Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC Book 1)

by Jeanne St. James

  He wouldn’t need one of the apartments for himself since the farmhouse was in good enough shape to live in at this point. It could use a bit more work, but it would do for now until he was more flush and the club’s coffers weren’t in the negative.

  The house had to wait, since the barn and the bunkhouse were priority because no club existed without members.

  No club existed without a church.

  No club existed without an executive committee.

  Right now, it was a club of one.

  Him.

  A president who presided over no one.

  That shit had to change.

  His fucking gut churned at the thought maybe he was doing this all for nothing. Nobody would want to patch in. No one would want to be a lower than dog shit prospect.

  Then he’d have a really nice fucking building on a farm he had no plans on farming that he could jerk off in.

  Maybe throw himself a couple pity parties.

  And drink himself half to death.

  Fuck.

  He needed to talk to some people in town. Dutch being one of them. Crazy Pete another. And from there, maybe he could dig up some other former members, or even some blood of former members.

  If not, then again, he’d have a huge fucking building where he could whack his dick by himself.

  And that would suck.

  He also needed to find his half-brother, Sig, even though he had no clue where to even begin looking. Besides checking prisons and jails online for his name.

  At least that’d be a start.

  Trip wasn’t even sure if Sig would talk to him.

  Not just because of Trip inheriting the mess their grandfather left behind but because of their father.

  He gave the head Amish guy, the one with the longest salt and pepper beard, a nod, and ducked back into the barn, which now had an open floor plan, with wide plank floors and a large center fireplace to help heat the building.

  Almost like a goddamn ski lodge.

  Not that he ever saw one in person. There was no way he was strapping long, flexible blades to his feet and then heading down a mountain like some crazy motherfucker with a death wish. That was what snowmobiles were for. But, anyway, the barn was as nice as some of the photos he’d seen of those high-priced ski resorts. Only much more fucking badass. And definitely better than that rusted-out, drafty, rat-infested warehouse.

  The new BFMC church would be the shit.

  He jogged up the thick, rough-cut wood stairs to what used to be the hayloft and once he hit the second floor of the barn, he stopped and inhaled the scent of oak. Wouldn’t be long before that fresh cut lumber smell was gone and was quickly replaced by smoke, weed, booze and pussy.

  The first three would be easy. That last one, though...

  He didn’t even want to think about where his future brothers would find snatch to scratch their itches. The town wasn’t tiny, but it also wasn’t any kind of metropolis where females who weren’t jailbait were plentiful. So, they might be on their own for a while just fisting it. Though, he didn’t want any sweet butts, or patch whores, or cum-bucket hang-arounds staying in the bunkhouse.

  It wouldn’t be like military barracks, but it also wasn’t going to turn into some whorehouse.

  Fuck that.

  The second floor had been sectioned in half. One portion had been closed off and turned into storage. For booze, supplies, whatever. But the other... He stepped farther into the finished loft, which was now where the executive committee would meet. He walked around the old, worn, wood table that sat in the center of the large open area. The long table that used to sit in a back room at the warehouse.

  The table where his father used to sit. The table that needed a good cleaning and polish.

  He ran his fingers over the carved center—the insignia of the Blood Fury MC, the same as his center patch—which was covered in dust and dirt.

  Pretty fucking fitting.

  The dust needed to be blown off and the dirt scrubbed away, and it would be as good as new, just like the MC. Or at least, he hoped.

  He moved down to the far end to the chair with the highest seat back and traced the initials that had been crudely carved into the armrest. Probably with a knife similar to what Trip carried.

  B.F.D.

  Yeah, his old man thought he was a big fucking deal. Probably a lot of Buck’s club brothers didn’t know what those letters actually stood for. Burchell Fletcher Davis.

  He pulled the heavy chair away from the table and settled himself in it, putting his elbows on the armrests and trying it on for size.

