COMING HOME — FemPOV

By the time Jax pulled his truck into the driveway, he'd spent nine hours installing custom kitchen cabinets for a couple who apparently couldn't agree on anything except the fact that they wanted the job finished before Friday. He'd listened to an argument about drawer handles for twenty minutes, discovered that the previous contractor had apparently never heard of a level, and managed to get walnut stain on the only decent pair of work jeans he owned. His shoulders ached, his back was stiff, and there was enough sawdust in the cab of his truck to build a small piece of furniture.

Still, it had been a good day. The cabinets looked fucking beautiful, the customer had paid the remaining balance, and Jax had another job lined up for Monday. There were worse ways to make a living than spending his days working with his hands, even if his hands currently looked like he'd been digging through somebody's backyard.

He climbed out of the truck, grabbed his keys and the half-empty coffee he'd forgotten about that morning, and took a moment to stretch his back. His faded white T-shirt was damp around the collar and across his chest, the sleeves fitting snugly around arms that had spent most of the afternoon holding heavy cabinet doors in place. A smear of sawdust ran along his forearm, and his dirty blond hair had long since escaped whatever arrangement he'd attempted that morning. He gave his boots a halfhearted knock against the porch steps before heading inside, already knowing he'd be hearing about the mess if he tracked it through the house.

"Baby, I'm home," he called, dropping his keys onto the little wooden tray he'd made for precisely that purpose. He'd also made the shoe rack, the coffee table, and the shelves in the living room, which meant he had absolutely nobody to blame when something around the house needed fixing. "And before you say anything, I know I smell like a goddamn lumberyard."

He found you inside, and the sight of you was enough to improve his mood considerably. Jax leaned against the doorway for a moment, taking you in with an appreciative little grin before pushing himself upright and wandering closer. He'd been looking forward to coming home all afternoon, and not just because there was cold beer in the fridge and a shower with his name on it.

"Well, shit. Look at you." His smile widened as he approached, slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you close enough to press a kiss against your cheek. "Here I am, looking like I crawled out of a construction site, and you're standing there looking all pretty. Making me feel underdressed in my own damn house."

He smelled of cedar, sweat, cigarettes, and the faint chemical sweetness of wood stain, and he knew perfectly well he ought to wash up before getting too comfortable. That didn't stop him from lingering, his rough thumb brushing affectionately against your waist as he leaned down for another kiss. He was tired, sure, but there was a considerable difference between being too tired to carry another kitchen cabinet and being too tired to appreciate his girlfriend.

"Christ, you should've seen the shit I had to deal with today," he continued, shaking his head with an amused snort. "Guy spent fifteen grand on a custom kitchen and then tried to tell me the cabinets weren't straight. Turns out his fucking floor isn't straight. Had to get my level out and explain to a grown man how gravity works."

Jax chuckled at the memory, then glanced down at his stained fingers. He held one hand up between them, examining the dark streaks across his knuckles before turning it over to show you the roughened palm. There was a little nick near his thumb, another along his index finger, and the familiar calluses that came from years of handling lumber and power tools. He'd been told more than once that he ought to take better care of his hands, usually by Gemma, who seemed convinced he'd eventually sand his fingerprints clean off.

"Been handling wood since seven this morning," he remarked, perfectly casually, although the crooked grin beginning to spread across his face suggested he'd already entertained himself with the direction of that sentence. "Big pieces, little pieces, some real expensive hardwood. Had my hands all over the stuff."

He paused just long enough to appreciate his own stupidity, then laughed quietly and settled his other hand at your hip. His eyes wandered over your face, and the expression he wore was unmistakably the one that usually preceded him saying something he had absolutely no business saying out loud.

"Actually, you know what? Think I've earned a little help around here." He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that familiar, conspiratorial register he used whenever he was being particularly shameless. "I've been working my wood all goddamn day, darlin'. Maybe it's about time you handled mine instead. Put those pretty hands to work, huh?"

He grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and gave your waist a gentle squeeze before adding, "Although I should probably wash 'em first. Unless you want walnut stain somewhere it's gonna be real fucking hard to explain to my customers tomorrow."

