Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC 1)

As he spun on his boot heel, Sig stopped him. “See you stole good ol’ Dad’s cut.”

Trip remained facing the door when he answered, “Didn’t steal it. Found it.”

“Why the fuck would you wanna wear that?”

Trip dropped his head and stared as his boots as he heard slurping sounds behind him. He wanted to have this conversation with Sig, but not like this.

He figured Sig was doing it on purpose, just to be an asshole. Trying to push Trip. He tightened his jaw. “Lemme know when she’s done.”

“If you were in the joint that long, sure you watched a lot of tongue and mouth action. Probably got some done to you and gave some yourself.”

“Wasn’t my thing.”

“No? Long bids tend to make it one’s thing.”

“It woulda taken a lot longer bid than six years.”

“Six years is a long fuckin’ time unless you kept catchin’ charges inside.”

Trip lifted his head, trying to ignore Sig’s groan of, “Fuck yeah, that’s it.” He stared at the door, which was just a couple feet away.

He needed to go. He did not need to get caught in a motel room with underage girls, if that’s what they were, and drugs.

Six years had been six years too many.

“You on parole?” Trip tossed over his shoulder.

Trip didn’t get an answer, so he had to assume he was on the tail end of that head job.

Jesus fuck.

They were close when they were young and had done some stupid shit, but this took the fucking cake.

A few seconds later, Sig’s voice, sounding a little too satisfied, filled the room. “Forget that I watched that sweet butt suck you off in a corner of the warehouse one night when you were fourteen. Also forget that same fuckin’ sweet butt popped your fuckin’ cherry at one of the roasts in front of everyone not six months later. Every fuckin’ one at that party egged her on. And then when she was done with you, she ate your load right out of her own cunt.”

Jesus.

Fuckin’.

Shit.

He had tried to forget that night. Though, a first time like that was hard to forget.

His own father had encouraged that sweet butt to do it.

Her name might have been Shelly. He didn’t know and, at the time, he didn’t care.

“Tried to get her to do me. She ruffled my hair and said I was too fuckin’ young. Always missin’ out.”

“You were eleven at the time.”

“Yeah? And I could get hard. So, what does it matter?”

Trip needed to go. He needed to go. Why the fuck was he still standing there?

Ice slid through his veins as those memories surged through him. “Was Stella at that roast?”

“Stella, that little pain in the ass bitch who wouldn’t leave us alone? Don’t fuckin’ know and, anyway, why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Trip lied under his breath.

Trip heard a rustling behind him. “All right, big brother, got some jeans on and you got a few before I’m ready to fuck Patty and Pam.”

“I’m Paula and she’s Penny,” one of the females corrected him.

Sig kept talking. “If you don’t wanna watch then I suggest you say what you came here to say.”

Trip took a peek over his shoulder. Sig wasn’t lying. He had pulled on some jeans, though they weren’t fastened. The two girls now had the mirror on the bed between them, using a credit card to scrape some coke into several lines.

Trip had to close his eyes from those neat white rows. He hadn’t done that shit in years and he wasn’t about to start again.

A little weed was one thing. A few shots of whiskey and a six-pack was another. But he was not touching that shit again. He had better things to spend his money on besides throwing it down an endless pit, when one line, three lines, five lines weren’t enough.

Trip jerked his chin toward the females who were now taking turns snorting the lines with a rolled up twenty. “You do that shit?”

“Not much anymore. My dick breaks when I do. I’d rather lose myself in sweet hot pussy than be all coked out.”

Good. Because he was not having that shit at the barn or even on the farm. He was not going back to prison because of someone else’s bad habit.

“So... Tick. Tock. Talk.”

Trip sighed. “Resurrecting the club.”

“Kinda figured that when you walked in here wearin’ that bullshit. Especially since it’s your name above that president’s patch and not Buck’s.”

“Got a spot for you.” Trip lifted his palm to stop Sig before he flat-out turned him down. “Got an apartment for you. A job. A family. Or,” he shrugged and looked around the messy room, “if you prefer fleabag motels, got one of those, too.”

Sig snorted. “What family?”

“Need me to answer that?”

Sig shook his head. “Then you’re givin’ me my half.”

“Not givin’ you half. Gotta earn it.”