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

by Jeanne St. James

  That was it.

  It was neat and orderly, but everything was old, worn and outdated.

  He moved to the bed, wondering how old the mattress and box spring were, but the only other choice was to put her on the old plaid couch, and he figured her sheets were cleaner than that.

  He gently placed her on the bed and she once again curled up into a ball, no longer sobbing, but trying to hide her quiet crying.

  With a little wrangling, he got her knee-high leather boots unzipped and one at a time, he tugged them off, tossing them to the floor. Then he shrugged out of his cut, placing it on a rickety wooden chair next to the bed. He was too scared to sit in it to remove his own boots, so he sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced them, tugging them off. The whole time his eyes stayed glued on her.

  He couldn’t see her face because it was tucked in her arms, but it sounded as if her crying stopped, though her breathing was still unsteady and her body curled tight.

  He didn’t bother to pull back what looked like a hand-quilted bedspread, probably one from the local Amish and also the nicest thing in the apartment. The rest of it could be burned without a great loss.

  He spooned her, his chest to her back, and snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. He nuzzled his nose into her hair and breathed deeply.

  He didn’t know what had happened and wasn’t going to ask. He figured most of it was from her bone-deep exhaustion and being overwhelmed by a failing business.

  He promised her silently that would change.

  She had hit bottom, so there was no place left to go but up.

  She didn’t want his help, but at this point, he wouldn’t give her the choice not to accept it. Otherwise, she was right. She’d have nothing left.

  Right now, she still owned half a bar and she had him.

  And with him came the club.

  Eventually, her tense body relaxed into his, but he didn’t loosen his hold. Even when he suspected she’d fallen asleep.

  He remained there, holding tight, wanting to protect her, even though that might be the last thing she wanted.

  When they were kids, the club was supposed to be family. It ended up being anything but.

  Brothers became enemies. Kids became strangers.

  He had witnessed the tight-knit family that the Dirty Angels were and he wanted that. Craved that. He needed that sense of family, of belonging, of having loyal brothers at his back.

  But he also needed a strong woman at his side, something each and every one of those Angels had.

  They were not treated as lessors, but almost as equals. They held more power in their hands than anyone would admit to out loud.

  But it was there. Unmistakable.

  What was shown to the world and what happened behind closed doors were two different things. But they were all better and stronger for it.

  And that was what he wanted.

  He watched how women were treated by the Originals. How they were used and abused. One could argue that those women chose that life. That they knew the way. What was to be expected.

  It still didn’t make it right.

  And it helped erode what should’ve been a strong club, a power to be reckoned with. It wasn’t the only reason, but Trip was pretty sure it was part of it.

  It was one thing to have sweet butts, women who want to be used for whatever reason, it was another to disrespect an ol’ lady. Trip determined right there and then not to have any of that shit poisoning his club.

  The woman in his arms, though...

  This woman was going to be his ol’ lady, his goddamn queen. She was going to stand next to him while he rebuilt what the past destroyed.

  She just didn’t know it yet.

  He waited long enough to make sure sleep had pulled her deep. That she wouldn’t be restless.

  And once he was assured of that, he decided to give her space.

  It wasn’t a good idea for him to stay, as much as he wanted to. It was better he be gone when she woke up. Give her time to digest everything that went down.

  The bar.

  The sex.

  Her meltdown.

  Which seemed to be a long time coming and badly needed.

  You could only be a fortress for so long, eventually those walls were going to crack from the constant battles. And once they did, when there was a lull in the war, you stepped back, evaluated the damage and then worked on getting those cracks repaired before the next onslaught.

  He hoped when morning came and she faced a new day, she’d see things more clearly.

  That she was no longer alone in that fight.

  She’d have help repairing those cracks and rebuilding her father’s bar.

  No, not Pete’s bar, her bar.

  He shook his head.

  Their bar.

  He was now determined more than ever to turn it around. To make it work, to make it successful once again. Like Buck and Pete had wanted.

  She might not like it, but in the end, she’d see it was for the best.

  Hopefully, he could convince Sig of the same. His brother might not like what Trip was doing, but in the end, maybe he’d see Trip was doing his best to help him out.

  He only fucking hoped Sig would accept that olive branch. If not, at least he’d given it a shot.

  Trip slipped carefully from the old, lumpy mattress, tugged on his boots and his cut and locked her apartment door behind him as he left.

  He made a mental note that her locks were a joke and needed to be upgraded if she was going to remain living there.

  He half-jogged down the steps and back out into the bar area. Heading immediately toward the front door, he secured it for the night, then went behind the bar. He found where she’d tucked the bulging checkbook binder and grabbed it, shaking his head with how many bills she was behind on.

  It wasn’t one month’s worth or even two. It was many. He didn’t bother to look at the balance of her checking account, because he knew it wasn’t enough.

  Tucking it under his arm, he turned out all the lights except for the ones lighting up the back bar and then slipped out of the rear emergency exit.

  Tomorrow was a new day.

  And he had a lot of fucking work to do.

