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

by Jeanne St. James

  That snag was another reason why he was there. “Probably not.”

  “Then you might just wanna tow for Dutch.”

  “Dutch has his own rollback.”

  “Then you’re shit outta luck.”

  “License doesn’t have to be in my name.”

  “Askin’ for a fuck of a lot, Trip. Not only to wear the Fury’s colors, but to be Sergeant at Arms. A risk to my business. Then you’re hintin’ at me puttin’ your repo license in my name. Another fuckin’ risk. Haven’t seen you in twenty fuckin’ years. You walk the fuck in here and want to do nothin’ but take. What the fuck do I get outta all of this besides your dick up my ass? Anal ain’t my thing unless I’m the one givin’ it.”

  “I’ll fuckin’ do it,” Deacon announced, shocking the shit out of Trip.

  “Do what?” Judge barked, glancing behind him at his cousin.

  “Put the repo license in my name. If they’re just lookin’ for felonies and misdemeanors, I’ll be good.”

  “What do you want in exchange?” Trip asked him. He might be Judge’s cousin, but he didn’t know Deacon. And the man jumped at the chance way too quickly.

  “A cut.”

  Of course. “A cut of the business?”

  “Want a cut. Wanna wear the Fury’s colors.”

  “That it?”

  “And a cut of the business.”

  And there it was.

  “Ten percent and I’ll do all your skip tracin’. Since I’m a bounty hunter I can help you find people. I won’t do any of the towin’, though. Got too much shit to keep me busy here.”

  Ten percent. Trip had been ready to offer anyone who stepped up to get the repo license some sort of cut, but he wasn’t sure about ten percent. That was a nice chunk of change. However, if Deacon was good at hunting people, he’d also be good at finding vehicles and their deadbeat loan holders. Plus, it didn’t hurt that Deacon could pack legally, unlike Trip. If he needed help in a tight spot, Deacon might be able to step in.

  Even at ten percent, it was a good deal. He’d get the repo business rolling, he’d get another Fury member, and... “You good with scratch?”

  “Fuckin’ great with snatch and scratch. Do most of the bookkeepin’ here. Why?”

  “Need a Treasurer. You in?”

  Deacon grinned. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ in.”

  “You got a sled?”

  “Got a decent one. But once I start gettin’ that ten percent, buyin’ me a new 1250 Custom. Seen those fuckers? Shit’s badass as fuck. It’ll keep me rollin’ in pussy.”

  Judge grunted. “Maybe that’s your damn problem. Not supposed to be rollin’ in it like a dog rollin’ in shit. Supposed to be fuckin’ it with that tiny dick of yours.”

  Deacon’s hand dropped below the counter and Trip could imagine he was grabbing his crotch. “Big enough to choke you.”

  “You gonna do this?” Judge asked Deacon, not looking any kind of happy.

  Deacon shrugged. “Yeah, why not? Extra scratch will help me get my dream bike. Don’t gotta do much extra work for it. Plus, I get to wear the Fury’s colors.”

  “You weren’t around when all the shit went down,” Judge warned him.

  “Yeah, but I know about it and he’s,” Deacon jerked his chin at Trip. “gonna make it all work, right?”

  “Right,” Trip muttered. He was going to do his fucking best.

  Deacon reached over the counter and punched Judge in the arm. “C’mon, asshole, let’s do this.”

  “This ain’t like some rec club, Deke. An MC’s a goddamn brotherhood. You live and die for it. Live and die for each other.”

  “Yeah, I get it. And I woulda prospected years ago if one of ‘em was around.” Deacon glanced at Trip. “I gotta prospect?”

  “You’re Ox’s blood, right?”

  “Yeah, my mother’s Ox’s sister.”

  “Then, you got Fury blood. You get a cut and also sit at the table as Treasurer.”

  Deacon smiled. “Can handle that.”

  “Good,” Trip said. “Can you handle talkin’ Judge into wearin’ his pop’s cut and sittin’ next to you at the table?”

  “Whataya think, Judge?” Deacon asked him. “We’ll no longer be cousins, but brothers. Always wanted a brother,” he teased.

