A muscle ticked in Sig’s jaw.
“No...” Stella shook her head, getting just as pissed as Trip, and jerked her eyebrows up at Sig. Her temper was about to blow. “You take it from here, Sig. Just somewhere else. Not right outside, either. She needs sleep. Go downstairs into The Barn and do what you need to do, but get it done,” she hissed. “And then leave it there. Don’t you fucking dare bring that shit back up here.” She jabbed her finger toward the floor.
Trip’s jaw shifted as he stared at his ol’ lady. After a second, he jerked his chin toward the door. “Let’s fuckin’ go. Can’t wait to hear this fuckin’ bullshit.”
Sig remained where he stood as his brother stalked to the door and ripped it open. Then Trip disappeared and his heavy boots could be heard stomping down the metal steps at a fast clip.
Blowing out breath in an attempt to cool his simmering blood, Sig began to follow him and Stella stopped him by calling out his name. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the woman who normally tried to be the peacemaker between him and Trip. She normally didn’t encourage them to do what they needed to do and “get it done.”
“Get this fixed between the two of you and soon,” she ordered, her blue eyes narrowed on him. “You two are fucking blood whether you like it or not. So, act like it. I’m not going to live through a repeat of what happened twenty fucking years ago, do you understand that, Sig? Not again.”
“Nobody wants to live through that shit again, Stel. Not one of us. That’s why it was fuckin’ stupid of him to resurrect the goddamn Fury.” With that, Sig closed the door behind him, doing his best not to slam it and wake Red. If she was even sleeping.
He slowly and carefully made his way down the steps, into the backdoor of the bunkhouse, down the long, narrow corridor and finally through the door at the end of the hallway which led to the main area of The Barn.
The Blood Fury’s church.
Thank fuck it was empty. No one playing pool. No one playing darts. No one getting drunk or high. Or getting their dick sucked or fucked by a sweet butt on one of the school bus bench seats that lined some of the walls.
Trip had gotten a good deal on them and they were easy to clean.
His brother was fucking way smarter than Sig. He had an eye for business and a Pitbull-like determination to make something out of nothing more than anyone else Sig knew.
Sig always admired him when they were kids and had been thrilled when Trip wanted to hang with him, even though Sig was three years younger.
They had been close like brothers before they even knew they were.
Now, things weren’t the same. Things had changed for both of them because of that day. The day Razor shot Buck dead on top of Sig’s mother.
Sig strode right past Trip, who stood waiting with his hands on his hips, his baseball cap thrown onto the bar and his hair hanging loose.
Was the fucker ready to go at it with him?
“Not fightin’ with you, Prez. Would be unfair since I got cracked ribs. Lemme heal up first and then if you wanna go a round, we can fuckin’ do that.” He ducked behind the bar, grabbed the Wild Turkey and a glass, pouring himself a healthy dose of medicine to dull the pain. He downed it, hissed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Don’t wanna fight with you, Sig. You’re my VP, you’re my partner in the repo biz, you’re my goddamn brother. Wanted you here.” Trip dropped his head and shook it, staring at his boots. “Gotta keep your shit clean.”
“I am.”
Trip’s head popped up and he shot a glare in Sig’s direction. “Are you fuckin’ shittin’ me? Let’s break this shit down...”
Oh fuck. Sig lifted a palm. “Don’t need to. I fucked up. Admit to it.” He poured himself another double shot and downed that quickly with another hiss.
“You’re damn right you fucked up. And also noticed you didn’t say it won’t happen again.”
“Want me to lie?”
Trip ignored that. “You might’ve fucked up our relationship with the Amish. We fuckin’ need them, Sig. They do a lot of work for us. Not only construction, but they provide shit from their farms, like meat, eggs, milk, fruit, veggies, even hand-rolleds. All which saves us a fuckton of money. If I had to buy all that shit from the store to feed everyone, the club coffers would be empty and we’d have to raise dues. Anyone livin’ in the bunkhouse would also have to pay more a month to live here. You get that, right? Need to keep a good relationship with those Amish. All of ‘em. They’re one fuckin’ close-knit community. Like we should be. But you stickin’ your dick in their women creates a huge fuckin’ issue.”