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

by Jeanne St. James

  “Might do that, too.”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t want any part of that. I just told you the bar is all I have left.”

  “It’s not makin’ you any money, Stella. Dutch said Pete ran it into the ground, unable to keep up with it.”

  “His cancer—”

  “If it was too much, he shoulda fuckin’ sold it or asked for help.”

  “He was stubborn.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he muttered.

  “Get a private club license and deal directly with PLCB yourself.”

  Trip shook his head. “We can help each other, Stella.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “How? By getting me thrown in jail? Or losing a liquor license which is just about impossible to get?”

  “You just said it. They’re hard to get. No fuckin’ way are they givin’ me a license for this place.”

  “You can buy your booze retail.”

  “Or we can make a deal that’ll benefit us both.”

  She definitely didn’t like the sound of that. “I’m not liking this deal, Trip. In fact, you can go fuck yourself.” As she spun on her heels, ready to get the hell out of there, he grabbed her wrist and jerked her toward him.

  He pulled her so close they were only a few inches apart. His eyes were intense as he dropped his head to stare into hers. “Stella. You fuckin’ need help.”

  “Not the kind of help that fucks me. And not in a good way.” She’d had too much of that already.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he growled.

  Oh, was he getting pissed? Well, she was already there. “No? Then tell me how it would be.”

  “Thinkin’ the Blood Fury invested some money in the bar back in the day. Pete probably wouldn’t have had his bar if it wasn’t for our club.”

  Her blood ran cold at his words. “Our? You mean your.”

  “Wanna make a deal. This way it’s legal. You need help and so do I.”

  “I don’t need that kind of help. And what your proposing might not be legal.”

  “Make me a partner, then you won’t be sellin’ me shit. I’ll be buyin’ the booze all legal like.”

  What? He wanted to be a partner? Was he fucking crazy? “And taking that booze off the premises.”

  “For special events.”

  “Special events,” Stella spit out, air-quoting those words. “Right. And what the hell do I get out of all this? The bar isn’t even making a fucking profit.”

  “It will. If you let me help.”

  “Oh, yeah, because you can run the bar so much better than me, right? Like you don’t have enough shit on your plate.”

  “Can get you cheap labor. Help pay for upgrades. Afford to buy better booze. It’s the only bar in town, Stella. You fix it up right, there’s nowhere else the townsfolk should wanna get drunk.”

  She couldn’t deny he was right about the last part, but the rest? She was not going to be indebted to him. No fucking way. She was not selling her soul to the devil. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?”

  “Babe, you can scratch my back any fuckin’ time.”

  Babe. “You’re not talking about an itch, are you, babe?” This was a bad, bad, very bad idea to come out here. To meet with Trip. She could’ve mailed Pete’s cut. She should’ve stayed away. Far, far away.

  “I’ve got an itch.”

  “They carry rash cream for that at the Old Towne Pharmacy.”

  He ignored that. “How far you in the hole?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, it does. In my eyes, the club owns a part of that bar.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Maybe you need glasses, then. The club’s name isn’t on that fucking deed. Yours isn’t, either.”

  “But mine could be.”

  Her heart pounded in her throat. She had no doubt that the club helped fund her father’s bar. It helped fund Dutch’s garage. It helped fund all the rest of the businesses, too, legal and illegal. And in turn, those business paid a percentage of the profits to the club.

  She knew all of that because of Dutch. She knew most of the BFMC history because of him. He liked to talk when he was drinking, which meant he talked a lot.

  Normally MC members didn’t talk club business with anyone outside of the club. It was strictly forbidden. But because Pete had been an Original and Stella was his daughter, Dutch felt it was okay. Plus, the club was gone so there was no one left to answer to.

  She was not telling Trip any of that. No fucking way.

  However, if he insisted she pay a percentage of the profits to the club, then that could very well be the last nail in the coffin. And he would be holding the hammer.

  She would have to walk away, and he could buy the bar from under her, pennies on the dollar. And, once again, she’d be left with nothing but lint in her pockets.

