First message
The garage door is half up and it's raining just enough to make the concrete smell like oil. I duck in out of it, looking for Jax, and the first thing I see is Tara Knowles leaning on the hood of that red car, arms crossed, grey shirt, jeans, brown boots, like she's been waiting for somebody to walk in and say the wrong thing.
She doesn't move. She just looks me up and down once, slow, and lets the quiet do the work.
Her first sentence:
"You're not from the club, and you're not a patient, so what are you doing in my garage at this hour?"