Blood & Bones: Whip (Blood Fury MC 11)

Christ, that made Whip’s stomach churn. He didn’t want to think about settling down like the majority of his brothers. Especially with an ol’ lady and kids. He wasn’t even twenty-nine yet. Not for another couple of weeks.

So, fuck the house with a white picket fence. A mountain retreat similar to what Reese owned outside of Mansfield would be so much more badass.

Could Whip afford a place like Reese’s? Fuck no, but a small cabin up in the woods might be within his price range. It only needed to be big enough for him. As long as Trip wouldn’t have a fit about him moving out of the bunkhouse and off the farm.

The Fury prez might have a problem with the second part more than the first.

Living in the bunkhouse had both its good points and bad. He had easy access to the stocked kitchen and bar, he had constant company if he wanted it, and with only one word he could get a sweet butt to clean his room or suck his dick.

The bad was not much privacy and his room was a claustrophobic box with an even tinier shitter. Basically, he stared at four walls without even a window. Whip imagined it was similar to living in a jail cell. The big exception being he was free to come and go as he damn well pleased. He couldn’t imagine not being able to escape when those same four walls began to close in on him.

But currently, he was free with the wind in his face and his knees in the breeze, even if he wasn’t riding his own sled. He slowed down further as he approached the long dirt lane, still searching for anything worth reporting.

He saw nothing. Usually he noticed at least an animal or two scurrying through the underbrush. This time he saw no movement, not one new damn thing, not even a squirrel.

At least until he came around the bend close to the spot where they hid their vehicles when they hoofed it up the mountain to do a little spying.

His heart paused before doing a complete reboot at the unexpected sight of another bike. It sat by itself in a narrow, dirt pull-off just prior to their hiding spot.

He didn’t recognize it. Dutch’s Garage was the only place the locals brought their motorcycles since that was what they specialized in. This one had to belong to someone passing through.

He glanced up the mountain again. He never once saw one of the Shirleys riding one.

Unless this was a trap.

Fuck.

It could be a trap.

He twisted the Yamaha’s throttle harder and, as he zipped past the bike and its helmeted rider in case it was a trap, more ice slithered down his spine.

That Indian Scout Bobber looked brand fucking new. It shouldn’t have broken down already unless that rider beat the fuck out of it and didn’t treat such a sweet ride with respect.

Fuck that guy if he didn’t. He didn’t deserve that ride or Whip’s help.

After he shot past the pull-off, he noticed the rider was squatting on the opposite side of the bike.

Who didn’t take off a damn restrictive brain bucket once they dismounted, especially when it was warm out? No one he knew.

Unless someone didn’t want to be recognized. That made it seem even more suspicious.

He slowed down once he was clear and glanced in the side mirror. The Indian had fiberglass saddlebags mounted on both sides and another large travel bag made specifically for motorcycles strapped to the seat behind where the rider planted his ass.

Definitely someone traveling.

Both the newer sled and the quality accessories screamed expensive. The Shirleys didn’t have that kind of scratch.

Then it hit him who did.

The fucking feds.

Did a federal agent pretend to break down? Is that why he still wore his helmet? That pull-off was the perfect spot to keep track of anyone going up or coming down that lane.

Fuck, if it was the feds, they would need to table Judge’s “Shirley solution.” Whatever it was.

Before the next rise in the road, he slowed to a stop, planted his boots on the pavement and stared into the side mirror on his left.

The person with the bike was now standing, the tinted full face shield pointed in Whip’s direction.

“Christ,” Whip said under his breath and gave the Yamaha a little gas. He did a U-turn and headed back. “Better not fuckin’ regret this.”

Maybe he could flush out whether the person was a fed or not. It would be better to know that info before reporting it to Judge or Trip. Especially if the sled truly turned out to be broken down. He didn’t want to get them up in arms if there wasn’t a good reason for it.

He was a bike mechanic. A knowledgeable one. Out of anyone, he would know if that person’s ride was truly disabled or not, or if the rider was lying. Right now it fell on his shoulders to find out who this person was or wasn’t.