“Good fuckin’ deal. Tellin’ the landlord I’m out at the end of the month. As soon as the paint’s dry I’m movin’ in. It’ll save me a shitload of scratch. And the dogs will love it out here.”
“TV and internet are scheduled for next week, too.”
Judge grinned. “Sounds like a fuckin’ palace.”
“If a little cable and Wi-Fi’s gonna make it a palace, then you’re gonna feel like a fuckin’ king.”
They clasped hands and bumped shoulders.
“Glad your ass is on board.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” Judge threw over his shoulder as he jogged down the porch steps and cut across the grass to a waiting pickup truck with some furniture and a big screen TV in the back.
Seeing the new cut on Judge’s back gave Trip a sense of satisfaction and also one of coming home.
The Originals might have made a fucked-up family, but it was a family even so. Trip wanted to not only build on that but make it better.
He saw the mistakes made. They just needed to avoid those same mistakes. Though, that might be easier said than done.
Deacon flicked a cigarette out the truck’s window and shot him a two-finger flick in greeting. Trip returned it and shut the door, making sure to lock it, just in case.
When he turned, he realized why Judge hadn’t said anything to Stella as he left.
She was gone.
The loud rattle of her Jeep as it made its way down his long lane came through the open windows. He rushed to the front door—the door he never used—and saw it was unlocked.
She had snuck out the front.
Son of a bitch.
He opened it just in time to see the Cherokee turn right onto the paved road. He slammed the door and locked it, a weight pressing heavily on his chest.
He turned slowly, his eyes immediately landing on his grandfather’s roll-top desk.
Just what he expected. The checkbook binder and the pile of bills were gone.
“For fuck’s sake,” he growled, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, which was suddenly pounding.
His temperature was spiking, and he needed to cool off. He needed to get it under control before it swallowed him whole.
Because once it did that, there was no telling what he’d do.
Her chin rested in her palm as she frowned at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting on the chipped plate in front of her. Two bites were missing from one corner, but that was it.
She couldn’t stomach eating anymore. It churned with what happened earlier. With the knowledge if she hadn’t escaped when she had, she would have let Trip do whatever he wanted to her.
And she would have welcomed it then. But regretted it later.
She had no choice when it came to Trip and the club being involved in the bar. That choice had been taken from her.
However, she did have a choice about landing in his bed. Or his kitchen table.
Or the bar’s back counter.
She had been grateful Judge had showed up when he did. It gave her a chance to escape undetected, though the club’s new Sergeant at Arms saw what she was doing and didn’t tip off Trip.
Thank fuck.
She owed Judge a beer or two on the house.
He probably wouldn’t accept it because, when he came in, he always over tipped her, knowing she desperately needed the money.
Like she was nothing but a fucking charity case.
She had come back to Manning Grove in an effort to get her life in order. To start fresh. But all it did was bog her down more. It took the monkey on her back and turned it into King Kong. The weight becoming unbearable.
Trip had asked her what happened to the eleven-year old determined bitch.
She still existed. Stella just needed to drag her back out and dust her off.
A loud pounding at the rear door downstairs not only jerked her out of her thoughts but made her jump. It sounded like the police were using a battering ram.
With her heart racing, she slipped off the stool at the counter and made her way to the window to glance down at the parking spots behind the bar.
There was room for four vehicles, hers and three employees, if she had them, which she didn’t. But even if she did, on a Sunday night only her Jeep would fill one spot since the bar was closed.
Something that, if she got help, she might be able to change.
Next to her vehicle, a very old wrecker took up two of those spots.
She couldn’t see the rear door to see who was pounding on it unless she stuck her head out of the window.
But she knew.
She remembered that tow truck since Buck had run a repo business when he was still alive. And she also recognized the painted but faded name on the side: Buck You Recovery.
A teenage Trip had always vowed when he turned eighteen, he would wear a prospect cut for the MC and help his pop with the repo business.
He thought that was his future.
Instead, his father ended up shot in the back, Trip got dragged to Wisconsin and then he joined the Marines at eighteen. At least that was what Pete had told her on one of their rare father-daughter conversations and she was curious enough to ask.
Judge’s father, Ox, also helped Buck with the “recovery” business, by doing “collections,” just not of the legal type. The club offered so-called “protection” to the town’s business owners for a monthly fee. It wasn’t optional, even though there was nothing to protect them from. It wasn’t like the townsfolk were getting shaken down by the mafia or gangs running the streets wreaking havoc. The only shakedowns and havoc created were from the BFMC itself, arguably a gang in its own rite.
She heard more pounding and “Stella” being yelled just like in A Streetcar Named Desire. Her mother’s favorite movie.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath as Trip stepped back far enough to where she could see him. He jabbed a finger toward the door, not looking any kind of pleased.
Well, she wasn’t happy about this interruption, either.
She winced when the window sash complained loudly as she struggled to lift it. It got stuck open halfway, but it was enough for her to yell down, “Go away, Trip.”
