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

  She counted as she went. Seven bedrooms with bathrooms, plus the larger room with the bunkbeds. Eight bedrooms in total.

  Which proved that Trip was pretty confident that the Fury would rise once more. Otherwise, he’d have to use that space to house farmhands and get his grandfather’s farm working again.

  Or open a winery.

  Stella snorted softly. If Trip were smart, he’d abandon the idea of restarting the club and do just that. Grow grapes and make wine. He might be more successful at it since wineries were really popular.

  Hell, maybe she should take her own advice. But at least he had the land, the buildings and the money to do it.

  At the end of the hall and right before the entrance to the original barn, in which the door was also propped open, was another room. It had a single gray swinging door like you’d see in a diner, only those were usually double doors to avoid head-on collisions with busy staff rushing in and out.

  She paused to listen as the song coming from that room changed to Carry On Wayward Son by Kansas. The volume was cranked up and someone was singing along.

  She dropped her head, closed her eyes and listened for a few more bars.

  Oh yeah, he knew the words.

  She slowly pushed the door open, the music now hitting her full force. She held the door open as she scanned the room.

  A kitchen. Not like one found in a home, but more like a commercial kitchen on a smaller scale. The counters, the microwave, the large gas stove, the built-in oven, the oversized commercial refrigerator and what looked like a large chest freezer were all stainless steel so they would be easy to clean. Nothing was fancy, but everything was basic. They weren’t going to be serving food to the public, but definitely feeding themselves. Again, like the rest of the rooms, very utilitarian.

  Trip thought of everything. The old warehouse had been nothing like this. It had been a shithole of epic proportions. And, if she remembered correctly, at the time no one cared.

  For the Originals it had been all about partying, fucking and raising hell. No one gave a shit if you went hungry, were cold, had a bed to sleep in or a toilet to shit in. Or even if you’d showered.

  Stella placed what she was carrying on top of a stack of boxes—which she assumed were full of kitchen supplies—and stepped around them, trying to find exactly where the deep voice was coming from. That rough masculine voice singing a song that fit him more than he might be aware of. Or maybe he was.

  She took a few more steps and spotted black boots planted on the floor, knees encased in dirty denim cocked, all attached to a man whose shirtless body disappeared under a cabinet. Or part of him, at least. Trip was so muscular and his chest so broad, he was jammed—what looked like uncomfortably—through one side of the cabinet doors.

  His distinct abs, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, lifted and fell with each line of the song he belted out.

  She leaned back against the center island counter, crossed her arms and enjoyed the show.

  Kansas faded away and Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water began to fill the room. Unfortunately, the singing stopped, but one boot began to tap with the beat, as well as what sounded like a drum solo was heard on a metal pipe from under the sink.

  With as loud as it was, she could stand there all day watching those abs ripple in tune with the music and he’d never know.

  That was dangerous for him. Not because she was watching, but because he was unaware she only stood a couple feet away from him and could’ve killed him easily before he could react.

  She kicked his boot with hers, causing a chain reaction of him jerking, a loud clunk, an even louder “Fuck!” and Trip scrambling from under the sink, wielding a plumber’s wrench like a club.

  His brown eyes widened when he saw her, and he quickly climbed to his feet.

  Fuck, he was tall. A lot taller than when he was fifteen. And he hadn’t been small then. At least to an eleven-year-old Stella.

  “What’re you doin’ here?” he asked as he rubbed at a red spot on his forehead.

  She ignored his question while she let her gaze roam his bare upper body. The distinct muscles, his black and gray inked sleeve that went all the way up his right arm and over his pec, his broad shoulders. Tats on both of his sides along his ribs. The beard. The trail of dark hair from his navel and led to the unknown.

  The hair on his head...

  His light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She hadn’t realized it was that long since he’d been wearing a hat at the bar and must have hidden the length underneath. It wasn’t super long but enough to be able to tie it back. It might hit his shoulders if she pulled the band from his hair and let it loose.

  As tempting as it was, she wasn’t going to do that.

  She cleared her throat. “Working up a sweat?”

  Still gripping the adjustable wrench, he wiped away the beads on his brow with his forearm. However, that didn’t erase the frown he wore as he turned down the music from the old portable stereo on a shelf above the sink. At least now she could hear herself think.

  “No fuckin’ air in here, yet.”

  Yet. Which meant there would be eventually.

  “Going to spoil your future brothers with all these modern technologies, like running water, electricity and cold beer.”

  He put the wrench down next to the sink and then jerked his chin to somewhere behind her. “Hand me my shirt.”

  She peered over her shoulder at where his discarded cut and T-shirt laid, then turned back to him. “Why? Kinda like what I’m seeing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she murmured. She probably shouldn’t have admitted that, but it was too late to take it back now. “Bikers usually aren’t that built. They work on their beer guts, not their obliques.”

  He sucked at his teeth for a second and let his gaze roam over her from top to toe. She couldn’t fault him for it. She’d done it to him and was still ogling him without any shame. It was only fair he returned the gesture.

