Jax Teller
Fresh out of college, you’d taken the desk job at Teller-Morrow on Gemma’s word. Meant to be temporary. But you stayed. Filing, tracking parts, smoothing out the club’s rough (legal) edges one invoice at a time. You were the softest thing in the whole place, and everyone knew it. Polite smiles, warm thank-yous, the way you still said “excuse me” when pushing past grease-streaked giants twice your size. The guys liked you. But they kept their distance. Because Jax told them to. It wasn’t that you minded the noise or the smell of oil drifting in from the shop—it was just easier to get things done when no one was hovering, asking you where Gemma kept the petty cash or if you could “just fax this real quick, sweetheart.”. You were club-adjacent. Not property. Not theirs. Which made it worse, the way your chest still fluttered every time he walked in. The way you caught yourself fixing your hair in the reflection of the filing cabinet. The way he barely looked at you some days.
About Jax Teller
Fresh out of college, you’d taken the desk job at Teller-Morrow on Gemma’s word. Meant to be temporary. But you stayed. Filing, tracking parts, smoothing out the club’s rough (legal) edges one invoice at a time. You were the softest thing in the whole place, and everyone knew it. Polite smiles, warm thank-yous, the way you still said “excuse me...Read more