  “I gotta go,” she mumbled, giving her wrist a yank.

  Instead of releasing her, he pulled her even closer and dropped his head until their lips were inches apart.

  If he kissed her, she was kneeing him in the nuts. She could not let that happen; she would not let him break her.

  But he didn’t. Instead he said, “A partnership could benefit us both. Think about it.”

  She didn’t need to think about it. She knew a partnership between the two of them could be dangerous.

  For her business.

  And for her.

  She tugged her arm from his grasp, and he released her, letting his fingers drag along her skin as he did so. She turned and instead of leaving the way she came in, she headed out the front door of the barn.

  She did her best to walk calmly until she got outside, then she power-walked to her Jeep.

  She shouldn’t let him shake her. She was no longer eleven. She was no longer a foolish, love-struck girl. She needed to remember that, no matter if being around him took her back to that time. She needed to remain strong and resist that invisible pull she’d always felt with him.

  As her Cherokee rattled back down the driveway, she realized he had shaken her enough she had forgotten to tell him the other reason she had stopped out.

  She had forgotten to tell him about Judge.

  But she wasn’t turning back to fix her mistake.

  Despite what he thought, she didn’t owe him anything. So fuck him, he could find out about Judge on his own.

  Chapter Four

  Trip stepped out of the afternoon sun and through the darkly tinted glass door into Justice Bail Bonds. The buzzer notifying the occupants of his arrival caused a whole bunch of growling and barking.

  Snarling, more like it.

  The hair on the back of Trip’s neck rose and he froze in place, expecting ferocious dogs to come charging at him and tear him to pieces.

  They didn’t, but two dogs with huge blocky heads and not-so-friendly faces slammed their big-ass paws onto the half-door that barely kept them contained behind the counter at the back of the retail space.

  The bail bonds business was in the strip mall attached to the Walmart on the far end of town, where most of the commercial businesses not owned locally were allowed. The town’s council wanted to keep Main Street as “quaint” as possible with small family-friendly, locally-owned shops, restaurants and the like.

  Justice Bail Bonds did not fit their definition of “quaint.”

  But down on the east side of Manning Grove, anything went. Except for strip clubs or adult stores and that sort of shit. For that kind of entertainment, one had to head south. Far south. The council wasn’t having any of that in a town that held—what they thought—some historical significance.

  He was surprised there was even a bail bondsman around here and wondered if it even got enough business. If it didn’t, it might work in Trip’s favor.

  Both dogs, which looked similar in structure and coloring of white with large patches of brindle, had become quiet as soon as he had stood still.

  But no one had come out to greet him fro
m the back. And until they did, he wasn’t taking one fucking step further. He didn’t feel like becoming their afternoon snack.

  He had nothing against dogs. Normally. But these two had wide black leather collars around their thick, muscular necks, big teeth and watchful eyes.

  He respected dogs who respected him.

  “Yo!” Trip yelled, causing the dogs to react again. Their barking was hopefully a lot worse than their bites. With the size of them, he was pretty sure they could jump the painted plywood half-door if they wanted to. Or bust through the shitty latch that held it closed.

  What the fuck. The buzzer, the dogs going ballistic and him calling out “Yo!” wasn’t good enough to catch someone’s attention? What kind of fucking place was this?

  He grimaced when a beast of a man with a beard way too fucking long, a bunch of ink and a mean expression stepped behind the counter from the narrow hallway in the back. An answering, “Yo,” was his deep greeting.

  Holy fuck. Trip almost didn’t recognize him. The man was huge. The teenager he remembered hadn’t been. In fact, he’d been sort of gangly.

  Had things fucking changed.

  Judd Scott, aka “Judge,” shouted at the dogs, “Stand down,” and they both shut up instantly with a tail wag.

  Trip jerked his chin toward the two dogs, now staring at him quietly. “They yours?”

  “One of ‘em.”

  And then didn’t he unlatch the fucking door and let the dogs surge in Trip’s direction?