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COMING HOME — MalePOV / MLM

By the time Jax pulled his truck into the driveway, he'd spent nine hours installing custom kitchen cabinets for a couple who apparently couldn't agree on anything except the fact that they wanted the job finished before Friday. He'd listened to an argument about drawer handles for twenty minutes, discovered that the previous contractor had apparently never heard of a level, and managed to get walnut stain on the only decent pair of work jeans he owned. His shoulders ached, his back was stiff, and there was enough sawdust in the cab of his truck to build a small piece of furniture.

Still, it had been a good day. The cabinets looked fucking beautiful, the customer had paid the remaining balance, and Jax had another job lined up for Monday. There were worse ways to make a living than spending his days working with his hands, even if his hands currently looked like he'd been digging through somebody's backyard.

He climbed out of the truck, grabbed his keys and the half-empty coffee he'd forgotten about that morning, and took a moment to stretch his back. His faded white T-shirt was damp around the collar and across his chest, the sleeves fitting snugly around arms that had spent most of the afternoon holding heavy cabinet doors in place. A smear of sawdust ran along his forearm, and his dirty blond hair had long since escaped whatever arrangement he'd attempted that morning. He gave his boots a halfhearted knock against the porch steps before heading inside, already knowing he'd be hearing about the mess if he tracked it through the house.

"Baby, I'm home," he called, dropping his keys onto the little wooden tray he'd made for precisely that purpose. He'd also made the shoe rack, the coffee table, and the shelves in the living room, which meant he had absolutely nobody to blame when something around the house needed fixing. "And before you say anything, I know I smell like a goddamn lumberyard."

He found you inside, and the sight of his boyfriend was enough to improve his mood considerably. Jax leaned against the doorway for a moment, taking you in with an appreciative little grin before pushing himself upright and wandering closer. He'd been looking forward to coming home all afternoon, and not just because there was cold beer in the fridge and a shower with his name on it.

"Well, shit. Look at you." His smile widened as he approached, slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you close enough to press a kiss against your cheek. "Here I am, looking like I crawled out of a construction site, and you're standing there looking all handsome. Making me feel underdressed in my own damn house."

He smelled of cedar, sweat, cigarettes, and the faint chemical sweetness of wood stain, and he knew perfectly well he ought to wash up before getting too comfortable. That didn't stop him from lingering, his rough thumb brushing affectionately against your waist as he leaned down for another kiss. He was tired, sure, but there was a considerable difference between being too tired to carry another kitchen cabinet and being too tired to appreciate his boyfriend.

"Christ, you should've seen the shit I had to deal with today," he continued, shaking his head with an amused snort. "Guy spent fifteen grand on a custom kitchen and then tried to tell me the cabinets weren't straight. Turns out his fucking floor isn't straight. Had to get my level out and explain to a grown man how gravity works."

Jax chuckled at the memory, then glanced down at his stained fingers. He held one hand up between them, examining the dark streaks across his knuckles before turning it over to show you the roughened palm. There was a little nick near his thumb, another along his index finger, and the familiar calluses that came from years of handling lumber and power tools. He'd been told more than once that he ought to take better care of his hands, usually by Gemma, who seemed convinced he'd eventually sand his fingerprints clean off.

"Been handling wood since seven this morning," he remarked, perfectly casually, although the crooked grin beginning to spread across his face suggested he'd already entertained himself with the direction of that sentence. "Big pieces, little pieces, some real expensive hardwood. Had my hands all over the stuff."

He paused just long enough to appreciate his own stupidity, then laughed quietly and settled his other hand at your hip. His eyes wandered over your face, and the expression he wore was unmistakably the one that usually preceded him saying something he had absolutely no business saying out loud.

"Actually, you know what? Think I've earned a little help around here." He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that familiar, conspiratorial register he used whenever he was being particularly shameless. "I've been working my wood all goddamn day, handsome. Maybe it's about time you handled mine instead. Put those pretty hands to work, huh?"

He grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and gave your waist a gentle squeeze before adding, "Although I should probably wash 'em first. Unless you want walnut stain somewhere it's gonna be real fucking hard to explain to my customers tomorrow."

THE HOUSE CALL — Something Needs Screwing

Jax Teller had been inside your kitchen for the better part of two hours, and he'd already found three things wrong with it that nobody had hired him to fix. The original job was simple enough: a cabinet door that wouldn't close properly, a drawer that kept getting stuck, and a section of countertop that had started pulling away from the wall. Nothing particularly complicated, nothing that required tearing the kitchen apart, and certainly nothing that justified the sort of money some contractors around Charming liked charging people who didn't know a screwdriver from a socket wrench.

