He didn’t hate it, so if she loved it, then he could live with it.
He burrowed his hand under the fall of her hair and curled his fingers around her neck, tugging her closer. “Gimme that mouth.”
She rolled her eyes at his demand but didn’t fight him when he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. When he pulled away, he mumbled, “Eat,” and went back to his own breakfast.
As he ate, he watched her out of the corner of his eye to make sure she did the same until at least half the food on her plate was gone.
Half was better than nothing.
Tonight he’d bring her a good dinner, even though she would be working the bar. Unfortunately, the bar might be so quiet they probably wouldn’t get interrupted while they ate, anyway.
Afterward he’d stick around long enough to help her close the bar and make sure she ended up in his bed at the farm tonight. Then he’d work on getting her to land in his bed every night.
Also tonight, after they ate, might be a good time to bring up the reason he’d landed in prison. His worry was the reason he went to prison was too much like what started the avalanche that took down the Fury.
His other worry was it had all been due to his temper, which was her concern. He’d admit it because he wasn’t going to lie to her, but just needed to convince her that he had that shit under control.
She had his promise he wouldn’t hurt her.
He’d do his fucking best to keep that promise.
She just needed to give him that chance.
Trip scrubbed the towel over his wet hair, then paused. He tipped his head to the side and listened more carefully.
Pounding.
On the back door.
Whenever the club could afford it, he was having cameras installed everywhere. The lane, the house, the barn, the outbuildings. Even in some areas of the bunkhouse. This way he and Judge, and whoever else, could pull up those cameras on their phones whenever they needed to.
The Fury might not have any enemies at the moment, but that could change at any time. Especially if the local pigs got a skewer up their ass about something.
In the past, the Fury and the 5-0 had a bad relationship since the members were shaking down the local business owners. At the time, the Originals outnumbered the cops. Now, things were switched, and they outnumbered the Fury. Whether that would change, Trip hoped so, but he still wanted to keep the peace with them, if possible. Especially since he had to deal with them for his repo business to keep it legit.
He hoped to fuck all the cops who dealt with Buck, Ox and the rest of them had retired or kicked the bucket. If not, Trip was going to have to make nice and do some major ass kissing.
And he did not like the taste of a pig’s ass.
He’d find out soon enough since he was headed to their pig pen shortly. But not before he found out who was still pounding on his back door and bellowing, “Yo.”
He snagged his discarded jeans off the floor and tugged them on as he moved out of his bedroom, down the hall and by the time he hit the kitchen downstairs they were fastened.
He twisted the deadbolt and yanked open the door, ready to ream out whoever was being a dick.
He swallowed his words and frowned at the man who stood grinning at him, wearing a fucking Fury cut.
Trip’s gaze dropped to the name patch.
Ozzy.
His eyes slid to the right to read the patches which said, “Manning Grove” and “Original.”
What the fuck?
Who the fuck was this guy?
“Got a lot of fuckin’ nerve to wear a cut that don’t belong to you,” Trip growled.
The man jerked his chin toward something behind Trip in the kitchen. “You mean like you?”
Trip ground his molars. His cut was hanging over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “That belongs to me.”
“Bet it was Buck’s, though. Am I right?” When Trip didn’t answer, the guy continued. “Back then, it was always ‘finders’ keepers.’ Pussy, booze, scratch, drugs, whatever. Didn’t apply to our sleds or our cuts, though. Those were sacred.”
“It was handed down.”
The man, who planted his hands on his hips, dropped his head, shook it and snorted. “Right.” He lifted it again and met Trip’s gaze. “A cut’s supposed to be buried with a brother.”
“Should be. Not always possible,” Trip muttered. “Who are you and what the fuck you doin’ here?”
“Guess you don’t remember me.”
Trip let his gaze slide over the man’s face. He had to be in his late thirties, maybe even early forties, which meant he was young when the Fury imploded. But Trip couldn’t say he remembered the man. He was wearing a black leather skull cap, so Trip couldn’t tell what color his hair was, but from where Trip stood, his eyes appeared some sort of gray.