  Not only did Trip’s asshole pucker at warp speed, but his balls retreated deep within his body cavity as one of the dogs shoved a nose into his crotch. And not gently, either.

  Usually he liked an introduction before he got his nuts nuzzled. “They eat today?”

  “Yeah, you’re safe. Jury, stop molestin’ the fuckin’ guy.” Judge’s dark eyes hit Trip’s. “Unless you like it?”

  “Gonna say I like my women a bit less hairy.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” Judge snapped his fingers at the two dogs. “Jury. Justice. Knock it off. Go settle.”

  With one last sniff from each of them, the two dogs turned and with long tails held high and wagging at a leisurely pace, circled a few times and settled on the floor nearby with wide yawns.

  “Good guard dogs,” Trip muttered.

  “The best. Got good instincts when it comes to people.”

  “Guess I passed their inspection.”

  “Just gotta pass mine next.”

  With a quick glance at the dogs, both now licking their own junk, he discovered Jury was a female and Justice a male. Information Trip didn’t really need or care about. Though, at least he wasn’t molested by the one with balls.

  He cautiously approached Judge who now stood in front of the counter, leaning back against it, thick, muscular arms crossed in front of his chest. His lips were pressed tight as his dark eyes tracked Trip.

  When Trip held out his hand, Judge stared at it for a long fucking time. But Trip refused to drop it. He was there to make amends and wouldn’t leave until he was successful. Even if he ended up being dog food.

  “Look like your old man,” Trip finally said to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “Yeah, so do you. Not sure why you’re here.”

  “Bullshit. You know why I’m here.” Trip was sure Dutch gave him the heads up because it was Dutch who told him where to find Judge.

  “Drop the fuckin’ hand. Not acceptin’ it ‘til I’m ready.”

  “Will you ever be ready?”

  “Depends on what shit comes out of your fuckin’ mouth.”

  Fuck. Trip reluctantly dropped his hand and nodded. “I’m not responsible for the shit my pop did.”

  “Yeah. But you’re back diggin’ in unhealed wounds. Pickin’ off the scab and expectin’ it not to sting.”

  “Time to heal those wounds and move past ‘em.”

  “Not by doin’ what you’re doin’.”

  Trip heard the silent “asshole” Judge tacked onto that. “Was hopin’ you’d join us. Would like you to take your pop’s old spot.”

  Even with the thick beard, Trip spotted a muscle popping in Judge’s cheek.

  “You mean his old spot in fuckin’ prison? Or the one six feet under ‘cause he was ambushed in his cell while doin’ life without parole because of the Fury? Which one, Trip? ‘Cause I’m not lookin’ to fill his boots in either of ‘em.”

  Trip had no clue Ox, one of the Originals and, at the time, the club’s enforcer, was dead. When Razor had shot Buck, Ox had no choice but to do the same to Razor for killing the club’s president. Then Razor’s brother shot at Ox, and that Original ended up dead, too. Ox went to Greene, a max security prison near Pittsburgh, for being convicted on two charges of first-degree murder and a shitload of other charges.

  He wasn’t the only Original that had gone down at that time. When members start taking sides and having hard feelings, shit tends to go sideways quickly.

  “Need a Sergeant at Arms.”

  Judge tilted his head as he looked down at Trip. Yes, down. Judge had to be six foot three or so. Trip was just over six foot. He wasn’t small, but sure felt like it next to Judge. The man’s whole presence just felt larger than life.

  “You hear any of what I just fuckin’ said?”

  “Heard you loud and fuckin’ clear, Judge. Need to make the Fury strong, solid. Need you to help make that happen.”

  “So, you snag the president’s spot like you own it and then make all the fuckin’ decisions, that right?”

  “The committee will make the decisions. But need a committee first.”

  Judge shook his head. “And you appointed yourself as the one who should sit at the head of the table.”

  “Once the club’s reestablished, if I don’t deserve it, vote me out. You know how it works.”

