveyed the stern-faced Son stood tall in front of him. If he'd been looking to operate from a position of power, he'd have risen to meet that gaze on a level footing, but he was beyond that kind of bullshit power-play right now.

"Take a goddamn seat, Hap," he sighed. "You're givin' me a crick in my neck."

After a beat, Happy tugged out a chair and sat in his usual place at the table. Lorca at the head, Johnny in the VP's seat to his left and Kozik at his right hand, with Bowie beside the VP and Hap himself by Koz's side - that was how it was supposed to be. And never would again, Clay realised as the sheer finality of his old friend's passing washed over him again.

"So ..." he began, taking in the signs of strain around the dark eyes of his club's number one hitman and the obvious tension in his shoulders as he sat back with his inked arms crossed over his chest. "You still serious?"

A simple nod was all it took to make it clear that a decision had been made. And by an unswayable mind. Contrary to assumptions, the man was capable of more than brute force and calculated reasoning was far from beyond him. But this ... It looked like this was not going to be up for debate. True, as president, he could have squashed that shit straight off the bat. But, after everything, where would a disillusioned killer really get them?

And, to be honest, if that was all Happy was looking for, Clay – as troubled as he was by what it meant for the already fractured charter – reckoned they were getting off light.

"I'll talk to Quinn," he said. "You'll be nomad by the end of the week. Christ, I need a drink."

Closing the door behind him, Happy headed out of the chapel and across the clubhouse, never breaking stride until he was outside and tilting his face up to the gray sky. He ran his hands over his shaved head, blew out an angry breath, then reached for his smokes.

This was unchartered territory and it didn't sit easy with him.

He'd worn a patch, in one form or another, for the best part of twenty years and he'd long since realised that his particular role within the club meant that he felt its weight more keenly than many of his brothers. He'd made a hell of a lot of sacrifices for the club over the years – distanced himself from civilian life, put his own on hold when he'd had to serve time and on the line every time he put himself in front of a threat.

Despite everything, he'd never found himself resenting any of it. Until now.

And he was struggling to get past it. He needed out.

Not of the club, fuck no. But Tacoma, that was a different story. Especially right now, when he was one of only a very select few who knew the extent of the shit piled up at their door. Lorca had been his president for a long time and his brother for longer still. Even after everything, he couldn't just turn off the feelings of loss at his death – especially given how that had gone down. Sons didn't take that road out. They just didn't.

Even if Happy did think he understood where the man's head had been at when he had weighed up his increasingly limited options, it didn't change anything. He was stuck between two warring sets of emotions, neither of which were getting him anywhere. Regardless of whether it was taking the coward's way out or trying to save the club from being torn further apart, he wished Lorca wasn't dead and that the man he'd respected for so many years hadn't turned his gun on himself.

But he also wanted him dead and in the ground. And he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger himself. He didn't want to mourn the bastard like the rest of his still reeling brothers.

Leaning against the clubhouse wall, his lit cigarette between his lips, his fists clenched and his head bowed, Happy reluctantly let his eyes drift closed. And there it was. The same image that haunted his sleep, now burned on the back of his eyelids.

Big gray eyes full of tears and terror. Bright red blood bubbling at soft, sweet lips. Slim fingers caught in his own helpless hand, needing him when there was nothing he could do.

He wasn't sure what was worse. That or the times he saw her pale and still, already gone.

Fuck, he felt like a dumbass. This brooding over shit wasn't him, never had been. And there was usually more than enough carnage going on in his life without dreaming up any more. Yeah, that little blonde had been through more than she should ever have had to face and he knew he'd come within seconds of watching her lose her fight for life right in front of him. It hadn't happened though, so what the hell was his goddamn problem?

She wasn't dead.

Happy took a deep drag on his cigarette, tilting his head back against the wall and opening his eyes to stare up at the clouds as he exhaled a long stream of smoke.

Callie wasn't dead. His girl wasn't dead.

Just gone.

Belfast, Northern Ireland

Even though the shower was losing a little of its earlier heat, still she stood there under the spray. Her hands were braced on the tiled wall, her head tilted down to let the pressure of the water work on the tension knotted deep in her shoulders. It had only been three months and she still wasn't supposed to be over-doing it, but she never had been a good patient. She didn't have ... well, the patience for it.

Knowing she couldn't stay there forever, with a reluctant sigh, Callie twisted the dial to turn the setting to a soft cascading waterfall and let it soak soothingly into her mane of long, already freshly washed, blonde hair. This time, she lifted her face into the spray as well and, closing her eyes, just let the water wash over her.