That didn’t shake any memory loose. Nor did the name Ozzy.
“Dutch put the word out. Said the Blood Fury’s gonna rise from the bloody wreckage. Or maybe he said from the ashes. Like one of those fuckin’ birds.”
Trip had no clue who this motherfucker was and hesitated to say shit about the club. “Yeah.”
“Want in.”
He wanted in. Just like that.
“Gimme a sec.” Trip pulled out the cell phone he’d tucked into his back pocket on the way out of his room. He held it up and snapped a photo of the man, who grumbled a curse as he did so. He sent the photo to both Judge and Dutch at the same time. Know this MFer?
A few seconds later Dutch texted him back with a laughing emoji and the words: Yeah. A fuckn asshole. But 1 thats doable w/ a lil lube.
Judge’s answering text quickly followed: No fuckn clue.
Before Trip was done reading Judge’s text another one came in from Dutch. Need a sec, there U fuckn go. Followed by a thumb’s up emoji.
Where the fuck the old man learned emojis and text speak... Trip shook his head. But what did he mean by “need a sec?”
Need a sec for what?
Then it hit Trip.
“Satisfied?” Ozzy—if that was his name—asked with a crooked grin.
“Nope.”
“Was a member when you were a fuckin’ snot-nosed kid.”
Trip sucked at his teeth. “Don’t look old enough to call me a snot-nosed kid.”
“Right. Lied about my age. Became prospect at seventeen, patched at eighteen. Think you were about fourteen at the time. A pain in the ass, though. Cocky little shit.”
Trip set his jaw. “And you think you’re gonna walk the fuck right back in where you left off? Why shouldn’t you prospect now?”
He’d already told Dutch that former members and blood of former members wouldn’t need to prospect. But since he was prez, he could be a “cocky little shit.”
Ozzy shrugged out of his cut, and, with one hand, ripped his shirt over his head. He turned to show Trip his bare back. “Just got my rockers when shit went down. Ink was still fresh on my skin.”
Those colors were no longer fresh. But that cut, those colors... Trip’s gaze landed on the super sweet Harley parked next to his.
Like Dutch said, with a little lube, any asshole might do. He’d rather have a club full of assholes than one of pussies.
Trip’s gaze slid back to Ozzy when the man turned back around to face him, pulling his shirt back over his head and sliding on his cut.
“Guess you planned on walkin’ the fuck back in,” Trip said.
“I can roll if you wanna be a dick. Got better things to do than work my fuckin’ ass off for nothin’.”
“Won’t be for nothin’.”
“Yeah, tell that to my eighteen-year-old self. Spent a year lickin’ boots and takin’ it up the ass. When I finally got my rockers, got fucked again but without a tube of lube in sight. My ass and my attitude got a bit raw from that fuckin’.”
Trip pursed his lips and agreed that had to have sucked. Spend a year being a prospect, being shit all over, treated like a slave, lower
than dog shit, and then when you finally made it, all your suffering meant nothing.
“I hear ya.”
“Do you, though?”
“Yeah, I do. Shit’s gonna be different this time.”
“Dutch mentioned your pie in the sky fuckin’ thinkin’. Willin’ to stick around to see if you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
Ozzy grinned. “Like I said, cocky little shit. See things didn’t fuckin’ change.”
“One thing did.”
“What’s that.”
“No longer little.”
Ozzy pulled his shoulders back and looked down his nose at him. “Right. Me, neither.”
Trip ignored the unspoken challenge. “Where’d you land?”
“Ran free for a while. Eventually hooked up with a club out west.”
“Why aren’t you stickin’ there?”
“Was a support club to the Fifty Calibers. Fucked up and got caught runnin’ guns. While doin’ time, my girl found other dicks to spin on. Got out, found her strung out and my so-called brothers were passin’ her around like a fuck toy. Her choice to keep the high. Not my choice in a steady piece. Went nomad again. Now, here I am, lookin’ to settle since my ass is gettin’ too old for that lone wolf shit.”
