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

by Jeanne St. James

  He had a good guess.

  Both girls’ pussies were shaved bare and one was playing with the other.

  “Some hot shit right there, right?”

  “Yeah, if you like teens.” And wanted to end back behind bars.

  “They’re legal.”

  “You sure?”

  “You girls legal?” Sig asked them.

  “Yeah,” they both answered in unison as they kissed each other.

  “See?” Sig asked, moving toward the bed and sitting on the edge. With his knees spread Trip got an eyeful.

  “Got somethin’ you can put on?”

  “Why, big brother? A little nakedness bother you?” He twisted his head to the girls behind him. “Toss me my smokes.”

  One of them got up onto her hands and knees and moved toward the far nightstand. As she did so, Trip swore he could see right through her gaping pussy to her throat.

  He decided it was best to keep his eyes on Sig, neck up.

  “Want some of that? Don’t mind sharin’ since we’re blood and all that.”

  “I’m good.”

  Sig held out the pack of Marlboros the girl had handed him. “Smoke?”

  Trip shook his head. “Got my own.”

  Sig plugged a cigarette between his lips, lit it with a pack of matches from the motel and then studied him as he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and held it there.

  As he talked the smoke rolled out of his mouth. “Why you here?”

  “Was hopin’ to reconnect.”

  Sig leaned a forearm on his bare thigh and studied the lit end of his cigarette for a long moment. “Right,” he murmured. He lifted his brown eyes to Trip. “Why now?”

  “Had a room at Huntingdon for the last six years, that kinda restricted my travel and ability to socialize.”

  “Yeah?”

  Had Sig not known? “Granddaddy didn’t tell you?”

  “Didn’t talk to him. Wasn’t my granddaddy, was yours.”

  “He was yours, too, Sig.”

  “Let’s just say, after everything went down and the truth came out, Granddaddy didn’t put me on his Christmas card list.” Sig took a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowing on Trip. “Also didn’t put me in that will.” He emptied the smoke from his lungs and one of the girls pasted herself to him, grinding her tits against his back and stroking Sig’s chest. “You here to make it right and give me my half?”

  “Here to make you an offer.”

  Sig snorted and shook his head. “If it ain’t half, ain’t much of an offer.” He lifted the hand not holding his cigarette and snapped his fingers over his shoulder. “Pam,” he called out.

  “Paula,” the one not hanging all over Sig corrected.

  “Whatever,” he grumbled. “Your sister’s gettin’ me hard pushin’ those little titties of hers on me, get down on the floor and suck my dick while I’m talkin’.”

  Trip went solid, waiting for the girl to tell him to go to hell, but he was wrong. So goddamn wrong. She eagerly scrambled off the bed, fell to her knees between his legs and began to Hoover him like his dick was as dirty as the fucking carpet she was kneeling on.

  Damn. Seeing Sig’s dick was bad enough, seeing him getting head by some chick who may not even be eighteen yet...

  Time for him to split.

  He dug into his wallet and pulled one of the cards he had made up for the repo business and tossed it onto the mattress. “Gonna leave my number. You let me know when you got time to talk. See you’re too busy for business right now.”

  As he spun on his boot heel, Sig stopped him. “See you stole good ol’ Dad’s cut.”

  Trip remained facing the door when he answered, “Didn’t steal it. Found it.”

  “Why the fuck would you wanna wear that?”

  Trip dropped his head and stared as his boots as he heard slurping sounds behind him. He wanted to have this conversation with Sig, but not like this.

  He figured Sig was doing it on purpose, just to be an asshole. Trying to push Trip. He tightened his jaw. “Lemme know when she’s done.”

  “If you were in the joint that long, sure you watched a lot of tongue and mouth action. Probably got some done to you and gave some yourself.”

  “Wasn’t my thing.”

  “No? Long bids tend to make it one’s thing.”

  “It woulda taken a lot longer bid than six years.”

  “Six years is a long fuckin’ time unless you kept catchin’ charges inside.”