He plugged his hands on his hips under his cut and tilted his head, his hair not restrained by any kind of hat or skull cap since he hadn’t ridden his bike.
The fact that he looked hot as fuck annoyed her even more.
“Not goin’ anywhere. Save some time for both of us and open the fuckin’ door.”
“That’s not smart.”
“As part owner of this fuckin’ place, I demand access.”
I demand access.
Stella rolled her eyes. Well, that just made her want to run right down and let him in. “I’ll get you a key made next week.”
“Want a key today. Come down and open the fuckin’ door. Can’t afford to replace it if I kick it the fuck in.”
“You won’t.”
“Try me.”
“Goddamn it,” she whispered as she jimmied the window sash free enough to close it.
She slipped on her flip flops since there was no way she was heading into the bar barefooted. She hurried down the steps, through the storage room and toward the rear of the bar where Trip was waiting. Most likely impatiently.
With her hand on the door’s panic bar, she paused, dropped her head and sucked in a breath. Then as she pushed the bar, she lifted her chin to show a confidence she did not feel, unlatching the door.
Her mouth dropped open and she fell back as he barreled past her, practically shoving her out of the way with what looked like a half dozen plastic grocery bags draped over each arm.
He didn’t slow his roll and kept heading down the short hallway.
She quickly secured the door and followed, the slap of her flip flops on her feet the only sound as he disappeared into the storage room.
“Hey!” she yelled as she scrambled to catch up and barely saw him disappear up the steps. “Hey!”<
br />
Holy fuck, this man was trying her patience.
She ripped off her flip flops and ran up the steps, shoved open the door to her apartment and then whipped her shoes at him as he stood with his back to her at the tiny counter of her galley kitchen.
Her cheap foam flip flops fell to the floor two feet from him in an unsatisfying flutter.
He finished sliding the bags off his arm and onto the counter. Twelve bags of groceries barely fit in her limited space, so he had to pile some on top of others.
“What the fuck, Trip!” she yelled at him as she stomped over to where he was pulling things out of the bags. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Told you we weren’t done. You left knowin’ that.” With that he continued to pull out items, shoving them into her chest, where she automatically grabbed them.
“Again, Trip. You don’t own me. I’m not your property.”
“Right.”
No, no, no. Not “right.” Wrong.
She stared at what he’d handed her so far. Two packs of maple-flavored bacon, what looked and felt like two butcher-wrapped steaks and a bag of expensive coffee.
What the fuck?
“Put that shit away, then help with the rest.”
“I don’t need your help.” Talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. It was not only frustrating, it was pointless.
The man did not fucking listen.
Trip’s hand stilled deep inside one of the bags and he lifted his dark brown eyes to hers. “Say that again?” He slipped his hand out, empty this time, and raised it, palm out. He jerked his chin toward her barely eaten PB and J. “Two bites of that fuckin’ sandwich.”
“You interrupted my dinner.”
“A PB and J doesn’t count as fuckin’ dinner, Stella. Saw your ribs showin’ earlier when I was suckin’ your tits. Too fuckin’ skinny.” He snagged the two packages of bacon from her arms and went over to the fridge.
Damn it.
He flung open the door and jerked both hands up and out in an exasperated move before tossing the bacon onto one of the shelves and turning to face her. “It’s fuckin’ empty.”
Stella let her gaze slide over the mountain of bags as she told her next lie. “I haven’t had a chance to go shopping.”
“Goddamn it, woman, don’t fuckin’ lie to me. Ever.” The last was said with extreme annoyance. “Don’t like fuckin’ liars.”
She stood there in stunned silence, unsure what to do or say. Because whatever she did or said would go ignored.
He went back to the bags and yanked out a waxed paper bag which filled that tiny corner of the apartment with a smell so damn delicious, her stomach growled. She slapped a hand to it to quiet it.
It pretty much gave her the finger just like Trip.
He unrolled the top of the bag, glanced inside, sniffed and smiled. “Now that’s what you need.” He picked the PB and J off the plate and chucked it into the trash can sitting at the end of the short counter. He dug out two large, still steaming pieces of fried chicken and dropped them on her plate. “Sit the fuck down and eat those.”
“Thought you wanted me to help you.”
“Eat first.”
“You’ll be finished before I’m done eating.”
“Think I’m capable of puttin’ away some fuckin’ groceries. Just like I was when I went to fuckin’ Walmart to get ‘em for you.”
She bet that was a sight. Him pushing a grocery cart wearing that fucking cut.
She closed her eyes.
She was being an ungrateful bitch.
But she didn’t like what he had done without asking. Being pushy. Forcing her to accept his help without her agreeing to it.
If she accepted any help from him, she would be beholden to him.
She didn’t want to owe him anything.
She didn’t want to owe anyone anything, not just Trip.
Even so, plenty of other people in this town knew she was struggling and not one of them had brought her groceries. Not one.
She opened her eyes again as the plastic bags rustled. He was digging more stuff out and stacking some of the non-perishable items in one corner. Crackers, cookies, soups and more. She didn’t have a lot of storage; the kitchen was so small that there was barely any space available to keep canned or dry goods here. But there was plenty of space down in the storage room, if she needed it.