While he didn’t look too broken up about losing his girl, Trip understood what kind of betrayal it was for your woman to be sucking and fucking dick other than your own.
“Got a place to crash?”
“Nope.”
“A job?”
“Nope. Just got back to town.”
“Got any construction experience?”
“Loads.” Ozzy lifted his hands, which were rough. “These hands ain’t Ivory soft for a reason. Done it all. You name it, I’ve fuckin’ done it.”
“Know how to run a crew?”
“For construction? Yeah.”
“For a motel.”
“Like housekeepers and shit? Sounds like cake.”
“Construction, too. Bought The Grove Inn. It’s a steaming pile of shit. Need to polish that shit to a diamond. Put scratch in the club coffers, put scratch in your pocket.”
Ozzy’s brows rose. “Used to fuck all the time in that motel. They rented by the hour.”
“Yeah, that ain’t happenin’ now. Once it’s fixed up, want to attract renters who’ve got money. The better the rooms are, the more we can charge.”
“Hear you on that. It got a manager’s apartment?”
“Yeah, but it’s a total shit show. That’ll need redone, too. Got a cheap room for you in the bunkhouse. Food, booze—”
Ozzy’s eyes lit up. “Pussy?”
“Not yet.”
“What club don’t have pussy?”
“One that’s just gettin’ reestablished.”
Ozzy nodded. “Okay, place to stay, manage the motel, fix it up. Who’s the construction crew?”
“Hopin’ prospects once we get ‘em. ‘Til then, there’s some local Amish workin’ for me. Redid the barn, built the bunkhouse, gonna be workin’ on Crazy Pete’s bar.”
“Crazy Pete,” Ozzy murmured. “That ol’ fucker still around?”
Trip shook his head. “Cancer got ‘im.”
Ozzy dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. A little over a year ago.”
“Club took over the bar?”
Trip stared at him for a moment, not sure if he should mention Stella. “Yeah. It’s the club’s. That needs turned around, too, like the motel.”
“Who’s managin’ that?”
“Got that covered for now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Trip said with finality.
“That it?”
“Nope,” Trip answered. “Need someone to sit at the table as Secretary.”
Ozzy got quiet for a long moment.
That couldn’t be the breaking point for the guy. Trip just dumped a whole shitload of responsibility on someone he didn’t know. Being the club secretary wasn’t much more.
Finally, the man smiled and said, “No you don’t.”
Trip smiled and offered his hand. They clasped palms and bumped shoulders. “Welcome, brother.”
“Fuck, that sounds good. Missed the brotherhood. Will be good to have others at my back.”
“If all goes well, you’ll have a bunch of ‘em. Loyalty’s priority. Buildin’ a solid family here, not a cluster-fuck.”
“A cluster. Like the old days.”
“Right.”
Ozzy glanced over his shoulder at the barn. “Where am I layin’ my head? Been ridin’ the past twenty-four hours straight. About to drop.”
Trip jerked his chin toward the barn. “Take your sled ‘round back. Lemme pull on a shirt and some boots and I’ll meet you there, get you settled. Will introduce you to Deacon, our Treasurer, if he’s there. Got a couple prospects, two of Dutch’s mechanics, livin’ in the bunkhouse, too. They should be at work, though.”
“Great. Will get a little shut-eye and then head out to the motel to check out what needs done.”
Didn’t sound like the man was lazy if he was willing to go the same day he rode into town. Trip liked that. Gave him some hope.
“Got a repo job I need to do after gettin’ you settled. But should be done before you wake up and we can head over there together later.”
“Cool, brother. See you in a bit,” Ozzy said as he turned on his boot heel and jogged down the couple steps from the porch, heading over to his sled.
Trip crossed his arms and smiled as the deep rumble of his new Secretary’s sled settled in his bones.
Shit was finally coming together.
Now, he just needed Stella on board.