  He flatted his palms out on the tabletop, spread his fingers wide and closed his eyes, imaging what it was like back then to sit at the head of the table. To hold that power. To be the one with the final word on all the decisions.

  To hold the fucking gavel. The one that sat inches from his fingertips. The one which had BFMC engraved in the dull metal band circling it.

  His goal was to build an empire. Just like the Jamisons and the Doughertys did with the Dirty Angels MC.

  The memory of Zak Jamison jerking his chin toward the diamond-shaped 1% patch on Buck’s cut, along with the man’s words, were fresh in his mind. “Sure you wanna deal with that fuckin’ headache? That right there’ll cause you to fail in your attempt to build somethin’ strong. Havin’ fuckin’ brothers constantly fightin’ the law, livin’ in a concrete box, or dyin’ for no good reason, won’t help you build shit. It’ll just tear everythin’ down.”

  Those words had him ripping that patch off his cut right then and there in the DAMC’s courtyard and tossing it into the roaring bonfire.

  It was one of the times he’d headed down to In the Shadows Ink. And on every trip, he had Crow add more ink, not just to the Fury’s colors on his back—to make sure they were dark and deep and wouldn’t fade—but to the full sleeve he’d always wanted and refused to let a prison hack start.

  He wasn’t anywhere near done yet, either. Those tats were just the beginning. Part of this journey.

  And now, after spending all that time down there and with his Marine brother, Slade, a DAMC member, he had cemented their club as an ally. And, thank fuck, since they were the strongest MC in the state, maybe even the region. So, it would be good to have the DAMC at their backs, if needed.

  But Trip hoped the Fury could rise without them by building a solid foundation and growing it from there.

  Now all he needed was some members and a committee to sit around that table.

  He picked up the gavel, the very one his father held, tested the weight of its handle in his palm, and then sharply pounded the table once before tossing it with a clatter into the center.

  “Meeting fuckin’ adjourned.”

  Trip tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his T-shirt and squinted until his eyes adjusted after entering the dark and dingy interior of Crazy Pete’s bar in town.

  He jerked his ball cap lower on his head in an attempt to be somewhat anonymous even though he was wearing his cut, which clearly stated what and who he was. And he had ridden through town on his loud as fuck sled, which wasn’t very subtle.

  He’d caught a few folks’ heads turning but hadn’t seen any sign of the brothers in blue. Though, he was pretty fucking sure if he was seen around town enough, someone would run to the pigs and rat him out.

  Maybe he should rethink wearing his colors while in town until the club had more than one fucking member.

  That might be good.

  Trip remembered the bar since he’d been in there several times with his pop when he was a kid. Crazy Pete was one of the original members and one of the few who survived the MC’s fall-out.

  And was one of the members, who was not only left breathing, but who decided to stay in town.

  Pete would probably be in his mid-to-late sixties now, but that didn’t mean Trip wouldn’t want him on board. The man would have knowledge and, from what Trip could remember, wasn’t a complete motherfucking asshole. At least
when he wasn’t pissed.

  Back in the day, the bar had been under the club’s thumb, which meant a constant flow of cash into the coffers by taking a healthy cut. Especially since it was the only actual bar in town. The other liquor licenses were held, and still were, by the hotel in the town square, which had a lobby bar, and one of the fancier restaurants, The Carriage House.

  That was it. Anyone who wanted to drink cheap, drank at Crazy Pete’s.

  But he hadn’t seen Pete in over twenty years, which was one reason he was wearing his cut. So the man would take him seriously.

  “Yo! You can’t wear colors in here.”

  His eyes scanned the mostly empty bar until he found the woman who had yelled at him.

  It wasn’t just any woman. It was a woman. One hard to miss.

  And now seen, he had a feeling would be hard to forget.

  She was standing by one of the pool tables, putting away cue sticks and organizing worn-down cubes of blue chalk.

  That reminded him. He needed to find some used pool tables and all the shit that went with them.

  Fuck. One more thing to add to the never-ending list.