  “Then your pop shoulda stopped fuckin’ your mother up the ass. Normally babies aren’t born like that, you just happened to be a fuckin’ miracle.”

  Trip dropped his head to hide his grin.

  “Who else you got?”

  He lifted his head at Judge’s question. “Cage as Road Captain.”

  “That fuckin’ dick,” the big man grumbled.

  “Dutch as VP ‘til I can get the spot filled. Mouse and Sparky as prospects.” He didn’t get a reaction from Judge from any of those names. Only Cage’s, which made Trip wonder if he made a mistake making the man Road Captain before he got to know him.

  “That it?”

  “Yeah, that’s it for now. Lookin’ for more prospects, also lookin’ for more blood. Know any, send ‘em my way. The bunkhouse is almost finished. Got a place for someone to live if needed.”

  “Rent free?” Deacon asked.

  Trip hesitated. He was planning on letting the prospects stay for free in their bunk room. They’d have to pay for their own personal shit. But the rest of the rooms... “Not free, cheap. Maybe a C-note over the monthly dues.” At least that would cover some of the expenses.

  “Ain’t bad. Cheaper than my shithole. Might have to take you up on one of those rooms.”

  “Also got two apartments. One is spoken for, though. The other, gotta figure out what kinda scratch I want for it.”

  “Got pussy?” Deacon asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Booze?”

  “Workin’ on that.”

  “Don’t sound like much of a club,” Judge grumbled.

  “Gotta start somewhere. With you as the enforcer, just need a Secretary and we can have our first meetin’.”

  “Didn’t say I was takin’ it or even joinin’.”

  “At your granddaddy’s old farm, right?” Deacon asked, ignoring his cousin.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll both be out to scope it out. I know anyone interested, they gotta prospect?”

  “Yeah, right now six months. Unless they’re blood of one of the Originals. Like you.” He turned to meet Judge’s dark eyes. “Like Judge.”

  “Ain’t gonna get an opportunity like that anywhere else and maybe never again.” Deacon came through the half-door and approached Trip. He held out his hand. They clasped palms and bumped shoulders.

  “Brother,” Trip mumbled.

  “Brother,” Deacon mumbled back. “Always wanted a brother,” he said again, this time not in a teasing tone.

  “Now you got one,” Trip answered, his eyes slid to Judge. “More than one.”

  “How you gonna pay for all this shit?” came from the tall man with the less-than-happy expression.

  “Bought The Grove Inn. The repo business. Dues. Workin’ on some other shit.”

  One of Judge’s dark eyebrows lifted. “All legal shit?”

  “Yeah. Gonna do my best to keep shit above board. Keep my ass and everyone else’s out of concrete boxes, whether it has bars or goes six feet under. No more bloodshed between brothers.”

  “Just brotherly love,” Deacon said in a sing-song voice and then made kissy-faces at Judge, who returned the gesture with a middle finger salute and a scowl.

  “Who’s gonna run these businesses? Prospects?” With each question Judge asked, Trip could see his interest slightly increase. Though, he was trying hard to hide it.

  “Yeah, hopefully. Patched members who need a job. Ol’ ladies.” Trip shrugged. “If I gotta hire people, I hire people.”

  “Who’s gonna help you repo?”

  Trip hesitated. Here was where he hoped Judge’s flicker of interest didn’t burn out. “Hopin’ Sig.”

  Judge’s head tipped back,
and his jaw got tight again. “Sig.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think that’s a good idea?”

  “Guess I’ll find out when I find him.”

  “He wanna be found?”

  “Don’t know,” Trip answered Judge.

  “You might want good things for the Fury, not so sure Sig will. And not so sure that ‘brotherly love’ Deke was rippin’ on will exist between you two.”

  It sounded like it hadn’t been twenty years since Judge saw Sig, which surprised Trip. “You know where the fuck he’s at?”

  “Nope.”

  “You willin’ to find him for me?”

  Judge turned to Deacon. “Man must got a fuckin’ monster set hangin’ between his legs.”

