Stella would kill for a kitchen like this.
And a family to sit around that table, while she stood where Trip did, making them pancakes.
Trip wasn’t making pancakes, but she could smell bacon and heard what might be eggs sizzling in a cast iron skillet.
Without turning around, he asked, “Hungry?”
She considered him, his bare back and the Blood Fury colors taking up that whole, muscular landscape. He’d had the colors permanently inked into his skin even before he knew whether the club would rise again.
He was that fucking confident.
Or maybe just that cocky.
Either way, the man knew what he wanted and went after it with everything he had.
“Don’t got a cat,” he muttered, forking the bacon from a cast iron grill that covered two of the burners onto some stacked paper towels to drain.
Her gaze circled the floor, wondering what cat he was talking about.
“Don’t got a cat,” he repeated again. He twisted his head to glance at her over his bare, broad shoulder. The one Stella wanted to sink her teeth into as she was clawing his back.
A flash of him fucking her in the bar while bent over the counter swept through her and her knees almost buckled.
That night she had wanted him to hurt her, to make her feel something. He didn’t, but he did cause damage she was afraid she wouldn’t recover from.
Her wanting him.
Just like she had when they were kids.
While it had been obsessive back then, now it was more out of curiosity. If the sex was that good when it shouldn’t have been, she wondered how good it would be when she was in a different mindset. When they both were.
Note to self: none of that was the reason she was there.
Was it?
Could she have had him just drop off the bills and her checkbook or had one of the guys come pick it up? Just like she could’ve had Dutch deliver Pete’s cut to him over a week ago?
Or was she just looking for an excuse to see him? Be around him?
That thought bothered her.
He was everything she was not looking for in a man. If she was even looking, which she wasn’t.
He turned around and curled his fingers around his hips, shooting her a look of concern. “Want me to kill that cat?”
She shook herself mentally. “What cat are you talking about?”
“The one that’s got your fuckin’ tongue. Never known you to be so fuckin’ quiet.” He walked over to the large table and jerked out a wood chair. “Take a load off. Gonna get you food so you don’t pass out.”
Surprised, she put the back of her hand to her forehead. “Do I look pale?”
“No, your face is red, and your nipples are hard, makin’ me wonder what the fuck you were thinkin’ about when you were so quiet.”
“Just how good that bacon smells,” she lied.
One side of his mouth lifted into a half-grin and the corners of his dark brown eyes wrinkled. “Yeah, that might be it.” He tapped the chair and she approached. As she settled into it, he got close to her ear and murmured, “But I doubt it.”
Her breath caught and he moved away.
“Coffee?”
She scooted the chair back. “I can get it.”
“Sit. Takin’ care of you this mornin’.”
“I don’t need taken care of,” she reminded him.
“Will be plenty of mornin’s where you’ll be takin’ care of me. And I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout breakfast.”
Uh... what? “I’m sorry?”
He went over to what looked like a new coffeemaker in one corner of the black marbled soapstone counter. “Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.”
“No, I meant... I think I misheard what you said.”
He returned with a steaming large mug in his hand. He put it in front of her and asked, “You take shit in your coffee?”
“Not shit, but cream and stevia.”
“Stevia? What the fuck’s that?”
“Sugar will be fine.”
He dug around in the fridge and brought out a small carton of whole milk, put it on the table as he passed, then a few seconds later, dropped a spoon and a small generic bag of white sugar off as he headed back to the stove.
“Trip,” Stella murmured as she added a heaping spoonful of sugar and poured the few drops of milk that remained in the bottom of the container. She shook her head. Just like a man to put the milk container back in the fridge empty.
“Stella...”
She lifted her gaze from her mug as he put a plate in front of her. “Hmm?”
“Said my name, then stopped.”
Stella stared at the plate in front of her. Hash browns heavily decorated with ketchup, two fried eggs, also covered in ketchup, and three slices of bacon, thankfully not covered in ketchup.
Her husband had used Tabasco on his eggs, not ketchup. Stella preferred just a little salt and pepper. She never understood the whole condiments on an egg thing.
Trip straddled the chair across from her, then lowered his own plate—a mountain of hash browns, three fried eggs, six slices of bacon and she swore a half bottle’s worth of ketchup—in front of himself, along with a full mug of black coffee.
He forked a good portion of perfectly crispy shredded potatoes into his mouth, some ketchup catching at the corner of his lip.
She swallowed hard as his tongue slid out and swept it away.
She dropped her gaze back to her plate, picked up a slice of crispy bacon and bit into it. Her eyes closed. She hadn’t had good bacon in a long time. She couldn’t afford it. Most mornings she made oatmeal. By buying it in bulk, it was cheap and filling. Occasionally she had toast. But bacon? Too much of a splurge.
And she had missed it.
Without opening her eyes, she shoved the other half of the strip into her mouth and took her time chewing it, savoring the smoky but sweet taste. Maple. That’s what the sweetness was.
“If only a woman’s face would look like that while suckin’ my dick.”