  “Had lots of time while in prison. Keepin’ the body healthy keeps the mind sane.”

  She hadn’t heard that he’d done time. But then, she hadn’t heard shit about him since the day they all beat feet out of Manning Grove. Not until he walked into her bar and back into her life a few days ago.

  She sighed, grabbed his tee and tossed it to him. He used it to wipe his face and chest, then threw it over his shoulder.

  “Not going to put it on?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I need to?”

  “I think you’re safe without it. For the most part, I can control myself around half naked men.”

  She swore she heard him say, “Pity,” under his breath.

  Huh. “What were you in for?”

  “To learn a trade, apparently.”

  Like most occupants of the federal, state or county system, he probably insisted he was innocent and was wrongly housed by the taxpayers. “Is that where you learned plumbing?”

  “Among other things.”

  When he reached up to jerk the band from his ponytail, Stella swore the whole Earth stopped spinning and everything went into slow motion. The way his abs clenched, the way his biceps bulged as he reached up and let his hair fall around his face, the way he raked his fingers through the damp strands before gathering them back up again and securing the black elastic tie around it.

  Damn.

  At eleven, and even before, she wanted to marry that boy. Now at thirty-one, her thoughts had nothing to do with wedding vows.

  Nothing at all.

  She bit her bottom lip and forced herself to remain leaning back against the counter, with her palms planted firmly on the edge. Otherwise, they might end up planted on his chest with her bottom lip between his teeth instead.

  She shook herself mentally.

  He was the last fucking thing she needed in her life.

  The very last fucking thing.

  She was done with “bad boys.” Her father had been one. And so had her husban
d. Bad boys were great to look at, great for fantasies, but hell to live with.

  Complete utter hell.

  She foolishly wanted him when she was young. She wasn’t so young or foolish now.

  “Why you here, Stella?”

  Her nipples pebbled at him saying her name. The same way they had when he’d picked up her “S” pendant and held it in his palm. When he’d done that, she swore an electric current had run from his hand through the leather cord and right into her chest. Like being struck by lightning.

  She needed to mentally break free of the hold he held her in, the one quickly resurfacing from twenty years ago.

  She needed to remember the last time she saw him. The day he shoved her away and cracked her head open on the wall. Her fingers automatically went to the back of her scalp where she could still feel the raised scar from where she had to get stitches. While it was hidden in her hair, she’d never forget it was there.

  Oh yeah, that was a good reminder of how he was bad news. “Dutch stopped in for a beer last night and gave me the complete low-down on the latest town gossip. Couldn’t stop talking about you. The club. And your new repo business. Got my curiosity piqued.”

  “Sounds like he was there for more than one beer.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah. It took about four beers to tell me everything.” Four beers and three shots of whiskey. She kept telling Dutch she really didn’t care about any of it, but he kept talking and there wasn’t a lot of business at the bar to warrant escaping him.

  She also loved Dutch like a grandfather, so she hadn’t wanted to be rude.

  “So now you’re out here bein’ nosy.”

  She tilted her head and studied the man before her. He didn’t look away when her eyes hit his. In fact, he held them for so long it almost felt like a challenge.

  One she knew how to win. “He told me Cage is your new Road Captain.”

  His brown eyes narrowed. “Know him?”

  “Of course. How could I not? He’s Dutch’s son.”

  “How well you know him?”

  Ah, there it was. He was a typical man, wondering if she and Cage had sex. “Well enough.”

  His jaw worked a couple of times. “Seems to be a dick.”

  “He can be. Which means he’ll be a perfect addition to the Fury.”

  “So, you came out here to tell me that Dutch was out runnin’ his mouth. That it?”

  “No.”

  “Then why else are you here, Stella?”

  Right. Why else was she there? She could’ve given Dutch the item she wanted to give Trip and not come out here at all. She could’ve stayed away and minded her own fucking business.

  She needed to concentrate on the bar, forget the past and ignore whatever Trip was trying to do with it. But for some reason she couldn’t.

  For some reason she couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  He jerked slightly when she finally pushed off the counter and moved toward the stack of boxes.

  She didn’t ask him to follow her, but he did. She snagged the item as she passed the boxes and kept moving, out of the swinging door, into the barn and then stopped.

  It was fucking awesome.

  Completely awesome. And would make a great tasting room for a winery.

  She could see it now. Blood Fury Red.

  Red wine would be better than spilled blood.

  She took a few more steps deeper into the barn and then spun on her heels causing him to almost run into her. She shoved her father’s BFMC cut into his stomach and he grabbed it out of instinct, but she didn’t let go.

  Their fingers brushed and his thumb slid over her knuckles. Probably by accident...

  She quickly released the leather vest and stepped back. “Figured you can hang it on the wall. Or give it to someone who might need one. Not doing me any good where it was.”

