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

by Jeanne St. James

  On his second slower drag, his eyes rolled back and so did his head. He slowly and sensually let the smoke escape from between his lips. “Holy shit,” Teddy breathed like he just had the best orgasm of his life. “That’s the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in a long time.” After a moment, he lifted his head and curved his hand around the side of his mouth, saying in a loud whisper, “Just don’t tell Adam.” Then he added an exaggerated wink.

  Since Trip didn’t know who Adam was, there was no risk of that.

  “Anywhooo. Like I said, I own Manes on Main. Remember that.” Teddy poked Trip’s chest with a pointed finger. “Ooo. You’ve got some hard muscles there. Anyway, you look smart enough to figure out where my salon is located. You need to let me trim you up. First one’s on the house since you’re new in town.” He brushed a knuckle down Trip’s bearded jaw. “And I can clean this up, too. Way too handsome to let yourself look like an unkempt gorilla.”

  Trip’s lips twitched but he fought to keep a straight face as he blew out another stream of smoke. “Gorilla’s shave?”

  “My type does. I do love me a jealous gorilla.” He sucked in a breath to continue but got distracted. “Ohhhh, shit. Speaking of... Here comes mine.” He pasted on a huge smile.

  Trip turned his head to see a cop taking long, quick and very determined strides in their direction. And not looking any kind of pleased with Trip talking to Teddy.

  “Act natural. Like you don’t want to kiss me or anything.” Teddy quickly pinched the lit end of the hand-rolled and handed it back to him, trying to hide that action from the cop with his body. “Wait! I need a mint.” He slapped the pockets of his skinny jeans. “Damn. You got a mint in that filthy vest? Or gum? Anythin— Heeeey, baby,” he purred and went up on his toes to plant a kiss on the cop’s cheek, who wore a look of suspicion. “Was I supposed to meet you here for our lunch date or was it the diner? Did I screw that up?” He once again curved his hand around the side of his mouth and stage whispered, “Or was it supposed to be for a bit of afternoon delight?”

  Good thing Teddy was asking the cop that question and not Trip. He didn’t feel like getting in a knock-down fight with a jealous man in uniform over another man.

  That was not on the day’s agenda.

  Teddy plucked playfully at the pig’s uniform shirt which had a tag stating his last name was Bryson. “This is my hunky fiancé, Adam. News flash! He frowns a lot when I flirt with anybody but him. But he knows how much I can’t resist gorillas.” He leaned in close to Trip again and sniffed loudly. “Especially ones that smell deliciously like old leather and wear chains.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  Bryson gave Trip’s cut a thorough once over. “Got business in town?”

  Somebody had a bad attitude. Trip was about to make it worse. “Nope. Just here to steal your man.” Anytime he could stick it to the pigs, he would, so Trip leaned in, put his mouth near Teddy’s ear and whispered, “Don’t swing that way but if I did, I’d bend you over and show you how much bigger my dick is than that cop’s.”

  Teddy’s mouth opened wide and so did his eyes.

  When Trip pulled away, he made sure a big grin was plastered on his face.

  He gave the cop a chin lift and moved toward the driver’s door.

  Adam grabbed Teddy’s elbow. “Get your business done and get out of town. Let’s go.” The pig grabbed his fiancé’s elbow and began to haul the hairdresser behind him.

  Teddy’s face was flushed, and he wore a wicked smile as Adam dragged him across the parking lot.

  After Trip shrugged out of his cut and flipped it inside out before putting it back on, he glanced over his shoulder to see Teddy giving him a finger wave. “Manes on Main,” he shouted. “I have a chair with your name on it!”

  The cop yanked on Teddy and spun him around, saying something under his breath Trip couldn’t catch.

  He snorted and climbed into the wrecker.

  He had shit to do and it wasn’t fucking with the local 5-0.

  Trip jammed his boot on the gas and ducked, trying like fuck not to die. But he was getting pissed. His first repo of the day had gone smoothly. He’d snuck in, grabbed the car and towed it back to Dutch’s fenced lot behind the garage, where he was storing the cars until the bank decided what to do with them. He and Dutch made a deal to use the lot temporarily until Trip had the time and money to build a secure storage area at the farm.