  He needed prospects, and soon, to do some of the dirty work on that list.

  He focused his attention back on the woman now moving between the seen-their-better-days pool tables. “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  Trip pursed his lips and tilted his head as he watched her leave the area sectioned off by a half wall from the rest of the bar where the tables, chairs and ancient jukebox were set up.

  “And who the fuck are you?”

  She shot him a smile—a nowhere near friendly one—as she passed him and made her way behind the bar.

  So, she was a server. Or a bartender.

  Or just a plain ol’ bitch.

  But bitch or not, she had caught his dick’s interest, which surprised him.

  Couldn’t be the long, shiny black hair with the dark blue streaks that fell in soft waves around her slender shoulders.

  Probably not.

  Couldn’t be the eyes that had narrowed on him like ice blue laser beams trying to burn a hole between his eyes.

  Nope.

  Couldn’t be the full sleeve of colorful tattoos that covered her left arm or the small gold hoop in her right nostril. Or even the wide black leather cuff that circled her right wrist.

  Fuck no.

  Maybe it was the worn black jeans which fit her long, slender legs. Or the heeled black leather boots that climbed up her calves.

  Or the loose white tank top advertising Crazy Pete’s, that she had a portion tucked into the front waistband of those jeans. A thick black leather belt also cinched her waist snugly, emphasizing just how narrow it was.

  Also couldn’t be the black bra straps that played peek-a-boo from the back of her tank, along with a portion of another tattoo that spanned her upper back. A tree of some sort.

  No. It wasn’t one of those things at all.

  It was all of them combined.

  It also could have something to do with the attitude that rolled off her in thick waves. Just like her hair.

  Thick, silky waves he could lose his fingers in, rip her head back and take her fucking bossy mouth.

  Yeah.

  Fuck.

  Now he needed to fuck someone, and he doubted she would voluntarily be that someone.

  Though, if she did volunteer, he’d make an exception to his normal taste of thick women with thighs and tits which could smother him to death while he busted a nut.

  Yeah, that’s what he normally liked. Not chicks who looked like they should be standing on a stage as the coked-up and wired lead singer of an all-female rock band.

  While she looked like a badass, it was probably just an act. A way to piss off mommy and daddy.

  He could see it now. Her parents set up a really fat college fund, and when she turned eighteen, she probably gave them the finger, threw all of her belongings into a black Hefty bag over her shoulder and hauled ass out of her upper-class two-story home to make her “own way in the world.”

  She was thumbing her nose at society.

  “Take off the cut and order a drink, or get the fuck out.”

  Normally he’d choose the “get the fuck out” option but he was there to talk to Crazy Pete and that was what he was determined to do. Whether he had to deal with the black-haired ballbuster first or not.

  He approached her—since she now stood behind the bar with her hands on her narrow hips—shrugged off his cut and tossed it on top of the bar inside out to conceal his colors. Then he settled his ass on one of the stools and rapped on the shellacked, but severely scratched and chipped, wood top with his knuckles. “Jack.”

  She lifted one dark brow sharply. “With Coke?”

  “It look like I got a pussy?”

  She quickly spun around and Trip barely caught her shoulders jerk. After grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels on a shelf above the bar, along with a shot glass, she turned around, her face not showing a hint of amusement.

  Damn.

  She slapped the shot glass in front of him and gave him a generous pour.

  He tipped his chin up at her in thanks and downed it in one swallow. He let the burn subside before pulling out his tin and a half-smoked hand-rolled.

  “Can’t smoke in here.”

  “It’s a fuckin’ bar.”

  “Yeah and you can’t smoke in here. It’s the law. I don’t have an exemption.”

  “You mean Pete don’t.” He reluctantly tucked the cigarette away.

  She stared at him for a minute, then leaned back against the back counter, crossing her bare arms over her chest. That pushed what little cleavage she had higher and gave him a taste of what she had hidden behind the loose top.