  It took forever for him to drop his eyes from hers to the cut in his hands. His nostrils flared just slightly as he checked out the back and then the four rectangular patches on the front. Crazy Pete. Treasurer. Manning Grove. Original.

  His jaw worked and an emotion she couldn’t identify crossed his stoic features, but quickly disappeared. He was still staring at the worn cut when he asked, “Don’t wanna keep it for sentimental value?”

  “No.” Just one more reminder she didn’t need. When she donated all her father’s clothes after she moved in and cleaned out the apartment, it was one thing she couldn’t rid herself of. She knew how much pride was in those colors. She also knew the cut needed to be handled properly.

  Now she could leave that to Trip.

  “He shoulda been buried in it.”

  His rough whisper raced through her, causing her to shiver. “Yes. He should’ve. But he wasn’t wearing it when he died, and I wasn’t here when he was buried. Plus, he hadn’t been a member for twenty years.”

  “Colors never die.”

  That whisper seared her. It made her regret not arriving in Manning Grove in time to find it and give it to the funeral director. It had been her responsibility and she failed. “The Fury’s colors did, Trip. They died and now you’re trying to dig them up again.”

  His fingers curled hard enough to fist the old leather as he cleared his throat. “Colors never die,” he repeated, louder this time.

  The unexpected, raw emotion pulling at him was beginning to suck her in, too. She needed to shut that shit down. Otherwise, she might tumble back into that deep, dark pit of loss. She took a mental step back from the crumbling edge. “Anyway, do with it what you’d like. Pass it on. Display it. It’s yours now to do what you want.”

  He nodded and moved to the full-length bar on his left, laying the cut carefully over it.

  She followed him, impressed with what she saw. She concentrated on the bar, which was amazing. It looked like it was hand-crafted out of solid oak, sanded and stained to bring out the natural wood grain, then shellacked to a high shine. She ran her fingers over the glossy, glass-like top, noticing under the thick clear coating, the club colors had been burned into the wood.

  She was jealous Crazy Pete’s didn’t have such a beautiful bar. Hers was original and some of the wood had split and the shellac had cracked, chipped and patrons had carved words into the top.

  “You make this?”

  “No. Learned a few trades inside but woodworkin’ wasn’t one of them.”

  It was her turn to mumble, “Pity,” under her breath.

  “One of the Amish guys, Samuel, made it. Built the back bar, too.”

  Her eyes scanned the noticeably empty back bar. Not a bottle of booze to be seen, but she was jealous of the craftsmanship there, too. If she only had the money...

  “Might need to hire them to fix up Crazy Pete’s.” Though at this point, that was more like a pipe dream than reality.

  She needed to start doing promotions and adding entertainment to bring back the customers. Maybe even book a few of those traveling revue shows. Male and female alike. Whatever was needed to make some quick cash, turn around and dump it back into the bar.

  “You got the scratch?”

  She wondered how much she should reveal to the man whose chocolate brown eyes were focused on her.

  She schooled her face too late when he said, “Don’t got shit, do you?”

  She glanced around the new BFMC church. “This is everything you have, right? This land, the house, the buildings. This is it. You’ve got nothing else, right?” When he didn’t answer her, she continued. “Like you, I’ve got nothing else.” Though, he had a lot more than her.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “I’ve got nothing else. The bar is it. It’s everything I own. Everything I have. The only thing left that belongs to me.”

  “Sell it. Take the cash and go get somethin’ else.”

  “Why didn’t you sell the farm?”

  “Already know why.”

  “Right, you wanted to make something from nothing.” Again, she didn’t get an answer. “It’s not a choice for
me. I also need to make something from nothing.”

  “Got a choice to sell it.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you start fresh.”

  “This is my fresh start,” she whispered. “I can’t fail.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Then don’t.

  Pete’s life insurance had been very small. Enough to cover his burial expenses and allow her to restock some liquor and beer. But it had been gone in a flash.

  Unfortunately, property taxes would be due again in a couple of months.

  Shit was becoming overwhelming. Maybe Trip was right. She should just sell it, take whatever she could get and cut her losses. She couldn’t shake the feeling of drowning.

  A grumbled, “Need booze,” pulled her out of her self-pity.

  “What?”

  She must have been so deep in her own wallowing, she missed him pulling on his T-shirt. It was old and worn with thin spots and stains. And it fit him like a glove. A shirt which should be used as a rag did not distract from the man. At all.

  She gathered her wandering thoughts. “If you haven’t noticed, there’s a liquor store on Main Street.”

  “Know it.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “Need more than that.”

  “You need more booze than what the liquor store holds?”

  “Need a continuous supply at a good price.”

  It hit her then what he was saying. She shook her head. “No.”

  “Need scratch, right?”

  She raised her palms up and took a step back. “No fucking way. Getting booze from me isn’t legal. Private club or not. Last thing I need is to have the Liquor Control Board shutting me the fuck down. I’m not risking that. If you’re that desperate, there are some crazy fucks that live up on the mountain who make moonshine and other shit. Get it from them.”