  Trip lifted his head, trying to ignore Sig’s groan of, “Fuck yeah, that’s it.” He stared at the door, which was just a couple feet away.

  He needed to go. He did not need to get caught in a motel room with underage girls, if that’s what they were, and drugs.

  Six years had been six years too many.

  “You on parole?” Trip tossed over his shoulder.

  Trip didn’t get an answer, so he had to assume he was on the tail end of that head job.

  Jesus fuck.

  They were close when they were young and had done some stupid shit, but this took the fucking cake.

  A few seconds later, Sig’s voice, sounding a little too satisfied, filled the room. “Forget that I watched that sweet butt suck you off in a corner of the warehouse one night when you were fourteen. Also forget that same fuckin’ sweet butt popped your fuckin’ cherry at one of the roasts in front of everyone not six months later. Every fuckin’ one at that party egged her on. And then when she was done with you, she ate your load right out of her own cunt.”

  Jesus.

  Fuckin’.

  Shit.

  He had tried to forget that night. Though, a first time like that was hard to forget.

  His own father had encouraged that sweet butt to do it.

  Her name might have been Shelly. He didn’t know and, at the time, he didn’t care.

  “Tried to get her to do me. She ruffled my hair and said I was too fuckin’ young. Always missin’ out.”

  “You were eleven at the time.”

  “Yeah? And I could get hard. So, what does it matter?”

  Trip needed to go. He needed to go. Why the fuck was he still standing there?

  Ice slid through his veins as those memories surged through him. “Was Stella at that roast?”

  “Stella, that little pain in the ass bitch who wouldn’t leave us alone? Don’t fuckin’ know and, anyway, why does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” Trip lied under his breath.

  Trip heard a rustling behind him. “All right, big brother, got some jeans on and you got a few before I’m ready to fuck Patty and Pam.”

  “I’m Paula and she’s Penny,” one of the females corrected him.

  Sig kept talking. “If you don’t wanna watch then I suggest you say what you came here to say.”

  Trip took a peek over his shoulder. Sig wasn’t lying. He had pulled on some jeans, though they weren’t fastened. The two girls now had the mirror on the bed between them, using a credit card to scrape some coke into several lines.

  Trip had to close his eyes from those neat white rows. He hadn’t done that shit in years and he wasn’t about to start again.

  A little weed was one thing. A few shots of whiskey and a six-pack was another. But he was not touching that shit again. He had better things to spend his money on besides throwing it down an endless pit, when one line, three lines, five lines weren’t enough.

  Trip jerked his chin toward the females who were now taking turns snorting the lines with a rolled up twenty. “You do that shit?”

  “Not much anymore. My dick breaks when I do. I’d rather lose myself in sweet hot pussy than be all coked out.”

  Good. Because he was not having that shit at the barn or even on the farm. He was not going back to prison because of someone else’s bad habit.

  “So... Tick. Tock. Talk.”

  Trip sighed. “Resurrecting the club.”

  “Kinda figured that when you walked in here wearin’ that bullsh
it. Especially since it’s your name above that president’s patch and not Buck’s.”

  “Got a spot for you.” Trip lifted his palm to stop Sig before he flat-out turned him down. “Got an apartment for you. A job. A family. Or,” he shrugged and looked around the messy room, “if you prefer fleabag motels, got one of those, too.”

  Sig snorted. “What family?”

  “Need me to answer that?”

  Sig shook his head. “Then you’re givin’ me my half.”

  “Not givin’ you half. Gotta earn it.”

  Sig snorted again. “Like you did.” He followed up that insult by spitting a hocker onto the dirty motel room carpet.

  “Bustin’ my ass to get shit rollin’, Sig. If you think I’m just bein’ handed everything, you’d be fuckin’ wrong. Got a place for you. At the table as VP. At the barn. Place to start fresh. Also, need help runnin’ one of my businesses.”

  “Your businesses,” Sig echoed.

  “The repo business.”

  “Well, damn. Good ol’ Dad’s business. So again, half mine.”