  She wasn’t top heavy, but her tits were just right for how trim she was. Trim and lots of fucking leg, bringing her up to about his shoulder. But at least she wasn’t overly skinny with arms and legs like sticks. Where he didn’t have to worry about breaking bones when he pounded pussy.

  When he raised his empty shot glass, she pushed off the counter and grabbed the Jack, once again giving him a long pour. This time it was almost to the very top.

  “Not gonna make money over pourin’ like that.”

  “Who said I’m not charging you double?”

  Fuck. She could sear the hair right off his nut sac. Trip grinned.

  He quickly lost that grin when she touched his cut. She flipped it inside out until the colors were showing and put it back on the bar, spreading it out in full display. Her long, delicate fingers, circled with a few silver rings, traced the top rocker that said “BLOOD FURY” and then the bottom rocker that said “PENNSYLVANIA” before hesitating on the part of the leather that was darker and cleaner because it had been hidden behind the 1% patch.

  Her nostrils flared slightly, and one finger slowly traced the outline where the diamond used to be.

  “Why are you wearing this? Colors for a club that has been dead and buried for the last twenty years?”

  Trip’s back snapped straight and his chest tightened. He grabbed the shot glass and downed the whiskey, wiping a hand over his mouth before allowing himself to breathe.

  “What do you know about it? Pete talk about it?” Was Pete getting senile in his old age and rambling about the past to his employees?

  Those light blue, almost gray, eyes studied him behind thick, black lashes. “Why are you here?”

  “Why do you care?”

  She shrugged. “It’s my bar.”

  “How is it your bar?”

  “Pete was my father.”

  Trip frowned.

  Before he could say anything, she cut him off, pointing to the large center patch on his leather cut. “Out of the ashes of ruin rises the Phoenix?”

  What the fuck was going on? “What?”

  “You heard me. There’s a reason you came in wearing that cut. There’s a reason you’re in this bar. And I can figure out w
hy. But I don’t think it’s smart. Let the club lie where it landed, which is six feet under. Too many families were ruined in the process of that painful, violent death. Including mine.”

  “It’s not gonna be like that anymore.” And he hoped to fuck he was right.

  “So you say. How are you going to make it, besides doing illegal shit?”

  “Build up club run businesses. Recruit fresh blood and collect dues.”

  “Fresh blood.” She snorted softly and shook her head. “But you’re in here looking for old blood hoping to build a new, more progressive club? You know MC’s aren’t the Boy Scouts, right? Bikers don’t want to sit around and work on earning their damn badges.”

  Trip set his jaw. Why the fuck did he care what she thought? “Think it’s a joke.” He stood and pulled out his wallet.

  “Maybe I do.”

  Right. He didn’t need this shit. He pulled out a twenty and threw it on the bar. “Anyway, lookin’ for your pop.”

  She snagged the twenty, lifted it to the light and inspected it. “You’re not going to find him here.”

  He tucked his chained wallet into his back pocket. “Then where can I find him?”

  She folded the twenty neatly and tucked it into her front pocket instead of the register. “In the cemetery, because he’s dead.”

  He sat back down, yanked his hat off his head and raked his fingers through his hair. Her eyes followed every one of his movements. He purposely scrubbed at his beard to see if she’d focus on that, too.

  She did.

  Trip found that interesting. He tugged his hat back on and tucked his hair back under it again. He needed to get a new skull cap to keep his hair from being knotted while he rode. Only pussies who rode crotch rockets wore baseball caps backwards.

  He certainly wasn’t a pussy. But he was interested in the one in front of him. The one with the translucent eyes that held a few deep secrets. “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?”

  He jerked his chin toward his cut. “Already know it.”

  As she brushed her finger over his name patch, his dick twitched in his jeans. There was something too goddamn intimate about her touching it like that. It was like the patch was attached directly to his cock.

  “And you already know mine, too, Trip.”