He'd known you long enough to be comfortable wandering into your house with his toolbox and a coffee, and he'd been flirting with you long enough that neither of you needed to pretend his occasional inappropriate comments were accidental. Charming was a small town, and Jax had a habit of knowing practically everyone in it. You'd crossed paths at bars, around town, and through mutual acquaintances often enough for him to develop a particular fondness for making you the recipient of his worst jokes. He'd never needed much encouragement to be a smartass, but an attractive acquaintance who actually tolerated him was practically an invitation.

"Whoever put these cabinets in oughta be arrested," he announced from beneath the kitchen counter, where he'd been examining the drawer runners with a flashlight clenched between his teeth. He removed it long enough to add, "I'm serious. This is a fucking hate crime against carpentry."

His work boots stuck out from beneath the cabinet, one knee bent awkwardly against the floor while he reached farther inside. He'd already removed the offending drawer and set it aside, along with a small collection of screws that apparently hadn't been doing much of anything. His white T-shirt had ridden up slightly at his waist, exposing a narrow strip of tanned skin above his jeans, and there was a faint smear of dust along his jaw from where he'd scratched himself without thinking.

"See, this is what happens when somebody buys the cheapest hardware they can find and figures nobody's gonna notice." He emerged from beneath the counter, pushing himself upright with a quiet grunt before holding up a bent metal bracket. "Look at this shit. Thing's about as useful as tits on a bull."

He tossed the bracket into his toolbox and reached for a replacement, taking a moment to stretch his shoulders. Jax genuinely liked this part of his job, the satisfaction of finding exactly what was wrong and knowing how to make it right. He liked it considerably more when the customer wasn't standing over his shoulder questioning every decision, and he'd always found your company preferable to that of most people who hired him.

"Good news is, I can fix it. Bad news is, whoever did this originally had no fucking business owning tools." He flashed you a grin as he selected the right screwdriver. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You're in good hands."

He returned to work, replacing the damaged hardware and adjusting the drawer until it slid smoothly along its runners. He tested it several times, apparently satisfied, then moved on to the cabinet door. The hinges needed adjusting, and one of the screws had been driven in at such an angle that he briefly considered finding the original installer just to ask what the hell he'd been thinking.

Jax worked with the easy confidence of somebody who'd spent years doing this for a living. He knew when something needed replacing and when it simply needed adjusting, and he wasn't about to charge you for an entirely new cabinet because somebody had installed a hinge badly. His hands moved efficiently, the little cordless drill buzzing intermittently as he worked, until the door finally sat flush against its frame.

"There we go. Nice and tight." He opened and closed it twice, then glanced over his shoulder with a crooked smile. "That's how you want it. No rattling, no sagging, nothing coming loose when you give it a good pull."

He held your gaze for a moment before laughing at himself and returning the drill to his toolbox. It was hardly the first dirty joke he'd made in your presence, and he doubted it would be the last. He'd once managed to turn a perfectly innocent conversation about hardwood flooring into something so inappropriate that Opie had threatened to leave the bar rather than listen to another word.

The countertop was the last job. Jax crouched to inspect the gap along the wall, running his fingers beneath the edge to check the supports before reaching for his tape measure. The laminate itself was in decent condition, but the fastening had loosened, leaving just enough movement to become a problem. He'd brought the necessary hardware in his truck, having suspected as much when you'd described the issue.

"Now, this one needs a little more attention," he explained, extending the tape measure along the counter. "Gotta get underneath, secure the brackets, make sure everything's sitting where it should. Nothing major."

He straightened, pushed his dirty blond hair back with the heel of his hand, and took a long drink from the coffee he'd abandoned on the counter. It had gone cold an hour ago, but Jax had never been particularly precious about coffee as long as it contained caffeine. He glanced toward you again, his expression shifting into the sort of smug amusement that usually meant he was about to say something deeply unnecessary.

"Y'know, most people just call me when something breaks. You could've called me over for a beer instead." He set the cup down and rested one hip against the counter, looking entirely too comfortable in your kitchen. "Would've saved you some money. Probably would've gotten here faster, too."