Stella’s eyes popped open and met Trip’s. “Is that a joke?”
“If you saw your face while you ate that fuckin’ bacon, then you’d know it wasn’t.”
She busied herself with chasing the bacon down with a mouthful of coffee. That was good, too. Trip hadn’t used a generic bag of coffee to make that pot.
“Coffee must be good, too.”
“It’s okay.”
Trip grinned around a mouthful of eggs. “Eggs are from the Amish. They’ve been bringin’ me a dozen or two every week when they come out to work. Gonna get a regular supply of ‘em from them, along with some of their meats and dairy. Possibly even some veggies and fruit they grow. Keep the kitchen in the barn stocked with shit so the guys don’t only have a diet of whiskey, beer, pussy and pot.”
She choked on the bite of egg she was chewing. She helped it down with another gulp of coffee.
“Speakin’ of pussy...”
He surged from his chair, came around the table, and before she could react, he drove his fingers into the hair by her ears, fisted them and pulled her head back, dropping his.
Her objection of what he was about to do became muffled when his lips crushed hers. He tasted like a delicious mix of coffee, bacon and sweetness as their tongues touched. When he pushed forward, she pushed back.
She shouldn’t be enjoying the kiss, but it was rough and thorough, just how she liked them. But the problem wasn’t the kiss. It was with who was kissing her.
When he was done, he pulled away just slightly, letting her catch her breath, but left his fingers tangled tightly in her hair, enough to feel that delicious pull. Enough to not only make her scalp tingle but everything else, too.
His gaze locked with hers as his low voice sent heat spiraling into her belly. “You never got that kiss twenty years ago. I never got it the other night. Now that we got that outta the way, I can concentrate on breakfast.”
He released her and her eyes fol
lowed him as he went back to his seat and sat down, then shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth.
The mouth that had made her nipples pebble and her pussy clench hard.
That mouth.
The mouth that had bitten her the other night and left bruises in its path. Reminders that what they had done had been a mistake.
“It was a mistake.”
He finished chewing, lifted his mug to his lips and took a long sip. When he was done, he said, “Yeah, you’re right. It was.” He put the mug down next to his plate and sat back in his chair, tilting his head as he studied her across the table. “Our fathers—both yours and mine—taught me to never put my hands on a woman in anger. And that was my fuckin’ mistake.”
“It wasn’t just the—”
“Both times I’ve done it, it’s been with you.”
His expression turned troubled. Was it guilt?
“Why is that, Trip?”
He shoved his last piece of bacon into his mouth and said nothing.
She pushed her chair back and rose, grabbing her plate. She scraped what she didn’t eat—couldn’t, after that kiss—into the trash and went to the sink. She needed some space between them when they discussed what she came to talk about. “We need to talk about the other night.”
“Probably shouldn’t.”
His chair scraped back, but she remained facing the sink, bracing herself.
Damn it, he was going to close that space she created. She needed to talk fast. “I just want to make it clear.” She turned and saw him on the move, heading toward her, carrying his now empty plate. “What we did meant nothing. I need to remind you that you don’t own me. I’m not property. I’m not an ol’ lady. I’m not a sweet butt, patch whore or a piece. Not even a backpack.”
His face remained neutral as he brushed against her, putting his plate in the sink. “Got it.”
Her blood began to hum with how close he was. Since he still faced the sink, his right hip was pinned to her left. “It was just a slip-up. I was tired, frustrated and stressed. And then you showed up and...”
“’Kay.”
She expected him to move away, but he remained, the heat from his bare torso searing her side through her well-worn, but treasured, Nirvana tank top. She should move away but she couldn’t. It was like he was a magnet and she was metal.
She fought that strong pull and forced herself to continue. “But that’s all it was. A mistake.” More of a reminder to herself than one to him.
“All right.”
He was being suspiciously agreeable. “Now we got that straight, we can move on. Figure out what happens to the bar from here.”
“Agreed.”
“Good. I don’t want to fight about this.”
“No fight.”
“Good,” she repeated on a relieved breath. She went to step away and his hand became a blur as he snagged her wrist.
He spun around and yanked her to face him. “You done?”
“What?” Being this close she had to look up to read his face. To see if he was angry or annoyed.
“You done with the shit you came to say?”
“Yes. But that’s not the only reason why I’m here.”
A grin slowly crossed his face. “Figured that.”
She didn’t like that grin; she knew what it meant. “Guess you ignored everything I said about that night being a mistake.”
“Pretty much.”
Too fucking arrogant. “Just so you know, I meant it.”
“Guess you ignored it when I said you’ll be takin’ care of me most mornings.”
“I did ignore that, yes.”
“Well, don’t.”
“I didn’t come here for that; I came for my checkbook and bills.”
“Took ‘em.”
“No shit, but I need to pay them, Trip. If I don’t, I’ll lose the bar.”
“We’ll lose the bar. I paid the worst ones.” He released her wrist to scrape a hand through his hair. The lines around his eyes crinkling but not from a grin this time. “I couldn’t pay ‘em all.”