Her most recent ink had healed well and the droplets coursing down her back didn't sting like they had when it was fresh. She just wished she could say the same for the vicious scar marring her chest. Oh, it didn't sting - the wound had healed quickly and she no longer had to worry about keeping it dry - but the jagged, puckered line would take longer to fade. Much longer.

And knowing that she would never be completely rid of that ugly reminder still tended to stop her in her tracks.

The quick, stabbing feel of cold steel slicing into soft flesh ... Rasping as she fought for breath ... Panic rising when it seemed that the metallic tang of her own blood in her throat was going to choke her ... The terror when her fingers went instinctively to the source of the pain and came away slick ...

She didn't want to remember any of it. Not the hurt, the fear, the look in the dark eyes that had met hers.

She had been so scared, so glad of Happy's strong hand holding hers although she hadn't been able to tell him. Because she had known how bad it was and she hadn't wanted to die, but more than that, she desperately hadn't wanted to be alone in that moment. She had never so badly needed someone to be there for her - someone to love her and lie to her and tell her it was going to be okay.

Happy had tried. God, she could see how he had tried. But, despite everything he must have done in a life lived for his club, not even the killer could keep the truth from his eyes. His fingers had gripped hers like that alone would be enough to tether her to him and he'd told her he wasn't losing her. His eyes had told a different story.

Just like that night, a tear slipped free from beneath her lashes and, with a shuddering sigh, Callie scrubbed it away and forced herself to shake off the weight of those still raw memories. Angry with her moment of weakness, she spun the shower dial and turned the water to an icy jet that drew a gasp when it hit the warmth of her skin. She should have had no fucking time for self-pity – she was alive, wasn't she?

It was over, done with and consigned to the past. Like so many other things in her life. Her so-called family, the place she should have been able to call her childhood home ... Happy? The ache in her chest when she thought of the gruff, inked biker who had held her like he'd never let go – then watched her walk away after all - had nothing to do with the blade that had so narrowly missed her heart.

But changing tack and reminding herself that she had promised Casey she'd have dinner with him and his family, she tried to force herself to focus on the here and now. She shut the water off firmly and swathed herself in a large, fluffy towel to dry off, before padding barefoot from the bathroom to her bedroom. Grabbing a comb from the dresser, she sat down on the edge of the bed to work on the tangles of her hair, her gaze drifting out the window of her new riverside apartment to the dull red streaks of the clear evening sky.

She missed him. Too much for them to be done.

Even in the studio, either working or under Casey's needle herself, she hadn't been able to find peace in her own skin. Usually the hum of the tattoo gun or the pull of the needle was a strange kind of catharsis. Not everyone's idea of escape, but it worked for her. Or at least it had before.

Laid on her front a few weeks earlier, with her head pillowed on her folded arms and her long tousled hair piled into a messy bun out of the way, she'd let her eyes drift closed and tried to focus on the slow burn spreading down her bare back. But with everything else still tumbling over in her mind, there was little chance of escape. Not when she had a new city and all that entailed, plus thoughts of the one she'd left behind, to contend with.

She still couldn't believe that weeks had slipped so quickly into months. Two months since she'd left the city that had once been her sanctuary, back before things got complicated. Two months since she'd heard from Happy. Since she'd been in his arms, kissing him like they were the only two people in the world – never mind the airport.

This was supposed to be a new start. Hence the long, slender phoenix that stretched and curled elegantly from its head on her shoulder, down one side of her spine, to the last fiery tendrils of a tail that reached her hip. Bold in size, delicate in style. Casey Devine had outdone himself.

For someone making a new start, she sure felt like she had a whole heap of unfinished business to contend with though. Most of it in Tacoma. Simply put, she couldn't say that she truly knew where she stood with the one person who had gotten deeper beneath her skin than anyone else. Despite everything, there were too many contradictions. She knew he cared – more than cared, though he'd never quite said it. He hadn't left her side until he'd known she wasn't going to slip away from him. And yet here she was, thousands of miles away.

And he had watched her go.

Sure, she had a crow – a sketch on a piece of paper tucked inside her wallet. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Even after all these weeks, she hadn't figured out if it was a goodbye or a promise. A parting gift or a signal of intent. She didn't even know what she wanted it to be. Maybe it was a precursor to something more, maybe it was all he would ever be able to give her ...

That blade may have scarred her chest, but it was her heart that hurt and her head that was well and truly fucked up from all the what ifs. What if she hadn't left for Belfast? What if she and Happy had never been more than friends? What if she'd never met Michael La Velle, the club's goddamn lawyer? What if she'd never even moved to Tacoma in the first place?

She felt like a pawn in a chess game. One tiny move and everything could change.

For better or worse.

to be continued ...