He let the suggestion hang there for a moment before reaching for his drill again. There was still work to finish, and regardless of how much he enjoyed flirting, he wasn't leaving you with a loose countertop just because he had a pretty face and a functioning mouth.

"Anyway, I'm gonna need to get down underneath this thing again." He looked at the narrow space beneath the counter, then back at you, a slow grin spreading across his face. "And before you start getting any ideas, darlin', I usually charge extra when somebody wants to watch me work on my knees."

Jax chuckled, already crouching to retrieve the brackets from his toolbox. "Although, for you, I might be willing to negotiate."

FREE LABOR AIN'T FREE — The IKEA Incident

Jax Teller had been promised a bookshelf, dinner, and a couple of cold beers. Those were the terms of the agreement, negotiated over drinks the previous weekend when you'd mentioned needing help putting together some furniture. He'd accepted without much consideration, partly because assembling a bookshelf was hardly a challenge for a man who built custom cabinetry for a living, and partly because spending a Saturday afternoon at your place sounded considerably more appealing than doing the paperwork he'd been avoiding at his own house.

What he hadn't been promised was seven flat-packed boxes occupying most of your living room, a small mountain of cardboard, and enough individually packaged screws to supply a modest hardware store.

Jax stood just inside the doorway, holding the six-pack he'd brought, and surveyed the situation with the expression of a man who'd discovered a particularly elaborate practical joke. His faded black T-shirt was tucked loosely into worn jeans, his dirty blond hair pushed back behind his ears, and the sunglasses he'd worn while riding over were still perched on top of his head. He'd come straight from his garage, expecting an easy afternoon with somebody whose company he genuinely enjoyed.

"Jesus fucking Christ." He looked from the boxes to you, then back at the boxes. "What the hell is all this?"

He set the beer on the nearest available surface and wandered over to inspect the packaging. There was a bookshelf, certainly, but also a dresser, two bedside tables, a television stand, and several smaller boxes whose contents weren't immediately obvious. Jax picked up one of the instruction booklets, flipped through the diagrams, and let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Seven boxes. You told me one bookshelf, sweetheart. One." He held up a finger for emphasis, although the grin pulling at his mouth suggested he wasn't genuinely offended. "That's false advertising. Pretty sure I can sue you for that."

He'd known you around Charming for long enough to recognize when he was being recruited for something, and he wasn't particularly bothered by it. You were good company, the sort of person he could spend an afternoon talking shit with without feeling obligated to entertain anybody. He also liked being useful, although he'd sooner swallow a handful of drywall screws than admit how much he enjoyed being the person you called when something needed doing.

Jax crouched beside the bookshelf box and pulled out a laminated piece of particleboard, turning it over in his hands with immediate professional disapproval. He examined the edges, ran a thumb along the thin veneer, and made a face.

"Aw, come on. Look at this shit." He tapped the board with his knuckles. "That's not wood. That's sawdust somebody glued together and convinced to have a career."

He wasn't entirely wrong, although he was being considerably more dramatic about it than necessary. He knew perfectly well that flat-pack furniture served a purpose, that not everybody needed or wanted solid walnut cabinetry, and that plenty of perfectly functional homes were furnished with inexpensive pieces. None of that prevented him from taking personal offense at the little bag of wooden dowels he'd just discovered.

"And these fucking things." He held one up between his fingers. "You know how many of these I've had to replace because somebody put a shelf together wrong? Whole thing starts wobbling like Tig after six beers."

He tossed the dowel back into its bag, removed the instruction booklet, and settled cross-legged on the floor. The diagrams were straightforward enough, and Jax was more than capable of following them, despite his firm belief that he could probably build a better bookshelf from scratch in the time it would take to assemble this one. He'd already decided to finish the job properly, because leaving something half-done would irritate him far more than spending his Saturday putting together furniture.

"All right. Here's what's gonna happen. We're doing the big stuff first, because if I sit on this floor for six hours, my back's gonna file for divorce." He glanced up at you, flashing that familiar crooked smile. "And I'm upgrading my payment. Dinner, beer, and you owe me a favor. Haven't decided what kind yet."

He started sorting the hardware into little piles, separating the cam locks from the screws and wooden pegs. The tiny Allen key supplied with the furniture earned a particularly contemptuous look. Jax held it up, turning it between his fingers as though examining an unfamiliar archaeological artifact.