  “Sure, if you got half the money for the fuckin’ license, the bond, the repairs for the wrecker. Plus, half the money so I can buy a rollback, too. Got that money to spare?”

  Sig’s nostrils flared and his mouth got tight as he looked away. “Everything I got’s in that pickup truck out there.”

  “Right. So, my business. Got a motel and half a bar, too.”

  Sig’s bloodshot brown eyes slid back to him. “Half a bar?”

  “Crazy Pete’s.”

  His brother chewed on that for a few seconds before asking, “How’s Pete?”

  “Dead.”

  “Fuck,” Sig muttered, raking fingers through the longer hair on top of his head. “Never forget the day he and Buck kicked your fuckin’ ass. Thought you were dead for a while there. Mighta shed a tear for you, too, if I remember correctly. All because of that pain in the ass Stella—”

  “Yeah,” Trip cut him off. “Didn’t die. Here I am. Own half of Pete’s bar.”

  “The club owned half.”

  Trip nodded. “I’m claimin’ that half.”

  Sig cocked a brow. “Who’s claiming the other half since Pete’s dead?”

  “Stella.”

  “Fuck. She back?”

  “She’s back.” Damn, he needed a cigarette. Or something stronger. “Claimin’ her, too.”

  Sig’s eyes met his and he didn’t bother to hide the surprise in them. “How long have you been tappin’ that?”

  Trip ignored that question. “So, you in?”

  “Got pussy and booze?”

  “Not yet. But workin’ on it.”

  Sig lifted his hand and lifted a finger. “No pussy.” He lifted a second one. “No booze.” Then a third. “Gotta work to get what’s mine. Not likin’ the sound of all that. And anyway, why the fuck would I wanna live in that fuckin’ backward-assed town? Couldn’t get outta there fast enough.”

  “Roof over your head.”

  “Got one of those.”

  “No rent. No roaches. No bed bugs.”

  “Yeah. That could be a plus,” he said, scratching at his beard.

  “Tellin’ you now, though. No hard shit. No jailbait. Nothing that’s gonna get our asses thrown back in the pen.”

  “Not sure I’m likin’ the sound of that, either.”

  “What part? The part where your ass remains free?”

  “When there’s rules, you ain’t free.”

  “When you’re free, there’s always fuckin’ rules to remain that way,” he reminded his brother, who should know that only so well. “Can you leave New York?”

  The motel room they were standing in was just over the border of Pennsylvania into New York. He might not be able to leave the state depending on the condition of his parole.

  “Didn’t say I was takin’ you up on your offer.”

  “Didn’t say you weren’t, either.”

  “Not sure why you feel the need to make that offer.”

  “You’re blood,” Trip answered.

  “So? If you think blood was important back then, then you weren’t payin’ the fuck attention.”

  “Was important, just ignored.” Trip wasn’t sure how true that was, since blood wasn’t always family and family wasn’t always blood. A solid MC was family. The BFMC Originals should have been family. Turned out they weren’t. Once again, he was using what he witnessed with the Dirty Angels MC as his goal. They were all tight. They were all family. They would die for each other, not plug a hole into each other’s backs.

  “Dutch in?”

  Sig’s question pulled him out of his thoughts. “Yeah.”

  “You talk to Rook?”

  “Not yet. Dutch said he’s in Lycoming County.”

  “You gonna talk to him?”

  That was at the top of his mile-long to-do list. Along with trying to find a way to make some quick scratch to fill not only the club’s coffers but his own. “That’s my plan. Dutch said he gets out soon.”

  “Judge?”

  “Judge is in.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who else?”

  “Judge’s cousin, Deacon. A couple prospects. Cage.”

  “Cage?”

  “Dutch’s youngest boy. Remember him?”

  “That kid was a pain in the ass, too. Just like that gash you’re now bangin’.”

  Trip’s blood began to simmer. “Seems he still is. And Stella ain’t gash. Fuckin’ call her that again, we’re gonna have a problem.”

  “Whatever you say, big brother.” Sig pulled a joint out of the pack of Marlboros and lit it. He offered it to Trip.