  Chapter Seven

  He was running on gas fumes since he couldn’t sleep after leaving Stella last night. When he finally gave up trying, he headed back downstairs to the kitchen and sat at the farmhouse table his grandfather had built with his own hands, sorting through all the invoices and bills for Crazy Pete’s.

  If he couldn’t sleep before, the grand total of what was owed, the amount in which both Stella and the bar were behind, might keep him up for a week straight. He had a hard time wrapping his tired brain around it. And now he understood one reason for Stella’s meltdown, but he was pretty fucking sure that wasn’t the only reason.

  He also found the property tax bill tucked into the back of the checkbook. Hiding it wasn’t going to make it go away, but at least it wasn’t due for a couple of months yet. Plus, he could pay it late without too much of a penalty, if needed.

  No matter what, it would get paid, because he was not letting the tax collector put that property up for a sheriff’s sale. Thank fuck the club had paid cash for the building back in the day, so there was no threat of foreclosure. He couldn’t find any mortgage payments due in those torn-open pile of envelopes which would indicate she or Pete financed the property to pull out some cash.

  While normally it might have been smart to do—to pull out some equity and invest it back into the bar—the way the finances were currently sitting, it might have been the last nail in the bar-sized coffin.

  His stomach had been tied in knots as he tried to pay some of the bills with what he had left in his own accounts. The one he opened for the club, the business accounts he opened for both the motel and the repo business, and even his own personal account.

  A mountain still remained.

  Sometime in the early morning
hours, he’d switched from beer to coffee. And as he drank what was probably his fifth cup, his cell phone had rung, causing a whole new knot in his gut.

  He wasn’t sure how this afternoon would go. He’d figured it was best to think the worst and if it ended up being better than that, then great. If it ended up being a complete shit show, then...

  Yeah, it would be a complete fucking shit show.

  He currently straddled his sled, the engine’s vibrations soothing his nerves because if he didn’t admit he was anxious as all fuck, then he was stupid, too.

  His asshole was slightly puckered but less than the day he walked into SCI Camp Hill, where he was housed for a couple of months before being transferred to a unit at the prison in Huntingdon.

  Now he was free. And planned to keep it that way.

  Now Sig was free. Trip wanted to keep it that way, too.

  What Sig wanted was a whole other story and Trip had no fucking clue what it was.

  It only took Deacon a little over a week to locate his brother. But as soon as he got the call earlier this morning and heard the address, Trip knew he couldn’t put off this reunion, since his brother could hit the road and disappear again at any time.

  Trip didn’t think a shittier motel existed than The Grove Inn, but he was clearly wrong. The one before him looked like it should be condemned. In fact, a couple of the rooms had plywood instead of windows.

  How Deacon found Sig here, Trip didn’t ask. But he was definitely impressed with the man’s skill and it cemented the fact the new Fury member would be an asset for both the MC and his repo business.

  It also impressed Trip that Deacon had convinced Judge to wear a Fury cut and sit at the table in his father’s old spot. So that right there got him Trip’s utmost respect.

  Unfortunately, Judge still had a burr up his ass, but hopefully the big man would pull it out sometime soon.

  Trip eyed the rusty, beat-up Ford truck, the one parked directly in front of room number twelve. In the bed of that truck sat a Harley that was definitely in worse shape than the pickup.

  He and Sig were three years apart and had grown up as best friends, not having any clue they were brothers until...

  Until... Sig found out the hard way they were.

  They both did.

  Nothing in life had been easy for either of them, but Trip was determined to change that, too.

  So here he was, hoping he could convince Sig to join him on that ride.

  Trip just hoped to fuck he didn’t get plugged in the chest with a .45 while he tried to do so.

  He’d been sitting in the parking lot for over fifteen minutes, kind of hoping Sig would walk out and Trip could call him over. But the curtains remained closed, the motel quiet and he couldn’t sit there forever.

  He kept going over in his head what he needed to say and how quickly he needed to say it before Sig slammed the door in his face. Not before plugging Trip in the chest with that .45.

  Yeah, Trip wasn’t sure knocking on the door of a room in a sketchy motel was a smart idea. But he didn’t have Sig’s number, if the man even had a fucking phone.

  From what Deacon said, Sig had been sprung from a prison in upstate New York not even a week ago. Trip imagined his brother was getting some sleep in which he could finally close both eyes safely.

  Trip had slept with one eye open himself during his six years of confinement.

  While he only had one long unplanned vacation without a view, from what he’d heard and what Deacon confirmed, Sig had taken multiple. Too many to count on both hands and at too many windowless concrete and razor-wired resorts to list.

  Trip didn’t care. He wanted to move forward and put the past behind them.

  Though, everyone he’d come across so far had made that impossible.

  He was sure this afternoon would go no differently.

  Even so, he needed to get this over with, so he untucked his nuts, shut off the sled, and dismounted. After a second of indecision, he pulled off his leather skull cap, hanging it over the bike’s throttle, and shook out his hair, hoping Sig would recognize him.

  As he strode across the lot, he tucked his keys in his front pocket and straightened his cut. Stopping in front of the door, he hesitated long enough to take a long, deep breath, then he raised his fist and pounded on the door with the heel of his hand.