Since she was now free from his grip, she took a step back, trying to create the space she so desperately needed. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Yeah, you will.”
“I just don’t know how soon—”
He kept talking over her. “But not in cash.”
She lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back. “I’m not a patch whore, Trip. Never will be. If that’s what you want, then fuck you.”
His jaw worked. “Said nothin’ about you bein’ a patch whore. Do I want you in my bed? Fuck yes. Do I want you ridin’ a bunch of dick like a sweet butt? Fuck no.”
“But you want me to pay off my debt to you by sleeping with you.”
“Has nothin’ to do with sleepin’, but no, didn’t say that, either.”
She threw her hands up and then dropped them, slapping her palms against her outer thighs in frustration. “Then what the fuck do you want from me?”
“What else you got?”
Once again, he was being a dick since he already knew the answer to that.
Nothing, she had nothing. And now only half a bar. Officially, his name might not be on the deed yet, but he had a paper stating the club owned half. Stella couldn’t afford to fight that if he decided to take it to court. Even if she won, she’d end up losing. Having to hire an attorney would just put her in the hole even more.
“Nothing. You want the bar, take the fucking bar.” Her fingers curled so hard into the sides of her thighs, her nails dug into her skin even through her jeans. “I don’t have the strength to fight anymore.”
She hated to admit that, but it needed to be said. He needed to get where she was coming from.
He pursed his lips and dragged a hand down his bearded jaw. “An eleven-year-old Stella was a determined fuckin’ bitch. Where’d she go?”
“Life happened, Trip.” It had kicked her in the gut so hard she couldn’t breathe. It got so bad, at one point she hadn’t even wanted it to continue.
Her tenacity barely remained strong enough to keep her sucking in one breath at a time. And that was what she’d done. Took one breath, then another, each measured until she got through that day. Slowly she got through one day, one week, one month until she could tolerate the pain.
“Yeah, life happened. And when someone kicks you in the nuts, you hold on to ‘em ‘til you can breathe again, then you stand the fuck up and kick that motherfucker’s ass. That’s what the fuck I’m doin’ here with all this, with the farm, the club, the motel, and now the bar. Don’t need to do it by yourself, Stel. You don’t. I got your back.”
“Why? Just because you want to pilfer the profits for the club’s coffers?”
“Not pilferin’ when I own half.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ll give you the checkbook back, but not the bills. Gonna pay them all off as soon as I can.”
“And again, how am I going to pay you back? Even if you own half, I owe you half of those bills.”
“You owe more than that, Stella. Like I said the other night, for twenty years Pete put all the profits into his own pocket. You’re lucky I’m only takin’ half.”
Right. She was lucky.
She was lucky this man was walking in and taking over like he alone owned not only the bar, but also her.
He was sadly mistaken.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose, held it, then let it go, hoping it would relieve some of her tension. It didn’t. She rubbed at the invisible band that squeezed her chest. Her gut churned as she forced herself to say, “I’ll just walk away. It’s for the best. Like you had said, I had a year to turn the bar around and I failed.”
“Not lettin’ you walk away.”
Again, he spoke like he owned her, like she was club property. She had witnessed that mentality firsthand as a child growing up a part of the Fury. “It’s not up to you, Trip.”
This time whe
n he closed the gap between them, he didn’t grab her wrist, instead his face was soft—which was even harder to deal with than when he was angry—and he tucked his thumb under her chin, raising her face to his.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere. Need you to stay and manage the bar, Stella. Need your help. I got too many irons in the fire already and not enough hands. Will help you get it turned around, but you’ll be runnin’ it.”
“With some strong suggestions from you, right?”
“When they’re needed. Thinkin’ if you got cash flowin’ in to fix shit up and a bit of help so it’s not all on your shoulders, then you’ll do all right without me steppin’ in too often.”
“Too often,” she repeated under her breath.
“Thing is, once I find you some prospects, you won’t be closin’ the bar every night. In fact, you won’t be closin’ it at all. You’ll be managin’ it, not doin’ the heavy liftin’. Want you in my bed every night at a decent hour.”
Whoa. What kind of drugs was he doing? “Trip, I’m not going to be in your bed. I’m not paying back the debt that way.”
“Got nothin’ to do with the debt, baby. Nothin’ at all.”
Baby. She shook her head like she was stuck in some twilight zone. “You’re not getting what I’m putting down, Trip.”
His fingers tightened on her chin. “No, baby, you’re not gettin’ what I’m puttin’ down.”
The intensity in his eyes, the growl in his voice made her lose her breath. The meaning behind his words closed her throat. “You...” She tried to swallow past the constriction. “You...” Jesus Christ. “You can’t just claim me. I’m not a part of the club.”
“Were born into it. You’re still a part of the club.”
“My mother freed us when we left twenty years ago. I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Too fuckin’ bad.”
He must be living in some sort of fantasy world. Panic began to set in, her heart thumping furiously in her chest. “No, that’s not how real life works, Trip.”
“In my world, it does.”
Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC Book 1) Page 12
