Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC 1)

But none of them were for him since he was one of the “English.” And if they knew he’d spent six years in prison, they’d run away and never come back.

Or maybe if they knew, they’d lift their dresses, bend over and let him give it to them good. They probably fantasized about a man like him. One that smelled like exhaust and cigarettes instead of cow pies and horse shit. Maybe some of those women had a fantasy bucket list of doing it with an ex-con with tattoos.

Trip snorted. His own imagination was getting the fuck out of control. He needed to get laid. It had been a few months since he’d sank himself balls deep in some hot tail. Not since he came back to Manning Grove permanently and began to work on restoring the farm. Not since that last trip to Shadow Valley when he went to pick up his father’s Harley, now restored and customized by Jag Jamison at Shadow Valley Body Works.

But since he’d been back, he’d been keeping on the DL around town. Not looking for pussy. Not recruiting. Not asking around for some of the old BFMC members. Keeping low mostly because he didn’t want to raise any flags to Manning Grove PD. Didn’t want them trying to put out the fire before Trip could get it burning.

Back in the day, the police and the original Blood Fury members constantly clashed. So, he needed to handle everything carefully. The club needed to be a force to be reckoned with before the pigs came along trying to squash it.

He also needed to show them they could be good neighbors and not terrify the local folk. That when they rolled through town on their sleds wearing their cuts, the women and children wouldn’t have a reason to run screaming.

One corner of his mouth tipped up as he dismounted and left his sled parked at the house. As he strode down the rutted stone and dirt lane toward the barn—something else that needed repaired on that long list of his—he pulled a tin out of the inner pocket of his cut. He’d had one of the Amish teens hand roll a shitload of cigarettes from the tobacco they grew. He tucked one between his lips, dug his pop’s Harley Zippo lighter from his front pocket and lit the tip. He paused as he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, held it, then slowly released it.

Now that shit was good. Not like the shit he’d been paying a left nut for at the store. He might have to make a deal with the Amish to buy rolled cigs in bulk, then turn around and sell them...

No. Fuck no.

No more prison time for him.

Selling illegal smokes would catch him a federal charge and he was done with that shit. He’d already spent too much time playing prison politics and trying not to take a shank between his ribs. Or a dick up his ass.

Or being forced to toss another man’s salad.

Fuck that shit.

He made it through almost six years without doing shit like that. And he didn’t feel like taking that risk again.

He took one more long drag, pinched the end to extinguish it and tucked it back in his tin.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust as he walked through the barn’s new front entrance. His step stuttered and he put his boots in reverse until he was back outside. He looked up.

And smiled.

A new sign hung above the door.

No, it was the old sign he’d brought back from the warehouse. The day he rented a box van, took a few of the stronger Amish men with him and loaded everything that wasn’t complete shit into that van and brought it back to what he was dubbing “The Barn.”

But the wood sign above the door didn’t say “The Barn.” No.

It read...

For one, For all

For our brothers

WE LIVE AND DIE!

Yeah, it sucked. He wished it was better. But it was what it fucking was.

He could change it. A club reborn might need a new motto. But Trip could remember as a kid hearing his father yell, “For one, for all, for our brothers...” And as one, the rest of the members would yell out, “WE LIVE AND DIE!”

Just thinking about it sent chills sliding down his spine.

It was supposed to represent how strong their brotherhood was. But in the end, those words, that battle cry, meant nothing since they all turned on each other. Or at least, most of them. The ones that weren’t shot dead, anyway.

He took a walk around the inside of the barn, running a hand over the custom- made wood bar, checking to make sure all exterior walls were reinforced with steel between the original wood exterior and the new interior drywall, something that was highly recommended by the president of the Dirty Angels. The Fury didn’t have any enemies at this point, but that didn’t mean they never would.