Chapter Thirteen
Trip didn’t waste time hauling his ass out of the police station and back to his wrecker. He hated the fact he needed to report each repo job he was doing. But he also didn’t want to get his repo license revoked for not following the law when he just got the fucking thing.
All because of Deacon. Thank fuck.
Even so, he got the fucking willies just standing in the PD’s lobby and talking to the lady at the front desk.
Last time he was in a pig pen, he’d been wearing a pair of metal bracelets that clashed with his outfit.
He also had a busted lip and some broken ribs from when the pigs had kicked the shit out of him. But then, he hadn’t gone willingly. He realized later he was lucky they only tased his ass instead of shooting him.
When he got to the tow truck, he yanked open the door, grabbed his cut and slid it on. He’d flip it inside out once he climbed back in, but for now, he needed a fucking smoke. And fuck the pigs if they didn’t like him representing in their parking lot. They were going to have to get used to seeing those colors around town since the club was growing.
He dug out the tin from the inner pocket, pulled out a hand-rolled and used his H-D Zippo to light it.
After taking a long hit, he leaned against the fender and let the pure tobacco, free of any extra bullshit, fill his lungs, immediately settling his nerves.
Closing his eyes, he let the smoke roll out of his open mouth. The Amish grew some A-plus shit. Now if they only grew some quality bud, he’d be set.
His chuckle was interrupted by a loud, “Ooo. Ooo. Hellooooo there, handsome!”
What the fuck?
His eyes popped open and he saw a man flouncing toward him.
Flouncing.
How the fuck did he even know that word? He shouldn’t, but it defined how the man moved, who was heading in his direction at a fast clip. The man’s narrow hips swung with flair and confidence. He looked to be in his late thirties, wore a huge smile on his face and a predatory look in his eyes.
As he stopped in front of Trip, he raked his gaze up and down Trip’s body and purred, “Fresh meat.”
Trip frowned. That frown deepened when he, whoever the fuck he was, ripped Trip’s baseball cap off his head and ran his fingers through Trip’
s hair.
“Yo!” Trip yelled, jerking his head away and snatching his hat back, but before he could tug it back on his head, the man announced, “Hats cause bald spots. They don’t let the scalp breathe. And you going bald would be a sin. You’ve got a great head of hair even though you need a trim. Just the ends. It just so happens I know the perfect fella to do it.”
I bet.
The guy pressed a hand to his own chest and curtsied. “I’m Teddy. I am the proprietor of and extreeeemely gifted hairdresser at Manes on Main.” He did a snipping motion with two fingers, then pointed in Trip’s direction. “And youuuuu are my newest client.” He clapped his hands together and bounced on his toes with way too much excitement.
“I am?”
“Of course,” he read Trip’s name patch, “Trip. Interesting name. Nobody better than me to keep those pretty locks of yours at their best.”
“I do it myself,” Trip informed him, earning him a loud gasp.
Teddy slapped a hand over his mouth and his eyes went wide. “Oh no. Unacceptable.”
Trip tugged his hat back on his head and when he took another deep drag of his cigarette, Teddy leaned even closer, inhaled loudly, then sighed. “Can I bum a hit, handsome?”
For as cheap as he got his hand-rolleds from the Amish, he didn’t mind giving the man a whole one. He dug into his tin, handed one over and lit the cigarette for him. Teddy wrapped his hand around Trip’s as he did so, and the man’s fingers slid over his seductively when Teddy finally released him.
“I’m straight,” Trip felt the sudden need to announce.
“I’m not,” Teddy answered with a wink and a smile. As he took his first long drag, he glanced around the parking lot like he was afraid of being caught. “Don’t tell anyone. I quit. My S.O. doesn’t like me smoking.”
Trip lifted an eyebrow. “S.O.?”
Teddy flapped a hand around in the air. “Significant other, silly. Though, if he finds out, he may give me a good spanking.” He grinned and leaned into Trip again. “He’s really good at that.” Then the man eyeballed Trip again. “You probably are, too.” He sighed. “But, alas, I’m taken.”
Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC Book 1) Page 18