"Look at this adorable little bastard. They expect a grown man to build a whole fucking dresser with something that came out of a cereal box." He reached for the compact tool kit he'd brought from his garage, retrieving a proper hex bit. "Nah. We're not doing that."

For the next hour, Jax worked steadily through the bookshelf, occasionally asking you to hold a panel in place or pass him a particular screw. He talked while he worked, complaining about a customer who'd tried to haggle over the price of custom oak cabinets, mentioning that Opie wanted help repairing his fence next weekend, and recounting an argument he'd witnessed between Chibs and Tig over whether a pool table could reasonably be considered an appropriate place to eat dinner.

By the time the bookshelf stood upright against the wall, Jax had worked up a sweat despite the relatively easy labor. He pushed his hair back, examined the finished piece, and gave it a cautious shake to make sure everything was secure.

"Well, would you look at that. Piece of shit actually stands up." He grinned, clearly pleased with himself despite his ongoing criticism of the materials. "Might even survive a couple years if you don't go putting a fucking aquarium on top of it."

He took a beer from the six-pack, opened it, and settled onto the floor beside the next box. There was something pleasantly domestic about the afternoon, even with the cardboard everywhere and the prospect of several more hours of assembly ahead of him. He didn't have anywhere particularly important to be, and the company was good enough that he wasn't in any hurry to leave.

The dresser came next. Jax opened the packaging, examined the instructions, and immediately found another opportunity to be insufferable.

"Ah, now we're talking. Drawers." He glanced up at you, his expression turning shamelessly suggestive. "I happen to be real good with drawers. Been getting into 'em since I was a teenager."

He laughed at his own joke, took another drink of beer, and started laying out the panels. His eyes wandered toward the remaining boxes before returning to you, a crooked smile settling comfortably across his face.

"Y'know, I usually charge a hundred bucks an hour for this kind of shit." He picked up a wooden dowel and rolled it between his fingers. "But since you're such a good friend, I'm willing to accept alternative forms of payment."

He gave the dowel an unnecessarily suggestive little waggle before tossing it into the hardware pile, laughing as he reached for his drill.

"Relax, sweetheart. I'm talking about dessert. Although if you're offering something better, I ain't gonna stop you."

THE BOYS ARE HELPING — Four Idiots and a Deck

By eleven on Saturday morning, Jax Teller had already threatened to fire Tig Trager twice, confiscated a power drill from Juice, and informed Chibs that sitting in a lawn chair drinking beer did not constitute helping with construction. The fact that none of these men actually worked for him seemed to make very little difference. He was building a deck, he'd made the mistake of inviting his friends to help, and he was beginning to understand why professional contractors generally preferred paying employees over accepting free labor from a collection of middle-aged idiots.

The project itself was straightforward enough. You'd wanted a proper deck out back, somewhere to put a table, a couple of chairs, maybe a grill when the weather was good. Jax had offered to handle the construction, partly because he knew exactly what he was doing and partly because he liked you enough to spend his weekend working in your backyard. He'd drawn up the plans, sorted out the materials, and arranged for the lumber to be delivered. What he'd neglected to account for was Tig arriving with a cooler full of beer and a completely unsolicited opinion about the structural requirements of a hot tub.

"I'm telling you, Jackie, you're gonna regret not reinforcing this thing," Tig insisted, standing beside the unfinished frame with a beer in one hand and a tape measure in the other. "You get one of those big-ass hot tubs out here, couple of girls, some bubbles, little mood lighting? Fucking paradise."

Jax was crouched beside a joist, checking the placement of a hanger before driving in the appropriate fasteners. He didn't bother looking up. "Nobody's buying a hot tub, Tig."

"Not yet. That's my point. Gotta think ahead."

"Then think about picking up that fucking board instead of standing there talking about naked women."

Opie, who was holding the opposite end of a length of lumber, let out a quiet laugh. Of the four men who'd volunteered to help, he was the only one Jax trusted to complete a task without constant supervision. They'd known each other since childhood, and Opie had spent enough time around Jax's projects to understand the difference between being useful and getting in the way. He also had the good sense to keep his beer away from the work area.

"He's got a point about the hot tub," Opie remarked, adjusting his grip on the board. "Not the naked women part. Just the weight."

Jax looked up at him with an expression of profound betrayal. "Don't fucking encourage him."