  “Takin’ that as a compliment,” Trip told him.

  “Don’t. Havin’ a set like that only makes ‘em a bigger target. And it hurts a fuck of a lot more when you get kicked in ‘em.”

  “True. But I’m tryin’ to not only rebuild but repair the past. Willin’ to take the hits if I need to.”

  “No reason to. Could let it all lie where it was.”

  “I could. But it’s all I got and I’m gonna take what I got and make it into something.” He paused, then added, “With or without you, Judge. Though, I hope you join us.”

  “Don’t sound invitin’. No pussy, no booze, and a bunch of assholes.”

  Trip grinned at Judge. “Means you’ll fit right in.”

  Deacon snorted, whacked Trip on the back and said, “Leave lookin’ for Sig to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “If Deke can’t find ‘im, no one can,” Judge said. “Hope you don’t fuckin’ regret it when he does.”

  Trip hoped he didn’t, either.

  Chapter Five

  Stella sat at a table in the back by the old jukebox. She had slipped enough quarters in it to play a few of her favorite songs while she paid bills.

  Or attempted to pay bills.

  She looked at the mountain of torn open envelopes sitting in front of her. She had divided them up into past due, due now, due soon and you’re-fucked-if-you-don’t-pay-these piles. The last one included a couple of her utility bills and liquor invoices.

  Without electricity and booze, she might as well board up Crazy Pete’s. But the collection of unpaid bills in front of her was a lot larger than the balance in her checkbook.

  She scrubbed her hands down her face and sighed loudly so she wouldn’t scream instead.

  She couldn’t afford to pay her expenses without customers. It was only a little after midnight, closing time wasn’t until two, and she hadn’t seen a customer since ten. Even then, it was only the guy who lived down the street and regularly walked in to buy a six-pack.

  Thank fuck for him.

  As Joan Jett’s rendition of Crimson and Clover wailed from the speakers, Stella also wanted to wail.

  She wanted to kick, scream, cry and stomp her foot. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Instead, she dropped her head into her folded arms and breathed deeply in and out of her nose.

  A few minutes later she was back at Trip’s barn, seeing him shirtless and working hard. Determined to do everything he could to bring the Fury back better than ever.

  Her memory began to shift... Instead of releasing her wrist when they were standing toe to toe, he refused to let her go. And when he dropped his head, he did it until his lips were right above hers.

  She didn’t want him to kiss her then, but she wanted him to kiss her now. She wanted to feel his lips against hers.

  And then he did. Firm lips taking control, his tongue sweeping through her mouth, tangling with hers.

  She didn’t fight back. She didn’t shove him away. She allowed herself that moment in time to simply let go. To forget her worries, forget everything else except for him.

  Nothing else existed but them. In that moment.

  No past. No future. Just the now.

  Deepening the kiss, he lifted her hand and put it on his chest over his heart, so she could feel the strong thump, thump, thump. Her palm absorbed the warmth of his skin and her fingertips pressed into his rock-hard muscles.

  He pinned her hand there, his so much larger than hers. So much stronger than hers.

  His kiss became desperate, like he couldn’t get enough of her. He released her hand and dug his fingers into her hair, holding her where he wanted her. Forcing her face up, her lips to open wider.

  Her own heart beat as quickly as his. A longing shot through her, making her clench in places that hadn’t been touched in ages, because she’d been too exhausted and too distracted to even take care of her own needs.

  Her mind had been occupied solely with surviving.

  Her breasts ached for his touch, and so did everything else.

  She had wanted to marry that boy. But what she wanted from him now had nothing to do with love, commitment, or even “forever.”

  Nothing at all.

  She groaned into his mouth, encouraging him, begging him to touch her.

  She needed his touch to remind her she was very much alive. How she wasn’t dead inside and to stop going through life like a zombie.

  Every day was a struggle. Not just one, but many.

  She wanted to accept his help, but she couldn’t. She needed to do this herself. Needed to prove she could succeed on her own and didn’t need to depend on anyone again.

  She desperately needed his help and it would lighten her load, but her pride...