  He knew Sig was inside because the door was thin and, as he had approached, he could hear two voices. Not just a man’s but a woman’s, too.

  So, sleep wasn’t probably the only thing Sig was catching up on.

  The sounds from inside continued without interruption, so he pounded again and heard a “fuck” barked out followed by a grumble.

  Then a bunch of chatter.

  “This better be fuckin’ good,” came clearly through the door as Trip heard the slide of the chain lock and the click of the cheap deadbolt being twisted before the door swung open wide.

  The room was dark behind Sig, leaving Trip at a disadvantage. But his brother, the one he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years, undoubtedly stood in front of him, squinting because of the afternoon sun behind Trip.

  That meant Sig might be too blinded by the light to recognize Trip off the bat.

  And though he hadn’t seen Sig in two decades, he never saw him like he was right at that moment. Totally fucking naked with a hard-on.

  Living in prison and even during his time in the Marines, privacy was at a premium—Trip saw more cock, balls and assholes than he ever wanted to see—so it was no big thing. Only Sig wasn’t in prison anymore and Trip didn’t want to see his brother’s fucking dick, which was pointed directly at him like a compass pointing west.

  “Got a pair of fuckin’ jeans?”

  “Got some goddamn balls knockin’ on my door and disturbin’ us after I told the fuckin’ office we weren’t to be bothered.”

  “Who is it, Siggy?” came a female voice behind him.

  Siggy? Trip couldn’t see much since his brother’s body blocked most of the open doorway. But if the woman was as naked as Sig, which was Trip’s educated guess, maybe it was better he couldn’t see into the room.

  “Is it food? I’m fucking starving!”

  Trip’s eyebrows raised as that female voice was not the same as the first one. He grinned. “Is there a third?”

  “Not sure who the fuck you are, but since you ain’t carryin’ any bags of food, I got a feelin’ you’re lost.” As Sig went to close the door, Trip slid his boot into the jam to prevent that.

  “You know who I am,” Trip said.

  “Can’t say I do,” Sig answered, lifting his gaze from Trip’s offending boot and squinting up at him. Those narrowed eyes landed and stuck on Trip’s chest. “Why you wearin’ that cut?”

  Sig’s gaze rose over Trip’s shoulder and Trip knew exactly what he was looking at.

  “That fuckin’ sled kinda looks familiar.”

  “It should.”

  Sig’s eyes slid back to him and Trip stood his ground as the man studied Trip’s face. Trip did the same since he really didn’t want to keep looking at Sig’s now sinking battleship.

  Trip gave him a quick once over, stopping above the waist. His hair, the same color as both his and their father’s was shorter than Trip’s. Surprisingly a lot shorter, like the sides had been shaved and were just beginning to grow out. The top was longer but still not long at all. A beard, also shorter than Trip’s, covered his face. He had a large tattoo along the right side of his neck, starting at his hairline and making its way down his body to consist of a full sleeve on his right arm, one part of it a large phoenix which covered his right shoulder and pec.

  How fucking fucked was that? Trip considered the resurrection of the Fury similar to a phoenix rising from the ashes.

  And his fucking half-brother bore that very tattoo.

  Other smaller tattoos, like sayings, decorated his torso and left arm but Trip wasn’t going to take the time to read and decipher them all.

  The m
an had no beer gut like their father had sported, either. It seemed as though Sig had worked on his body in prison just like Trip. Sig wasn’t quite as built, but he was close.

  What caught his attention next was the ink over Sig’s heart. Two angel wings with a name in between them, but before he could ask the meaning of that, Sig growled, “Yeah, got some goddamn huge balls showin’ the fuck up here. Huntin’ me the fuck down. Either that or you’re fuckin’ stupid. And I don’t remember you bein’ fuckin’ stupid, Trip, but a lot could change in twenty fuckin’ years. Maybe someone cracked your head against a concrete wall, and you lost some of your fuckin’ sense. That what happened?”

  Trip schooled his face so he wouldn’t cringe at the reminder of what he’d done to Stella when they were kids. “No.”

  “Then you better have a good goddamn reason for you to be not only standin’ here but interruptin’ me gettin’ fuckin’ laid.”

  “Got a good reason,” Trip muttered.

  “Then let’s hear it.”

  “Wanna put some clothes on or at least move from the doorway?”

  “Why? Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Not really in the mood to be talkin’ into your mini microphone.”

  Sig tilted his head and grabbed his junk, shaking it. “Was always bigger than yours.”

  “Siggy, who is it?” came one of the female voices again.

  Sig stepped back, jerked his head in an unspoken invitation and Trip wondered if it was smart to go inside. But he did and then he questioned that choice again when Sig hit the lights.

  Yeah, there were only two and they were both totally fucking naked and neither one of them cared that he’d entered the room.

  In fact, they didn’t care that they were touching each other in front of a stranger, either.

  They weren’t bad looking girls, but they were young. A mirror smeared with coke residue sat on one of the particle board nightstands. A few crushed beer cans and a few that were still appeared full littered the room. All the bed coverings were in a pile on the floor so both women were laying together on just the fitted sheet which had some spots on it. Trip wasn’t too keen on discovering what those spots were.