Across the yard, Chibs had appointed himself supervisor of the entire operation. He occupied a folding chair in a patch of shade, sunglasses perched on his nose, with a beer resting against one knee. He'd helped unload the lumber earlier and had offered several genuinely useful observations about the layout, which apparently entitled him to spend the remainder of the morning providing commentary.

"Wouldn't worry about it, Jackie Boy," he called. "At the rate you lot are moving, the poor bastard'll be lucky to have a deck before Christmas."

"You're welcome to get off your ass and help, Chibs."

"Aye, and deprive you of my professional guidance? Wouldn't be fair."

Juice, meanwhile, had been assigned the relatively harmless job of organizing the remaining lumber by length. He'd approached this responsibility with admirable enthusiasm until he'd accidentally knocked over a stack of offcuts, prompting Jax to take away the cordless drill he'd been carrying around for no particular reason. He was now helping Opie move boards, occasionally glancing toward the cooler as though trying to determine whether he'd earned another beer.

Jax straightened from the frame, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and surveyed the backyard. His white T-shirt was damp with sweat, pale sawdust clung to his jeans, and his dirty blond hair had been pushed back so many times that it was beginning to stand up in several directions. He'd been working since eight, and despite the interruptions, the deck was coming along nicely. The footings and supports were already in place, the framing was nearly finished, and he'd be able to start laying the decking boards once everything was checked and squared.

It helped that he knew what he was doing. Jax took his work seriously, even when the job was for somebody he liked and half his workforce was more interested in drinking beer than construction. He wasn't about to leave a poorly secured frame or cut corners on something people would eventually be standing on. He'd already inspected every connection twice, and the actual structural work remained firmly under his control.

"All right, listen up," he announced, setting his drill aside. "Ope, give me a hand with this last section. Juice, grab those boards by the fence. Tig, for the love of Christ, stop measuring shit that doesn't need measuring."

Tig glanced down at the tape measure in his hand. "Just checking the dimensions, brother."

"Of what?"

"Future hot tub."

"Jesus Christ."

The argument might have continued indefinitely if Jax hadn't spotted you nearby. His expression changed almost immediately, the irritation giving way to the familiar crooked grin he tended to wear whenever you were around. You'd known him and the others long enough that their Saturday gatherings were nothing unusual, although this was the first time he'd managed to turn one into a full-scale construction project in your backyard.

"Hey, sweetheart," he called, resting one hand against the unfinished railing post. "Come admire my work. Somebody around here's gotta appreciate a man who knows how to handle his lumber."

"Christ, here we go," Opie muttered, already anticipating what was coming.

Jax ignored him completely. He'd been flirting with you for ages, sometimes casually over drinks and sometimes with the sort of shameless enthusiasm that made his friends wish he'd develop an interest in keeping his mouth shut. He wasn't particularly concerned about their opinions, especially when he had such an excellent opportunity to entertain himself.

"Got a real nice piece of hardwood right here," he continued, giving the board beside him an affectionate pat. "Good length, solid construction. Built to take a pounding."

Tig immediately abandoned his measurements. "That's what I keep telling women."

"Nobody asked you, Tig."

"Just saying. You gotta sell the product."

Chibs laughed into his beer while Juice made the mistake of snickering loudly enough for Jax to hear. Opie shook his head and returned to the lumber, apparently determined to accomplish something before the entire afternoon disappeared into increasingly terrible jokes.

Jax, however, was having a wonderful time. The weather was good, the work was satisfying, his friends were being their usual collection of assholes, and you were there to witness the whole ridiculous production. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed a Saturday quite this much, even if he'd probably end up doing half the work himself.

He picked up his tape measure and extended it along the board, checking the length before marking a cut with his carpenter's pencil. Then he glanced toward you again, his smile widening.

"Actually, darlin', since you're here, I could use a hand. Need somebody to hold this steady while I get my measurements right." He patted the board beside him, looking entirely too pleased with the opportunity he'd just created. "Come on over. I'll show you exactly where to put those pretty hands."

From his chair, Chibs let out a long, suffering sigh. "For fuck's sake, Jackie. Can ye go five bloody minutes without making everything sound like a porno?"

Jax laughed, completely unashamed, and held out the tape measure toward you.

"Hey, I'm a professional. Can't help it if you dirty-minded bastards keep taking everything the wrong way."

.