“Good guard dogs,” Trip muttered.
“The best. Got good instincts when it comes to people.”
“Guess I passed their inspection.”
“Just gotta pass mine next.”
With a quick glance at the dogs, both now licking their own junk, he discovered Jury was a female and Justice a male. Information Trip didn’t really need or care about. Though, at least he wasn’t molested by the one with balls.
He cautiously approached Judge who now stood in front of the counter, leaning back against it, thick, muscular arms crossed in front of his chest. His lips were pressed tight as his dark eyes tracked Trip.
When Trip held out his hand, Judge stared at it for a long fucking time. But Trip refused to drop it. He was there to make amends and wouldn’t leave until he was successful. Even if he ended up being dog food.
“Look like your old man,” Trip finally said to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Yeah, so do you. Not sure why you’re here.”
“Bullshit. You know why I’m here.” Trip was sure Dutch gave him the heads up because it was Dutch who told him where to find Judge.
“Drop the fuckin’ hand. Not acceptin’ it ‘til I’m ready.”
“Will you ever be ready?”
“Depends on what shit comes out of your fuckin’ mouth.”
Fuck. Trip reluctantly dropped his hand and nodded. “I’m not responsible for the shit my pop did.”
“Yeah. But you’re back diggin’ in unhealed wounds. Pickin’ off the scab and expectin’ it not to sting.”
“Time to heal those wounds and move past ‘em.”
“Not by doin’ what you’re doin’.”
Trip heard the silent “asshole” Judge tacked onto that. “Was hopin’ you’d join us. Would like you to take your pop’s old spot.”
Even with the thick beard, Trip spotted a muscle popping in Judge’s cheek.
“You mean his old spot in fuckin’ prison? Or the one six feet under ‘cause he was ambushed in his cell while doin’ life without parole because of the Fury? Which one, Trip? ‘Cause I’m not lookin’ to fill his boots in either of ‘em.”
Trip had no clue Ox, one of the Originals and, at the time, the club’s enforcer, was dead. When Razor had shot Buck, Ox had no choice but to do the same to Razor for killing the club’s president. Then Razor’s brother shot at Ox, and that Original ended up dead, too. Ox went to Greene, a max security prison near Pittsburgh, for being convicted on two charges of first-degree murder and a shitload of other charges.
He wasn’t the only Original that had gone down at that time. When members start taking sides and having hard feelings, shit tends to go sideways quickly.
“Need a Sergeant at Arms.”
Judge tilted his head as he looked down at Trip. Yes, down. Judge had to be six foot three or so. Trip was just over six foot. He wasn’t small, but sure felt like it next to Judge. The man’s whole presence just felt larger than life.
“You hear any of what I just fuckin’ said?”
“Heard you loud and fuckin’ clear, Judge. Need to make the Fury strong, solid. Need you to help make that happen.”
“So, you snag the president’s spot like you own it and then make all the fuckin’ decisions, that right?”
“The committee will make the decisions. But need a committee first.”
Judge shook his head. “And you appointed yourself as the one who should sit at the head of the table.”
“Once the club’s reestablished, if I don’t deserve it, vote me out. You know how it works.”
“Yeah, know how it fuckin’ works,” Judge muttered.
“Dutch said you got your pop’s sled.”
Judge grunted.
“And you kept your pop’s cut.”
Another grunt.
“Shoulda been buried with Ox.”
No answering grunt that time. But the man’s jaw was now as hard as concrete.
“There’s a fuckin’ reason you didn’t bury it, Judge.”
More silence.
“Don’t need the fuckin’ hassle,” the man finally said. “Don’t need the pigs breathin’ down my neck. Not in this business. Gotta keep shit above board. Gotta keep my record clean, ‘specially for my concealed carry permit. Bein’ a heavy for an MC can fuck up everything I built.”
“Then don’t take your pop’s spot, just wear the colors. We all grew up together, we were all brothers once. We can be that again.”
The buzzer sounded as the front door opened and a man maybe a couple years younger than Trip walked in. He wore dark sunglasses and his long hair was braided from his forehead all the way down to the top of his back. Since the sides of his head were shaved, it reminded Trip of a mohawk or, hell, a damn Viking. He wore a light-weight black leather coat, even though it was way too warm for that.
Both large dogs jumped to their feet and ran to him. Not snarling like they had greeted Trip but wagging their tails and whining. Keeping his eyes on Trip, the man leaned over and ruffled their coats and heads.