  In the meantime, he needed to make money and a lot of it. So, as soon as he dropped the sedan, he headed toward the second one.

  Which happened to be down Copperhead Road and up the mountain.

  And up a long fucking dirt road that was a thousand times worse than the lane at the farm. It was hard to navigate the oversized old truck along the narrow path through the thick woods.

  He’d passed sign after sign warning his ass not to proceed further. But he had a job to do and green to make. And a Ruger tucked in his waistband at the small of his back.

  When he hit the first clearing close to the top of the mountain, he was shocked at what he found. A whole fucking compound of shacks and buildings, junk cars, and just junk in general. It looked like whoever lived there didn’t get rid of anything just in case they could use it in the future.

  Like doomsday preppers.

  Stella had mentioned the people living up on the mountain made moonshine and other shit. While he was there, if he ran into any of them, he planned on negotiating a deal.

  But, for fuck’s sake, when he did run into them—when they heard his wrecker pulling up to the car he was supposed to yank—they all came out of the woodwork like a bunch of angry hornets, not only swarming his truck, but carrying shit like shotguns, AR’s, and clubs.

  Not only did Trip’s asshole pucker at that sight, his brain screamed at him to get the fuck out of there.

  He quickly smashed the clutch in, shoved the wrecker in reverse, and, grinding the gears, did a crazy K-turn to head back down the mountain as fast as the fucking truck could handle the ruts and holes.

  However, as he was trying to escape, he not only heard the shots, he almost felt them as they struck the wrecker. Stupid thought at the time: he was glad he hadn’t spent the money yet on the body work. That relief quickly disappeared when the back window of the cab exploded behind him, covering him with shattered glass.

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”

  If he hadn’t needed both hands to not only steer but to shift, he’d be holding onto his balls, so they didn’t roll down the mountain faster than the wrecker in their panic to escape.

  Fuck them. They weren’t going anywhere without him.

  In his need to flee, he also hit a rut so deep he bounced off the seat and his head cracked the roof of the cab.

  “Fuckin’ motherfucker!” he shouted over the pinging of metal upon metal, still staying low, only keeping his head up enough to see where the fuck he was going. It would suck if he wrecked into one of the many trees that closely lined the treacherous mountain road. Then he’d have to abandon ship and hoof it out of the scene from Deliverance on foot.

  And he certainly didn’t want to feel buckshot in his ass, or anywhere else for that matter.

  His heart was racing, and his fingers soldered to the steering wheel as he finally hit the bottom of the mountain, the truck’s heavy-duty, but ancient, coil springs sounding ready to snap. He lifted his head enough to glance in the rearview mirror.

  The lane behind him was empty.

  For now.

  He swore the wrecker took the left turn back onto Copperhead Road on two wheels and he almost went headfirst through the windshield when he slammed on both the brake pedal and the clutch. The tires locked up and the brake drums smoked as he came to a sliding stop. Only a couple feet from a black-and-white.

  Leaning against that cruiser was a cop with both his arms and ankles crossed as he shook his head. He uncrossed one arm just to point at Trip through the windshield and then point to the dirt pull-off in front of the pig transporter.


  He glanced in the rearview again. His options: deal with gun-totin’ hillbillies or deal with a gun-totin’ porker.

  Oink. Oink.

  He sighed, grumbled a “fuck” under his breath and shoved the wrecker into first gear, steering around the cop and parking it in the narrow pull-off.

  He slipped his hand under his cut and into his waistband, pulling out his .40 and sliding it under his clipboard and paperwork that sat on the seat next to him. The whole time he’d kept his eyes on the pig using the side mirror. He wasn’t allowed to own or carry a gun, and he didn’t need the asshole in uniform reminding him of that in a way that might cause a bit of pain. For Trip, not the cop.