  “Yeah, know how it fuckin’ works,” Judge muttered.

  “Dutch said you got your pop’s sled.”

  Judge grunted.

  “And you kept your pop’s cut.”

  Another grunt.

  “Shoulda been buried with Ox.”

  No answering grunt that time. But the man’s jaw was now as hard as concrete.

  “There’s a fuckin’ reason you didn’t bury it, Judge.”

  More silence.

  “Don’t need the fuckin’ hassle,” the man finally said. “Don’t need the pigs breathin’ down my neck. Not in this business. Gotta keep shit above board. Gotta keep my record clean, ‘specially for my concealed carry permit. Bein’ a heavy for an MC can fuck up everything I built.”

  “Then don’t take your pop’s spot, just wear the colors. We all grew up together, we were all brothers once. We can be that again.”

  The buzzer sounded as the front door opened and a man maybe a couple years younger than Trip walked in. He wore dark sunglasses and his long hair was braided from his forehead all the way down to the top of his back. Since the sides of his head were shaved, it reminded Trip of a mohawk or, hell, a damn Viking. He wore a light-weight black leather coat, even though it was way too warm for that.

  Both large dogs jumped to their feet and ran to him. Not snarling like they had greeted Trip but wagging their tails and whining. Keeping his eyes on Trip, the man leaned over and ruffled their coats and heads.

  “There’s my babies,” he murmured to them. Both dogs circled his legs as he straightened and did a chin lift to Judge, who returned it.

  “Any luck?” Judge asked.

  “Fuck no,” the man answered and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it by the door.

  Trip now realized why he wore the coat. The man was packing. He wore a leather double shoulder holster, with both holsters filled.

  “Trip,” Trip introduced himself as the man’s dark eyes landed on him again.

  Those dark eyes slid to Judge, then back to Trip.

  He pursed his lips, patted both dogs on the head one more time and then said, “Deacon.”

  Trip didn’t think Jud
ge had a brother, but he kind of remembered hearing Judge had a younger sister. In fact, a lot younger, if he remembered correctly.

  Deacon eyeballed Trip’s cut, then his gaze sliced back to Judge. “He here for a bond?”

  “No,” Judge grunted.

  “What’s he here for?”

  “You a cop?” Trip asked.

  “I look like a cop?”

  No, he didn’t. Not with the hair, the beard, and both arms heavily tattooed. Not to mention, the gold ring piercing his left nostril. “Wonderin’ why you’re packin’. Could be undercover.”

  Deacon’s grin was tight. “Packin’ ‘cause I work here.”

  “Didn’t think this was a bad part of town.”

  “It ain’t. Carry ‘cause I’m a bounty hunter. I work for my cousin.”

  Cousin.

  Right. There were a few similarities between the two, but they weren’t enough to be twins, that was for damn sure.

  “This the guy Dutch was yappin’ about?” Deacon asked Judge.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Dutch has been doin’ a lot of yappin’ lately,” Trip grumbled.

  “Not every day someone comes into town wantin’ to raise the dead. Gives folks somethin’ to yap about,” Deacon said.

  “Not wantin’ to raise the dead. Wantin’ to start fresh. Also, have a proposition.”

  “Ah, fuck,” Deacon groaned, moving behind the counter and removing his shoulder holster. “What’s the proposition?” he asked Judge.

  Judge shrugged, his eyes still on Trip. “Haven’t heard that part yet.”

  “What part did you hear?”

  “The part about me steppin’ into Ox’s boots.”

  “Fuck,” Deacon groaned again. “Gonna guess the answer to that one.” He twisted his head toward Trip. “Let’s hear the rest.”

  “Besides the Fury, also gettin’ the repo business up and goin’. Thinkin’ since you have skip tracin’ experience, you could provide that service for me when I need it.”

  Deacon snorted. Judge remained silent.

  “But probably already knew that since Dutch has been runnin’ his mouth.”

  Judge finally spoke. “State gonna give you a repo license since you’re a felon?”