Since moving in, she hadn’t needed it. Plus, she was worried about mice.
“Eat the damn chicken, Stella, before I feed it to you.”
“I’m fine.”
He went solid, his back still to her. Then he spun on his heels and took the two large steps separating them and yanked the top of her tank down enough to show her collarbones. He ran a finger over one of them. “This is not fine.” He jerked the hem of her tank top up and spanned one side of her rib cage with his fingers. “This is not fuckin’ fine.”
She slapped his hands away. When she escaped his house, she hadn’t taken the time to put her bra back on and since she was the thinnest she’d ever been, since before...
Well, before...
She really could get away without wearing one since her breasts had shrunk a bit.
She knew she was too thin not only because of seeing it in the mirror, but because her clothes were hanging off her and even sometimes had to use a belt to keep jeans up.
She used to love to eat and cook. She even used to love to bake. Especially birthday cakes for...
She hadn’t died that day but everything inside her had.
Too many times she wondered if she even had the strength to go on. But somehow, she had enough to take that next breath, to wake up that next morning, no matter how hard it was.
Things were slightly better now than right after the day her world went dark.
But it had been a long time since she’d felt joy.
And eating was just something she now had to force herself to do. Life had lost its flavor and now remained tasteless.
She’d hoped that having the bar to concentrate on, put all her energy into, would have helped.
It didn’t. It was almost as depressing as everything she’d escaped.
But would never forget. That she couldn’t do.
She pulled away from him and slid onto the stool, staring at the chicken long enough that her mouth began to water. The smell filled her nostrils as she lifted one of the thighs up and took a big bite.
Just like the bacon this morning, this had to be the best tasting fried chicken she ever had.
She knew that wasn’t true. But maybe her taste buds were finally reawakening.
Trip watched her take a few bites of the chicken, then with a nod he went back to putting the groceries away, partially filling her fridge and freezer with enough food for the week and then some, if she was careful.
When he was done, he snagged her cell phone off the counter, which had been next to her plate, and held it up to her face to unlock it by using the facial recognition feature before she could block him.
“Trip!” She was removing that method to unlock her cell as soon as she could.
Once again, he ignored her, did something on her phone and a few seconds later a phone rang in his pocket. He put hers back where he found it, and dug out his own, fiddling with it.
The man was cunning, that was for sure. Now he had her phone number, which she’d had no plans to give to him.
When he was done, he slipped the phone back into the inside pocket of his cut, leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, making the muscles in his arms bulge.
She took a bite of the chicken before she took a bite of him. He might be a bossy asshole, but he sure was a tempting one. Those muscles, that scruff on his face, that hair. All the shit that attracted her should be negated by the cut on his back and his attitude.
Not to mention, all the crap that went along with being a woman in the MC life.
She was lucky she escaped at a young enough age, but then sh
e turned around and ended up married to a bad boy anyway, just not of the biker variety.
She knew better than to get involved with another one.
The first one almost killed her without trying.
“Once I get you help, bar’s gonna be open on Sundays. Gettin’ large screen TVs and the NFL ticket. NHL. All the fucking sports that cause people to drink. Startin’ now, you’re doin’ daily drink specials and Happy Hour. Also, gonna start a dart league. A pool league. Anything to encourage people to come back. The bar’s a dump. So, we’re redoin’ it. New pool tables and all the shit that goes along with that. New tables, new chairs. Refinish the bar top, replace those old, torn stools. New lighting so it doesn’t look like a fuckin’ cave. New paint. New flooring.”
“I don’t have that money, Trip,” she said around another bite of chicken.
“Gonna have it.”
Sure. And pigs were going to sprout wings and fly, too. “All that work will take time.”
“Gonna get the Amish who did the barn and bunkhouse to come out and do the work. They like to start early, so that’ll work out. Get ‘em in, and then you open a bit later every day ‘til it’s all done.”
“Still need to pay them.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? How am I going to do that?”
“We, Stella.”
“And the answer to that is?”
“Gonna hold off workin’ on the motel ‘til the bar’s self-sufficient. Then I’ll worry ‘bout it. But not ‘til then. Once you’re moved out, gonna also fix up this apartment and get one or more of the prospects to move in, or even a member. Someone to not only help at the bar but keep an eye on it.”
Hold up. “Once I’ve moved out?”
Again, he ignored her.
He tilted his head in thought. “Maybe a member, then he can keep the prospects in line. Make sure they ain’t fuckin’ up.”
“Umm. I live here, Trip. This is my home.”
“It’s a dump.”
“But it’s my dump.”
“And half of it will still be your dump, but it’s not where you’re gonna sleep.”
Stella dropped the half-eaten chicken thigh onto the plate, picked up the plate, slipped off the stool and took it to the sink. She slowly and carefully washed her hands, using that time to try to loosen the tightness that pulled at her chest.
Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC Book 1) Page 14
