He peeked out the rear door into the new section attached to the original barn—what Trip was calling the bunkhouse—where the construction crew was still working. The concrete floors were already poured and set, exterior walls up, the roof finished, and they were quickly framing the inside to create one bunk room to hold six prospects, a common bathroom for them to share, and then seven private rooms with their own small bathrooms. Bathrooms just big enough to shit, shower and shave. Only members in good standing would be offered those.
He heard a few of the men working upstairs on the second level of the bunkhouse. He was having two apartments built up there. If he didn’t need them for BFMC members, he’d rent them out and put some extra scratch in his pocket. He made sure the stairs leading up to their entrances were on the outside, just in case that happened.
He wouldn’t need one of the apartments for himself since the farmhouse was in good enough shape to live in at this point. It could use a bit more work, but it would do for now until he was more flush and the club’s coffers weren’t in the negative.
The house had to wait, since the barn and the bunkhouse were priority because no club existed without members.
No club existed without a church.
No club existed without an executive committee.
Right now, it was a club of one.
Him.
A president who presided over no one.
That shit had to change.
His fucking gut churned at the thought maybe he was doing this all for nothing. Nobody would want to patch in. No one would want to be a lower than dog shit prospect.
Then he’d have a really nice fucking building on a farm he had no plans on farming that he could jerk off in.
Maybe throw himself a couple pity parties.
And drink himself half to death.
Fuck.
He needed to talk to some people in town. Dutch being one of them. Crazy Pete another. And from there, maybe he could dig up some other former members, or even some blood of former members.
If not, then again, he’d have a huge fucking building where he could whack his dick by himself.
And that would suck.
He also needed to find his half-brother, Sig, even though he had no clue where to even begin looking. Besides checking prisons and jails online for his name.
At least that’d be a start.
Trip wasn’t even sure if Sig would talk to him.
Not just because of Trip inheriting the mess their grandfather left behind but because of their father.
He gave the head Amish guy, the one with the longest salt and pepper beard, a nod, and ducked back into the barn, which now had an open floor plan, with wide plank floors and a large center fireplace to help heat the building.
Almost like a goddamn ski lodge.
Not that he ever saw one in person. There was no way he was strapping long, flexible blades to his feet and then heading down a mountain like some crazy motherfucker with a death wish. That was what snowmobiles were for. But, anyway, the barn was as nice as some of the photos he’d seen of those high-priced ski resorts. Only much more fucking badass. And definitely better than that rusted-out, drafty, rat-infested warehouse.
The new BFMC church would be the shit.
He jogged up the thick, rough-cut wood stairs to what used to be the hayloft and once he hit the second floor of the barn, he stopped and inhaled the scent of oak. Wouldn’t be long before that fresh cut lumber smell was gone and was quickly replaced by smoke, weed, booze and pussy.
The first three would be easy. That last one, though...
He didn’t even want to think about where his future brothers would find snatch to scratch their itches. The town wasn’t tiny, but it also wasn’t any kind of metropolis where females who weren’t jailbait were plentiful. So, they might be on their own for a while just fisting it. Though, he didn’t want any sweet butts, or patch whores, or cum-bucket hang-arounds staying in the bunkhouse.
It wouldn’t be like military barracks, but it also wasn’t going to turn into some whorehouse.
Fuck that.
The second floor had been sectioned in half. One portion had been closed off and turned into storage. For booze, supplies, whatever. But the other... He stepped farther into the finished loft, which was now where the executive committee would meet. He walked around the old, worn, wood table that sat in the center of the large open area. The long table that used to sit in a back room at the warehouse.
The table where his father used to sit. The table that needed a good cleaning and polish.
He ran his fingers over the carved center—the insignia of the Blood Fury MC, the same as his center patch—which was covered in dust and dirt.