Blood & Bones: Trip (Blood Fury MC 1)

“Appreciate the tip.” And he did. Bryson was only being about a three on the one through ten scale of being a dick. On any given day, Trip himself was more like a six. When he was pissed, he was off the chart at a twelve. Trip would take a three all day every day from this guy.

“Expect them to become a regular offender. They consider themselves and their mountain a sovereign nation, which means they don’t feel the need to follow any of our laws.” The cop tilted his head. “Like some others.” Bryson held up Trip’s paperwork. “But they wouldn’t even have this. No license, no insurance, no registration. They buy cars with fake money orders or stolen checks. You take the one you’re after, they’ll just go get another. They have to go pretty far now to find a dealer to sell them one. All the used car dealers within a sixty-mile radius have had the pleasure of doing business with them and won’t be doing it with them again.” He shook the paperwork and headed back toward his black-and-white. “Be right back. Don’t be going anywhere.”

As he waited, Trip pulled out a hand-rolled, lit it and had over half of it smoked before the cop unfolded from his car and took his time returning.

“See you did a bit of time.”

The dick factor just rose to a nine since the fucker already knew that. If he wanted to play games, so could Trip. “Yeah, in the Marines.”

Bryson’s jaw worked and something changed in his face at the mention of Trip’s service. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Did my time, that’s all you gotta know.”

“It’s also good to know what for.”

“You knew that when you ran me, which I doubt you did in the car. Bet that was just for show and you already had that info from your chief brother.”

“Right. Does that mean we’re going to have that kind of problem with you in the future?”

“Would like to say no but can’t guarantee it.”

“What can you guarantee?”

“That I’ll do my best to stay off your department’s radar.”

Bryson tipped his head toward Trip’s cut. “Probably not going to happen since you’re wearing colors.”

Trip decided it was best to say nothing.

“Never had to deal with the Fury. But my grandfather and father had to. Best thing that ever happened was that club imploding.”

Trip remained silent because he couldn’t agree or disagree with that statement.

“Knew your grandfather. Good man. Wasn’t caught up in all that bullshit. Always said his son was a disappointment. I’m sure he was hoping his grandson wouldn’t be.”

Trip didn’t correct him with the fact there was more than one. “Thanks for the fuckin’ advice.”

“Best to give up whatever your plans are for resurrecting that club.”

“Again, thanks for the fuckin’ advice.”

“Just saying.”

Trip’s dick factor was teetering on that eleven mark. “And I heard you.”

“But you aren’t going to listen.”

“Only time I ever let someone wearin’ a uniform rule my life was when I was unwillingly wearin’ a jumpsuit that did nothin’ for my complexion. If you haven’t noticed, ain’t wearin’ it now, so that means as long as I’m not breakin’ the law, don’t gotta listen to you.”

Bryson slid his sunglasses to the top of his head and his light blue eyes held Trip’s. Trip was surprised to find no malice there. More of a quiet concern.

He didn’t appreciate that, either.

Or when the cop dug into his pocket and pulled out a business card, holding it out to Trip. He reluctantly took it and read the name. Corporal Marc Bryson.

“I was a jarhead, too. So was the chief and some others on the force.”

“And what the fuck do you want me to do with that info?”

“Just saying.” Bryson shrugged and headed back to his pig mobile. He threw over his shoulder as he walked away, “That brotherhood runs deep, too. Like my brothers in blue. Like your MC. Remember that.”

Trip tucked the card into the front pocket of his jeans. If he crumpled it up and threw it on the ground, he was sure he’d get pinched for littering.

“Remember this,” Trip called out as the cop opened the driver’s door. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere. Know why?”

Bryson said nothing as he folded himself back into the cruiser.

“Just like the American flag, my colors don’t run,” he shouted.

Unless he was being shot at.

Chapter Fourteen

Trip stared at the sled parked next to him at the curb. It could mean that Stella had a customer, which was a good thing. Or it could mean trouble.

He heeled the kickstand down, twisted the key, and swung his leg over. He pulled two bags of hot food from Dino’s Diner out of his black leather saddlebags.

Yanking open the old, paint-peeling wooden door to Crazy Pete’s, he went inside.

Yep, just as he thought. Fucking empty.

Except for Stella who was behind the bar talking to a guy on one of the stools with a beer in front of him.