Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC 1)

Trip might have to make a trip to Williamsport and offer Rook a place to land when he gets out.

“Anyway, got your first member. Now you got a club of two.”

“And you. That’s three.”

Dutch ignored that. “Need your executive committee.”

“What spot you want?” Trip asked, hoping he’d bite.

“None. Leave that shit to you young fucks.”

“How ‘bout interim VP? ‘Til I get who I want.”

“Who do you want?”

“Sig.”

“Fuck, boy,” Dutch groaned.

“Know where he’s at?”

Dutch’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Makin’ his ass VP already and you don’t?”

“Nope. It’s on my list.” That never-ending fucking list. But Dutch was right, he needed to fill the committee so decisions could be made and set in stone. The whole “live free, ride free” shit was a myth. All MC’s had rules that the members and prospects had to follow. And they all had someone to enforce them. One more thing added to the list. Finding someone to fill those boots. Someone willing to fill those boots.

Damn, he needed to start crossing some of those things off. No time like the present.

“Yo, Cage!” Trip yelled across the garage.

Cage’s head popped out from under the hood of an old Chevy sedan.

“My first order of business is makin’ you Road Captain. Can you handle it?”

“Can handle anything you fuckin’ throw at me.”

Right. The only question would be if Cage would throw that shit right back. Like a goddamn monkey throwing its own shit at people standing outside its cage.

Trip’s lips twitched until he heard, “What about me?” from behind him.

“What about you, Mouse?” Dutch grumbled at one of his mechanics.

“Got a bike.”

Trip turned and checked out the twenty-something guy. “Name’s Mouse?”

“Mickey. Dutch just likes bein’ a dick.”

Dutch snorted but didn’t deny it.

“What kind of sled you got?” Trip asked.

“An Indian.”

If you didn’t own a Harley, an Indian was the second-best bike out there. “What kind?”

“Dark Horse.”

A Dark Horse was a badass bike. And while Harleys were the norm and sometimes required in an MC, he needed to decide if an Indian was good enough.

Another executive decision he needed to make on the fly. Or needed to delegate to his new Road Captain.

“Yo, Cage!”

Dutch’s son lifted his head again, appearing annoyed.

“His sled bad enough to ride in your lineup?”

Cage’s eyes slid to Mouse and back to Trip. “Yeah.” He ducked his head back down.

“There you go, Mouse. You’re in.”

“Name’s Mickey.”

“Name’s Mouse. If you survive six months of being a prospect and earn your rockers, then, and only fuckin’ then, I’ll let you change your road name. Got it?”

Mouse nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

Now he had a prospect, a Road Captain and a reluctant temporary VP. He was getting somewhere.

“How ‘bout the other one?” Trip asked about the other twenty-something guy in the corner. Watching and listening but keeping quiet.

“Sparky there?” Dutch barked out a laugh. “You that desperate?”

Trip didn’t want to admit he was. “What’s wrong with ‘im?”

Trip was pretty sure the mechanic could hear him and Dutch quite clearly. Especially since Dutch had a booming voice. On a volume scale of one to ten, the old man talked at a fucking twelve.

“Don’t ever think his balls dropped. Still livin’ with his momma over in Liberty. Might even still be sucking on her tit, too.” Dutch raised his arthritic hands, palms out. “Just like the military, don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Trip shook his head. “He good with bikes?”

“The best with bikes. One of those idiotic savages.”

Trip bit back a laugh. “Idiot savants?”

“Yeah, one of those. Why I hired him. Told ‘im I wouldn’t change his diapers for ‘im, though.”

“He got a bike?”

“Yeah, a Huffy. With a ding-a-ling and streamers.”

Damn.

Trip called out, “Sparky.” He jerked his head, indicating the guy should come over.

Sparky didn’t even hesitate.

“That all true?” Trip asked him.

“Like to suck on tits, but not my momma’s. Don’t have a sled but have been savin’ up for a brand new one. Livin’ with my momma so I can do that.”

“Your momma need you there? Or can you leave?”

Sparky shrugged. “I can leave. Dutch don’t pay me enough to pay a lot of rent.”

“No rent. Got a place for you if you wanna prospect. Give you a bunk, roof over your head, showers, and a kitchen. Everything you’d need, just gotta share it with others. Need a sled, though.”

“My uncle used to be in a club. I can get his old bike fixed up for now. Been sittin’ in my aunt’s shed.”

“Harley?”

“Yeah.”

Well, hot fucking damn. “That’ll do. What’s your name?”

“Whip.”

“Whip?”

“Yeah, started out as a joke when my great granddad used to call me a young whippersnapper and Whip stuck.”

“You like it?”

Whip lifted one shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Then you’re Sparky. You can change it once you earn it.”

“Fuck,” Whip—now Sparky—muttered.

Trip smothered his grin. “You in?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Welcome to the Fury.” Trip held out his hand. They clasped palms and bumped shoulders. “Don’t change diapers, though. Just a warnin’.”