  Her damn pride...

  She didn’t need him. She had to find another way.

  She broke the kiss, jerked away from him and opened her eyes.

  She wasn’t in the barn. She was still in the bar.

  She had no idea how long she was out, but she must have fallen asleep and her memory had turned into a dream. She lifted her head from her arms and her heart skipped a beat, then began to race.

  Trip stood in front of the table, his hands on his hips, watching her with his brown eyes, darker than normal. “Must’ve been a good dream.”

  “Part of it,” she murmured, because she couldn’t deny her panties were damp from their kiss. The deep rumble of his voice might be a factor, too. “How’d you get in here?”

  “Had the fuckin’ door unlocked.”

  His pissed off growl cleared the remaining cobwebs from her brain, and she glanced at the time on her cell phone.

  Damn. The bar was technically still open since it was only shy of one a.m. She still had an hour to go.

  Fuck it. She would close early.

  She began to gather the piles of envelopes and bills into one. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes watched her every move. “Checkin’ up on you.”

  Her hands stilled, then she started gathering everything even faster. “I don’t need checked on.”

  “Wanted to see if you thought about my offer.”

  She dropped her eyes from his. “Thought about it.” Trip and his offer was all she’d thought about the last few days.

  “And?”

  “And the answer is still no.”

  The song on the jukebox changed from its current song to Do You Wanna Touch Me.

  She groaned silently. Why had she been on a Joan Jett kick tonight?

  She surged from her chair and he stopped her by grabbing her wrist.

  Just like at the barn. Like in her dream.

  Why did he think he had the right to touch her? Or, hell, restrain her. “Let me go, Trip.”

  He jerked his chin toward the table. At the bills, at her anemic checkbook, at her puddle of tears of frustration. “Will you fuckin’ admit you need help?”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  His head jerked back. “See how you said that? Don’t need my help, but you need help. Fuckin’ let me help you, Stella.”

  Boy, he was stretching her words. “Why do you care? Why do you want to help me?”

  “’Cause... ‘cause this bar was part of the club and I don’t wanna see it f
ail. Don’t wanna see you fail.”

  Bullshit.

  The bar maybe, because he thought he had a vested interest in it. But her? No. Her failure would only be beneficial to him by giving him a chance to swoop in and steal it from her.

  She pulled free of him, relieved when he let her go without a fight, and she went over to the jukebox to change the song. Of course, the next song was Love Hurts by Nazareth.

  If that wasn’t her fucking life’s theme song...

  Jesus. She reached behind the jukebox and pulled the plug from the outlet, killing both the power and the music.

  Suddenly, the bar was way too fucking silent.

  He didn’t look even remotely happy. Well, good, she wasn’t, either. She did not need him barging into her life and trying to take over.

  And she certainly didn’t want to owe him shit.

  She was not going to be indebted to some badass wannabe, who felt the need to dig into a past that had turned out shitty for just about everyone involved.

  Just no.

  She slammed the cover of the checkbook binder closed before he got a good look at the balance, grabbed all the bills, shoved them into the binder, and strode across the bar.

  Away from him.

  She walked faster when she heard his footsteps behind her.

  As she stepped behind the bar, she came to an abrupt halt, blocking his path. “You can’t come back here.”

  He ignored her and bumped her from behind with his chest to move her out of the way. “Watch me.”

  She shoved the over-stuffed binder under the bar to deal with tomorrow and watched as Trip grabbed a bottle of Jack off the shelf, a glass from the rack, and poured himself a double. No, a triple.

  She couldn’t afford for him to drink for free, especially top shelf shit. Whether the club “owned” a part of Pete’s or not. “You need to pay for that.”

  He downed the whiskey, grimaced and slammed the glass onto the bar. He pulled his large leather wallet from his back pocket and dug out a twenty. When he held it out and she reached for it, he jerked it away.

  What an asshole. “Throw it on the bar and I’ll get you your change,” she said as she moved toward the cash register.

  Unfortunately, she had to pass him to get to it. As she did, he fucking grabbed her again!