  The cop remained next to his vehicle, but he’d turned enough to face the truck, his feet now spread wide, his hands on his hips, one way too close to his service weapon.

  Great.

  Two cops in one day was two too many.

  “Any time now,” he heard through broken rear window.

  Trip set his jaw, shoved the truck’s door open, and climbed down.

  “Don’t forget your license, insurance and registration. As well as your repo license and, while you’re grabbing all that, make sure I can see your fucking hands the whole time.”

  Which would be impossible. “Not askin’ for much.”

  “Not asking for a conversation about it, either.”

  “Goddamn it,” Trip grumbled under his breath. He glanced back at the cop. “Need to reach back into the vehicle to grab some of that.”

  “Then do it. Just don’t be dumb about it, like you were heading up that mountain by yourself.”

  Trip pinned his lips together to keep his trap shut. Once he gathered what he needed, he slammed the door shut and headed toward the cruiser.

  The cop’s palm went up immediately. “Don’t. Just take a couple steps forward and face the truck. Put the paperwork in one hand, put both palms on the fender and spread your feet.”

  “Just doin’ my job,” Trip called out, trying not to let his blood surge.

  “Just doing mine,” he got back.

  “Don’t need to harass hard workin’ folk.”

  “That what you are?” Trip heard as the cop approached.

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Know about you. Know what you’re wearing. Know why you’re here today. Just keeping you from making a bigger mistake than the ones you made in your past.”

  They’d run him.

  Fuck.

  “What bigger mistake?” Trip asked.

  “Ending up dead.”

  Trip continued to stare at the rusty fender of the wrecker when he asked, “Why do you care if I end up dead?”

  “It’s a lot of fucking paperwork. And you getting taken out by one or more of the Shirley Clan will attract the FBI.”

  Trip’s simmering blood suddenly went cold.

  “Yeah, didn’t think you’d want the FBI to come into town. We don’t want those pricks here, either.” The cop stepped behind him and pulled the paperwork out of Trip’s fingers. “Keep your hands there while I pat you down. Got any weapons on you? Anything that might stick me? Like a needle or a knife?”

  “Fuck no.” Though, if the pig searched the truck’s cab, he’d not only find the Ruger, he’d find a buck knife in the glove box.

  Then Trip would find himself wearing bracelets again. And he hated wearing jewelry.

  Best to cooperate.

  The cop kicked Trip’s feet out wider and ran his hands over him from his head—pulling his hat off first and tossing it onto the wrecker’s bed—all the way to his boots. Making sure to check his waistline, his inside-out cut and his ankles thoroughly.

  He picked up Trip’s hat next and inspected it. “Got a cuff key hidden anywhere?”

  “Am I being cuffed?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Then I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  Trip heard nothing but his heart in his ears for a few beats before the pig said, “You can relax as long as you promise to cooperate.”

  “You’d trust a promise from me?” Trip asked, turning around.

  Even wearing dark sunglasses, this cop looked eerily similar to the one this morning, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t. Their voices were a touch different, too. But they were definitely related in some way.

  “You mentioned the Shirley Clan,” Trip said as he read the cop’s name tag. “There a Bryson Clan, too?”

  “We’re working on it,” the cop muttered, shook his head and then inspected the blown out back window. He moved to the back of the truck, fingering a few of the bullet holes in the bed that held the wrecker’s sling. He glanced down at the paperwork in his hand. “Your insurance company isn’t going to be happy.”

  “You gonna write a report?”

  A dark eyebrow lifted above the sunglasses. “You want one?”

  Trip pursed his lips. “Nope. I’ll pay out of pocket.”

  “Expensive lesson.” He inspected a few more holes then turned to Trip as he pointed to a hand-painted red and white octagon sign at the entrance to the dirt road. “See that no trespassing sign there?”

  “You mean the one that says violators will be shot on sight?”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “Guess I shoulda took it more seriously.”

  “You think? If we can’t avoid going up there, we take CERT—our county emergency response team—with us, which is our equivalent of SWAT. But we prefer not to go up there at all. They prefer it, too.”