  Trip stared at it for a second, tempted, then shook his head. He needed to get back. If he got stoned, he’d have no motivation to do shit later. And he had a hell of a lot of work to do.

  With Sig or without him.

  Sig took another hit, jerked his head at one of the girls and she crawled over to him and pressed her lips to his. Sig shotgunned the smoke into her mouth.

  Paula, Pam or whatever the sister’s name was—if they were sisters—came over and pinned her naked self to his other side and Sig repeated the gesture.

  Sig held the joint out and one of the girls took a hit and shotgunned the other one, then added a whole bunch of tongue to it.

  Fuck. Trip hoped they weren’t really sisters.

  Sig put his arm around both of them and pulled them into his lap. “Times up, big brother. You stayin’ and watchin’?”

  “You got my card. Think about it, Sig.” With that, Trip turned around and got the fuck out of there before he changed his mind about offering Sig a place to land.

  Chapter Eight

  It had been three days since her meltdown, and though she hadn’t wanted to see Trip, she was surprised he hadn’t stopped in at the bar.

  In one way she was relieved, in another, not so much.

  But now she needed answers and to set some rules.

  She also needed to collect what he took so she could take care of business.

  During those three days, as she cleaned glasses, the bar top, straightened chairs, wiped down tables and took inventory, she had gone back and forth about staying and trying to make a go of the bar with Trip’s—or the club’s—help or simply writing the whole thing off, handing it over and trying to find somewhere else to once again plant some roots.

  Because right now, without those roots, she felt about to topple.

  Like the other night.

  When she fell to the floor, everything inside her had shattered like a glass hitting concrete. And it took her over a day to sweep up those pieces and try to glue herself back together.

  What happened between her and Trip...

  She wished it hadn’t and she hoped he’d let it go. She doubted he would, but she could still hope.

  Even so, here she was, standing on his porch in front of that beautiful rustic door of his farmhouse.


  The property was quiet; no construction could be heard. Most likely because it was Sunday and that was the Amish’s day of worship. To them, it was a day dedicated to rest and God.

  For Stella, it was one day she gave herself off since the bar was closed. One day she tried to get more than four hours of sleep.

  The only problem with having the bar closed was her hands became idle and her mind began to wander, and memories she worked so hard to keep at bay tended to swallow her whole.

  So, in the end, every Sunday, instead of relaxing and recharging, she found something to do with the bar. Especially since something always needed to be done.

  To the far left, through the antique etched glass panels on the door, she caught some movement inside. She lifted her hand to knock and hoped he was alone, and she wasn’t interrupting anything.

  Before she could put her fist to the panel to announce her arrival, she heard, “Door’s open,” loud and clear.

  Door’s open.

  Did he know it was her standing out there?

  “Stella, door’s open.”

  Yep, he knew it was her. How? She had no idea.

  She opened the door and stood there, unsure whether going inside was a good idea. But she had come out to the farm for a reason and she needed to show strength instead of the weakness she showed the other night.

  She refused to be the wounded doe and let Trip, who she considered the predator, take her down. She would fight to the very end.

  Or, at least, that’s what she told herself. In reality, she was afraid she was too tired to fight anymore.

  “Lettin’ the skeeters in, Stel.”

  Stel. He’d never called her that before.

  She took a deep inhale and stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind her.

  He had to have every damn window in the house open, which let the spring breeze sweep through. That was probably why he knew she was there. There was nothing quiet about her Jeep coming up his rutted dirt and stone driveway.

  Like typical old farmhouses, the main entrance to the house was the back door, the one she had entered through and also faced the barn. It had taken her directly into a country kitchen.

  The large, rustic room needed some fresh paint, but that was all it needed. Other than that, it was gorgeous. Just like the man standing in bare feet and only wearing jeans at the old six-burner white porcelain gas stove that had to be from the fifties. The only new appliance seemed to be the fridge, but it was in a fifties style. It blended in perfectly with the cabinets, the handmade farm table and the more than century old wide-planked knotty wood floors.