  “They always like that?”

  The cop nodded. “Unless your last name is Shirley, you don’t go up that mountain.”

  “They all inbred?”

  “Since their last names are all Shirley, I’ll give you one guess.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “You dropped off the repo paperwork at the station. My brother, who happens to be the chief, radioed me to make sure we didn’t have to deal with a murder. You were already hauling ass down the mountain when I arrived. Couldn’t miss the scream of that old truck’s engine. Or the shots ringing through the woods.”

  “So, you woulda stopped me?”

  “Yep. Better way to deal with that clan.”

  “Need to repo one of their cars so I can get paid.”

  Bryson chuckled. “Think you’re the first to try to repo one of their cars?”

  “Did anyone die tryin’?”

  That chuckle died. “Nope and we’d like to keep it that way. Best way to do it is to have someone stake out Walmart. They come into town once a week, but not on the same day or time. They mix it up, so they don’t establish a pattern. Eventually they’ll come down and you can snag the vehicle right from the parking lot. And if they’re not driving that one, they might be driving another one they fucked a sales lot out of the money.”

  “Appreciate the tip.” And he did. Bryson was only being about a three on the one through ten scale of being a dick. On any given day, Trip himself was more like a six. When he was pissed, he was off the chart at a twelve. Trip would take a three all day every day from this guy.

  “Expect them to become a regular offender. They consider themselves and their mountain a sovereign nation, which means they don’t feel the need to follow any of our laws.” The cop tilted his head. “Like some others.” Bryson held up Trip’s paperwork. “But they wouldn’t even have this. No license, no insurance, no registration. They buy cars with fake money orders or stolen checks. You take the one you’re after, they’ll just go get another. They have to go pretty far now to find a dealer to sell them one. All the used car dealers within a sixty-mile radius have had the pleasure of doing business with them and won’t be doing it with them again.” He shook the paperwork and headed back toward his black-and-white. “Be right back. Don’t be going anywhere.”

  As he waited, Trip pulled out a hand-rolled, lit it and had over half of it smoked before the cop unfolded from his car and took his time returning.

  “See
you did a bit of time.”

  The dick factor just rose to a nine since the fucker already knew that. If he wanted to play games, so could Trip. “Yeah, in the Marines.”

  Bryson’s jaw worked and something changed in his face at the mention of Trip’s service. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Did my time, that’s all you gotta know.”

  “It’s also good to know what for.”

  “You knew that when you ran me, which I doubt you did in the car. Bet that was just for show and you already had that info from your chief brother.”

  “Right. Does that mean we’re going to have that kind of problem with you in the future?”

  “Would like to say no but can’t guarantee it.”

  “What can you guarantee?”

  “That I’ll do my best to stay off your department’s radar.”

  Bryson tipped his head toward Trip’s cut. “Probably not going to happen since you’re wearing colors.”

  Trip decided it was best to say nothing.

  “Never had to deal with the Fury. But my grandfather and father had to. Best thing that ever happened was that club imploding.”

  Trip remained silent because he couldn’t agree or disagree with that statement.

  “Knew your grandfather. Good man. Wasn’t caught up in all that bullshit. Always said his son was a disappointment. I’m sure he was hoping his grandson wouldn’t be.”

  Trip didn’t correct him with the fact there was more than one. “Thanks for the fuckin’ advice.”

  “Best to give up whatever your plans are for resurrecting that club.”

  “Again, thanks for the fuckin’ advice.”

  “Just saying.”

  Trip’s dick factor was teetering on that eleven mark. “And I heard you.”

  “But you aren’t going to listen.”

  “Only time I ever let someone wearin’ a uniform rule my life was when I was unwillingly wearin’ a jumpsuit that did nothin’ for my complexion. If you haven’t noticed, ain’t wearin’ it now, so that means as long as I’m not breakin’ the law, don’t gotta listen to you.”

  Bryson slid his sunglasses to the top of his head and his light blue eyes held Trip’s. Trip was surprised to find no malice there. More of a quiet concern.